Ring of Intrigue
Dance of the Rings Book 2
by 
Jane S. Fancher

Dusk was closing rapidly as the small entourage ap-
proached the outer wall of Rhomatum. A strangely deep
duskthe leyroad lights, once bright beacons leading to
the city, glimmered feebly in the distance. Even Tower Hill,
an architectural mountain rising above foothills of concen-
tric rooftops, seemed  subdued, fewer lights and dimmer
shining from those oldest, most elegant buildings of the city
of Rhomatum.
Only the highest point in the City gleamed with undimin-
ished silver leylight: the Rhomatum Ringchamber, upper-
most room within Rhomatum Tower itself. Home of the
Rhomatum Rings.
The source for all those other, failing, lights.
Lightning clouds roared in from the north. An hour be-
fore, just as the entourage had crossed the Oreno leyline,
the storm that had rumbled in the distance all afternoon
had suddenly broken pattern, gaining organization and di-
rection, forming a line of blinding ferocity, a constant bar-
rage of ground strikes that chased the open carriage and
its handful of outriders down the valley.
It was a race now to see whether they could reach Trisini
Gate before the solid mass of atmospheric fury overtook
them.
Deymorin had kept the team to their steady, running trot
as long as he dared. Bracing his feet against the forward
rail of the driver's box, he gave the anxious horses the
signal they eagerly awaited, tired as they were.
Fool, he called himself, and worse, as he guided galloping
horses grimly over and around the ruts and potholes of the
cattle trail; fool, for choosing this side track over the
smooth-graveled Trisini Leyroad.
In choosing the anonymity of off-ley roads, he'd made
their trip from Armayel overlong and dangerously slow. He
should have known that despite the clear morning skies,
the storms that had made the last month an unpredictable,
living hell for the valley would arrive before nightfall.
At least the storm would keep Anheliaa, or whoever was
in control of Rhomatum Tower these days far too busy
protecting the city to notice their arrival. So he trusted the
seasoned team's instincts, and hoped he didn't shed a car-
riage wheel or a brother in this final mad dash.
Kiyrstin, he'd never lose, so long as he had a coattail for
her to grasp.
To the front and sides, the outsiders kept pace, calling
out warning of ruts and mud holes. Nikki, a quiet and sane
presencein every sensebrought up the rear and cast
Deymorin silent reassurances regarding his passenger's
safety.
Huddled in the back seat with Kiyrstin, Mikhyel was a
black sink of nonemotion. Awake, holding his thoughts his
own, that was all a brother could ask, a brother whose mind
could afford no distractions.
The trail branched, one road toward the stockyards, the
other toward the leyroad and the gate. The horses surged
uphill, and the ground beneath the wheels rattled and
bounced, then settled onto the smooth surface of a leyroad.
A mental sigh of relief reached him: Nikki's thought, Mik-
hyel's, or both; or perhaps just his own.
But it was a short-lived relief. At the gate, chaos reigned,
delivery vehicles jammed the opening, the silk balloons that
normally rose above them, taking the strain off the axles,
lay limp over the cargo or deflated even as they watched;
further evidence, if they needed it, that the node's power
umbrella was rapidly failing.
Or perhaps, Deymorin thought, as he raised his eyes to
see stormciouds gathering above the city, that energy was
being redirected.
"The Tower, Deymorin! Has the storm reached the
Tower?" Mikhyel's voice pierced the near-deafening rum-
ble. He spoke aloud, as was not altogether necessary, ex-
cept from a biother who sought to hide his horror of the
lightning.
Deymorin looked beyond the immediate area to the sky
above the Tower.
"It's all right," he shouted back over his shoulder. "The
sky's clear beyond the old wall."
Words or mental image penetrated the thunder and dark-
ness, and Mikhyel's relief filtered back: a conscious leak in
the blackness.
A relief all well and good for the safety of the rings and
those individuals within the perimeter of the old wall, but
the immediate danger to themselves and all those milling
about them remained. The old wall, that marker of an ear-
lier limit of the city's power umbrella, was a mile and more
yet ahead.
But they didn't need to reach the umbrella. Not far from
Trisini Gate lay their salvation, if only they could get to it.
As the lightning bore down on them, Deymorin added
his voice to the general cacophony, ordering his men to
help clear the vehicles and get the horses and their handlers
inside the wall, and never mind the cargo.
"Can't,  sir!"  one  shouted  back.  "Gatekeeper's  de-
manding to see papers!"
Deymorin cursed, then yelled at Nikki to change places
with him. Handing the team off to his youngest brother, he
made a flying mount into the saddle and forced the big
horse  through  the  mill  to  confront  the  gatekeeper
personally.
"Papers!" the man shouted at him, and held out a hand,
wide-eyed and automated as a mechanical doll.
"Don't be a fool!" Deymorin shouted back, and pointed
at the approaching wall of lightning. "These people are
going to fry, and you'll fry with them! Get them and the
stock through the gate and into the underground. Now!"
The man stared at him blankly, obviously terrified into
idiocy. Ignoring him, Deymorin began shouting orders at
anyone within earshot. He found a manone of the idiot's
assistantsfamiliar with the nearest entrance into Old Rho-
matum, and set him at the forwardmost team, with orders
to get the men and animals under cover.
"After hours, sir!" The man shouted. "Locked!"
"Then break the damned doors down!" Deymorin
answered.
"Yes, sir!"
In a few moments, the frightened horses, free of harness,
were forming a steady stream toward the underground city
and stables, the oldest legacy of Darius' followers, and
newly restored for the delight and amusement of tourists.
Tourists be damned, it got them out of the storm.
Deymorin spotted Nikki with .his unharnessed team in
hand, waved him into line, then searched the madness for
Kiyrstin and Mikhyel. Targeting on Kiyrstin's red hair, a
spot of color in the lightning glare, he pushed his way
through to them.
"We're all right, JD," Kiyrstin shouted, and Mikhyel's
determined calm seeped past the gut-jolting thunder.
"We'll get underground, wait for you there!"
Meaning /'// get your shattering brother to safety, and
don't you dare waste time worrying about us.
Deymorin grabbed a fistful of her hair long enough to
press his lips hard to hers.
As the rain began to fall, he let her go, then shouted,
"Love you!", and ran to help free another panicked team
from wind-whipped balloon silk.
9     9      rSbp
"I remind you, our identification is all in that carriage
outside. Do you care to go retrieve it?"
Mikhyel dunMheric's velvety voice carried a hint of con-
tempt that could cut through the most imperturbable indi-
vidual's confidence.
The keeper of Trisini Gate was not what one would call
imperturbable.
"Iit doesn't matter. The law says"
"I know full well what the law says. I wrote it. Shall I
quote it for you?"
Somewhere beneath the city of Rhomatum, Kiyrstine
romGaretti, estranged wife of Ringmaster Garetti rom-
Maurii of Mauritum, leaned against a stack of hay bales
and watched the Trisini gatekeeper squirm.
"Better yet," Mikhyel continued, and he held out his
hand. "I'll read it to you."
The gatekeeper stared at him.
"Naturally you have the paperwork you are by law re-
quired to hand out to every individual entering the city
without proper identification, do you not?" Mikhyel asked,
and Kiyrstin bit her lip to keep from smiling, then winced
as her teeth encountered the bruise left there by Deymor-
in's parting kiss.
His adrenaline rush, or her ownhard to recall, in retro-
spect, which was responsible. They were still learning each
other's limits.
As her exploring tongue found the misaligned tooth re-
sponsible for her bruised lip and marked it for future refer-
ence, the brown-eyed visage that lurked constantly at the
back of her mind crept forward. Kiyrstin made no effort to
push the image back. Mikhyel didn't need her at the mo-
ment. Mikhyel's keen mind was back on track, now they
were out of the storm, and she had total confidence in his
ability to win so minor a skirmish.
And as it had a tendency to do these days when relieved
of other distractions, Kiyrstin's mind, like a pubescent
schoolgirl's, turned to Deymorin Rhomandi dunMheric.
Deymorin presented an intriguing dichotomy. She'd
known the man only two monthsless than two months in
Rhomatum's odd calendarand yet it seemed, at times, as
if she'd known him all her life. At others, it seemed that
three lifetimes wouldn't be long enough.
Raised to be the head of the Rhomandi Family, premier
Family in the Rhomatum Web, Deymorin exuded a confi-
dence and power to command she'd witnessed in only a
handful of individuals in a lifetime among the rich and pow-
erful of Rhomatum's rival nation, Mauritum.
There could be no doubt, at times such as this, where
men seeking an anchor in time of crisis reacted with instinc-
tive trust to his deep-voiced confidence, that he was com-
fortable with that fate.
And yet he was a virtual stranger to his own people.
Years ago, for a complexity of reasons that no one outside
the family could ever understand in their entirety, Dey-
morin had abdicated his inherited responsibilities to Mikhyel
and retired to the Rhomandi country estates. Consequently,
while Deymorin was still in every legal sense the Rhomandi
of Rhomatum, Mikhyel's face was far better known to the
Rhomatumin populace.
Or should have been. Kiyrstin couldn't blame the con-
fused gatekeeper for questioning Mikhyel's identity claims.
She'd seen some of the popular renditions of Mikhyel dun-
Mheric, and cartoonists and serious portraitists alike had
clung to Mikhyel's elegant, feature-defining beard and mus-
tache as his distinguishing characteristic, a look, Deymorin
had told her, that had spawned a new fashion throughout
the City.
And now Mikhyel dunMheric was as smooth-faced as a
child, the hope that his facial hair would return fading with
each passing day. Four long Rhomatumin weeks had passed
since the battle at Boreton turnout, four weeks since Mik-
hyel had fallen from the sky, burned almost beyond recog-
nition and nearly dead.
He had survived, had healed miraculously unscarredon
the outsidebut his body hair was gone. Everything, he'd
revealed once in answer to her unabashed query, except
his eyebrows and lashes, and the silky black mane confined
now in a braid at his back.
Black-haired and gray-eyed, with his black clothing and
beard, and that indefinable attitude, he must have once
made an imposing figure, despite his average height. These
days he looked more like a harassed cleric. Handsome
enough, if a woman's taste ran toward light-boned and slen-
der, and with a look about his eyes that could, when he
was distracted, become sad and a bit haunted.
But his eyes were keen enough now, gleaming with en-
gaged intellect, and neither the loss of a beard nor this
strange venue could undermine the effect of a voice sea-
soned in the courts of Rhomatum.
The gatekeeper's worries had passed beyond the Rho-
mandi brothers to the chaos of men and animals and legali-
ties of forced entry into city property. Leaving Mikhyel to
persuade the harassed civil servant that the way to handle
the situation was not to incarcerate each and every one of
the individuals trapped in this underground museum, Kiyr-
stin edged toward the aisle down which she thought she'd
heard Deymorin's voice.
There were stalls, and she saw Nikki's blond head bob-
bing on the far side of a broad horse-back, but no Dey-
morin. The sound must have been an echo from somewhere
else in this strange underground maze.
She leaned crossed arms on a stony outcrop, and scanned
this  newest  revelation  of  Rhomatum.  The  decor  was
unique, to say the least. Stable, those around her had called
it.  Except  that  in  addition  to  stalls  and  hay,  there  were
restaurants and gift shops lining the entrance corridor and
a sign beside the hay bales that read: Tours start here.
The light came from oil lamps rather than the ley crystal
bulbs she would expect to light the shadows within a node's
power umbrella. Oil lamps were a curious affectation within
a Node City's limits, but a welcome one, considering this
city's currently-constricted power.
She'd hate to be caught in the absolute black that must
exist here when those lamps were extinguished. A honeycomb
of stone, organic shapes that bore no resemblance to any
rooms she'd ever known, sounds that echoed endlessly . . . a
person could be lost very quickly in this maze with no hope
of logicking herself free.
"Well, we've a respite, at least," Mikhyel's velvet voice
said at her shoulder. The gatekeeper had left. "When the
storm has passed, he'll send a messenger to the Tower.
They'll have someone come down to identify us."
"What about the box in the carriage? The papers Anheliaa
sent? Deymorin's seal"
Mikhyel's black brows knit.
"I . . . very much fear it won't be there."
"You think someone will steal it?"
"No. I" He seemed uncharacteristically reluctant to
meet her eyes. "Rings, I can't believe I'm such a fool. I
had it. And then, the lightning, the jostling . . . I lost it
somewhere, Kiyrstin." He waved a hand toward the stony
ceiling. "Somewhere up there."
That hand was shaking. He was. Cold. Shock. Reaction
to the lightning and the storm. Perhaps just the chill of the
rain that had caught them at the last. And possibly a re-
lapse of the debilitating weakness that had plagued him off
and on since the incident at the Boreton turnout.
"Anything in the box that could be dangerous in the
wrong hands?" she asked.
"Not really. None of those papers Anheliaa sent are
much good if you can't match our signatures."
"And the seal?"
"Old. Outdated by about a hundred years. It might turn
the right person a handsome profit on the black market,
but nothing else." He rubbed a hand across his eyes, and
swept stray hair back from his face. "We deliberately
avoided including anything compromising. Only such items
as might, along with the papers, support our claims to
someone like"
He tipped his head in the general direction of the
gatekeeper.
"Then I suggest you sit down and relax. Looking a bit
pale around the gills, laddybuck."
Mikhyel smiled wryly. "That's news?"
"I wish it were. Sit, Khyel. Before you fall."
She led him to a spot among the hay bales and pushed
him down, wrapping his cloak around him, fussing about
him, until he laughed and grabbed her wrist and pulled her
down beside him.
It was hard to remember, sometimes, that Mikhyel only
appeared fragile, with that bruised look about his eyes and
with features that were so different from his older brother's.
There was a steel core to Mikhyel dunMheric; a core tem-
pered in a childhood as Mheric Rhomandi's second son,
and honed to a fine edge by Anheliaa, Mheric's father's
sister, and Ringmaster of Rhomatum.
And Mikhyel had met Deymorin head to head in the
political arena and won. At least, the result of that long-
ago debate had been the event that drove Deymorin out
of Rhomatum.
He'd make a fierce and dangerous enemy in defense of
his idealsif he didn't burn himself out first. She sincerely
hoped, for Deymorin's sake as well as Mikhyel's own, that
events would not push those ideals beyond his physical
limits.
Mikhyel's eyes closed, and, with a shiver, he pulled his
cloak more tightly about his shoulders, tucking his chin into
the folds. After a moment, his eyes lifted and stared unfo-
cused down a corridor of walls.
Odd eyes. Unique, in her experience. Gray with pale
green around the edges.
"So, what's he up to?" Kiyrstin asked.
A blink, and he as back to her. "Horses," he said flatly,
and his mouth tightened into a slight smile. "What else?
But he's going to be cold. Actually, he already is and
doesn't know it."
Which meant, Deymorin had gotten wet and chilled, and
Mikhyel was inheriting that discomfort, absorbing it like
a sponge.
"You do him no favor, you know," sge said, and Mikhyel
laughed, a short, bitter sound.
"Believe me, if I could not, I would not. Do me a favor,
and take him his damned cloak, would you?" He shivered
again and pulled his own cloak up around his ears. "Before
/ freeze to death."
9 9 8
"Hot poultices on the hock tonight, a bit of salve on the
cut to keep it moist, and it should heal without a scar."
Deymorin Rhomandi dunMheric, erstwhile Princeps of
Rhomatum, stood up and slapped the big roan's rump. "He
nicked the coronet, but not, I think, deep enough to affect
the hoof growth." He let his hand drift along the curve of
solid muscle as he moved behind the draft horse, and gave
the cropped tail a gentle tug on the way to his next patient.
Not that he could add significantly more than reinforce-
ment of decisions already made. For the most part, the
drivers were competent horsemen. Heavy-handed whips
didn't last long with any reputable hauling company; horses
were too expensive to keep along the leys for that invest-
ment to be risked through carelessness or abuse.
Still, any man appreciated endorsement, especially from
a higher authority, a position these men had seemed deter-
mined to set upon him from the moment he'd challenged
the gatekeeper and won.
He wouldn't object, if it eased their minds; still, he gave
them his first name only, as was his habit with strangers,
having learned that the Rhomandi title tended to build a
wall between himself and others. And thanks to his parents'
choice of name for their firstborn, "Deymorin" was a fairly
common name among Rhomatumin men of his age.
Besides, he had no time or energy to waste in explana-
tions. Princeps he'd been: the Rhomandi, patriarch of the
Rhomandi Family. For thirteen yearsuntil his youngest
brother's marriage to Lidye dunTarim of Shantum Node.
Now, according to their great-aunt Anheliaa, eldest living
Rhomandi, Ringmaster of Rhomatum, and one evil-smelling
breath short of her long-overdue death and immersion,
seventeen-year-old Nikki, youngest of the Rhomandi broth-
ers, was Princeps, because she had chosen Nikki's wife as
her replacement in Rhomatum Tower.
Some situations in life truly defied explanation. Far sim-
pler to let these men draw their own assumptions regarding
their companions in adventure.
They'd been lucky. Despite the panic, none of the horses
had been badly injured. Bumps and scrapes mostly: The
worst they'd had to deal with was a fear-induced colic in an
overbred, overgrained saddle horse, who'd come in at the last
minute. Even that crisis had been solved by more than half
when they shoved the horse's wild-eyed owner out the door.
Some people just never learned that self-control was the
main battle to win when dealing with horses or any other
instinct-driven creatureincluding children.
It occurred to him, as so many things reminded him now
of the past, that an uncontrolled, angry horse had killed his
fathershortly after his father had nearly killed Mikhyel.
Strange, to gain such an intimate perspective about a
parent, so long after that parent's death. Hard not to want
to make up for Mheric's cruelty to Mikhyel. Harder to re-
member that Mikhyel was no longer the bruised and bro-
ken child they had pulled from a closet the day Mheric
died, and that the man Mikhyel had become might well
resent such a gesture.
Limestone arched overhead in capricious curves. An-
cient, massive . . . and as beautiful and natural as the water
and ley that had created them.
Some people found these old stables and the entire un-
derground city to be oppressive, even frightening; Dey-
morin loved them. The land beneath Rhomatum was a vast
honeycomb of huge caverns, and tiny eddy-formed niches.
It was a vast maze of tunnels, man-made and natural, filled
with wonders. There were mineral stalactites and stalag-
mites, as one found in any mountain cave, veils and lumps
and impossible structures formed over centuries of drip-
ping water.
However, in ground formed and transformed by the
nearby leythium node, the cave-lurker had the added bonus
of the rare, sudden burst of rainbow color when he chanced
upon a ley-crystal bud, unmined and grown enormous over
years of disuse.
Unusednow. But once these caverns had provided the
founders of Rhomatum the same sort of haven they pro-
vided a handful of men and horses tonight. Their ancestors
had forgotten that first Rhomatum once they moved to
their surface, leylit homes. They'd forgotten the under-
ground altogether, except to turn the largest caverns into a
prison to house the individuals the law-abiding citizens of
the Rhomatum Web could do without.
They'd forgotten the underground until a handful of
youths found the caverns and reminded a history-starved
populace about them. That reminder had sparked a burst
of mass nostalgia that had opened the old city to public
tours and renewal programs.
Fortunately, this stable, which was the staging area for
one of the major tour routes, was kept stocked and pre-
pared as if in constant use. It wasn't, of course, in use, and
they'd had to move a plaster horse or two to make way for
the real thing, but hay was hay, and straw for ambiance
made welcome bedding for tired, frightened horses.
And there was water, and cots and blankets, and even
food, in those restaurants, for the horses' equally ex-
hausted handlers.
They could worry about reimbursing the owners later.
For himself, as the last occupied stall passed his scrutiny,
as the last grateful horseman gripped his hand, sleep
seemed far away. He should be exhausted; instead, he was
exhilarated, his blood was boiling through his veins, and
showed no signs of abating. He ducked into a darkened
niche to catch his breath, and quiet his heartbeat, seeking
serenity in the unyielding stone.
And jumped nearly out of his skin as arms closed around
his waist.
"Show 'ee m' ankles fer a copper, zur." Warm breath
brushed his ear, carrying that low whisper.
Deymorin chuckled and twisted in the circle of arms.
"Not interested in ankles, Shepherdess," he whispered in
return, and slumped backward, dragging Kiyrstin with him.
As his arms closed around her, he realized how . . . light . . .
his head felt, how completely free of his brothers' thoughts
his mind was. He buried his face in her neck, and her scent
added to his light-headedness.
"Shepherdess," he called her, in memory of their first
mountain meadow encounter, and Shepherdess she re-
mained, as he was JD, or Rags, or any number of other
disrespectful intimacies. Terms that reminded them con-
stantly  of  their  unique  relationship,  that  kept  them
grounded in each other and not the political posturing that
drove so many other aspects of their lives.
"Sweet, sweet Maurii," she whispered, throwing her head
back, exposing her neck to his kiss.
He buried both hands in her cropped, windblown hair,
and fastened his lips on hers, met a demanding passion and
vigor that matched his own. Unfortunately, this was neither
the time nor the place, and with a final, penetrating caress,
he reluctantly disengaged.
"I thought you were tending Mikhyel," he murmured,
busying his fingers straightening her hair.
She pulled a strand from her mouth. "Khyel's fine." She
leaned back long enough to free herself of a heavy cloak,
and work it around his shoulders. "You are cold."
"I'm cold," he repeated flatly, thinking nothing could be
farther from the truth. Wet, yes, but cold?
"So he informs me."
A moment's reflection brought realization. "Damn," he
said, and settled the cloak more securely. "I don't feel him
at all."
"Obviously, the effect is not mutual." She insinuated her
hands past his coat and began toying with his shirt buttons.
"He sent me to remedy the problem, after he explained to
that poor bemused gatekeeper why we have no papers. 
Oops." A button went flying, clattered to earth somewhere
in the shadows. "Silly law, Rags. Who're you afraid of?"
"One of Mikhyel's ideas, back when he was still an
idiot." His cold (according to Mikhyel) hands found their
way to her linen-covered breasts. Kiyrstin's gasp confirmed
Mikhyel's assessment.
It was a man's shirt she wore, one of Mikhyel's, as were
her supple, black leather breeches. Both an admirable fit,
though her decidedly feminine rump posed a greater and
more interesting challenge to their seams than Mikhyel's
half-starved hips.
"I cannot imagine" Another clatter. "Oops, again,
Rags. I can't imagine why you left him to run the City all
on his own."
Her own chill fingers gained entrance to his chest. He
twitched, but Kiyrstin sighed and flattened her hands, then
breathed on them, hot, moist air that was nearly as mad-
dening as the cold.
"He was good at it. Shepherdess. Good at getting things
done. I only" His breath caught as her mouth followed
her hands, and he finished, quickly and past a suddenly
tightened throat. "antagonized everyone."
"Nonsense," she said, tipping back to catch his eyes. "I
saw you out there, JD. Just Deymio, hell. Who do you
think you're fooling? You're the Rhomandi every time you
inhale, Princeps of Rhomatum when you exhale. No man
judges by the name you give. Any man would follow you
to the ends of the world, if you asked."
His breath grew short, facing that challenge, the look in
her eyes. "And you, Shepherdess? Would you follow me?"
Her mouth twitched, breaking the spell. "I won't follow
you anywhere. Rags, unless it's to enjoy the view."
He choked on laughter and crushed her to him. He could
understand that. He'd follow her for the same reasons. Her
swinging, long-strided walk made his blood move faster just
thinking about it.
Seeking a way past the full shirt, fitted pants and wide
cummerbund that showed off her figure so very admirably,
he began to realize, on limited time and with even greater
limits on movement and privacy, that there were vexatious
restrictions to the clothing arrangement.
He cursed softly and pulled her hands away from his
waistband. "Never mind."
Kiyrstin laughed, low in her throat, and pressing full
against him, pushed him into the deepest shadows. "Your
brother's freezing, remember?" she murmured, and pulled
his voluminous cloak to her back with orders for him to
hold it there. "What say we warm the poor laddy up?"
Her hands steadied his face where her lips could reach
it, then moved downward. Kneading fingers caressed tem-
ples, ears, neck and lower, easing tension he didn't realize
he was carrying. Warm palms smoothed his chest and
slipped around his waist, under his shirt. He twitched when
her strong fingers pressed his lower back, finding aches ten
years in the making.
"Ah," she murmured, "thought that was bothering you.
We'll fix it later, laddybuck. For now . . ." A warm breeze,
her breath, crossed skin that shouldn't be bare. Her
fingers
"Kiyrstin, I"
"Just say thank you. Rags, then shut up."
And being a tolerably reasonable man, he did as he
was told.
d ~ 8
The one unqualifiable truth of this moment in time was
that Mikhyel dunMheric was useless where it came to
horses. It was a shortcoming he truly regretted, for the first
time in his life, considering Deymorin's current occupation.
Mikhyel shut his eyes and leaned back into the surprising
comfort of stacked hay bales, crossed his legs and flipped
his cloak over his lap, presenting, to all the world, the
image of an exhausted man.
Damn Kiyrstin anyway, he thought wryly. His brother's
lady was an amazing woman, one whose adviceand quiet
mindhe'd turned to quite frequently these past weeks.
They'd spent many hours in the gardens of Armayel, just
talking . . . about his brothers, his father, Garetti and Maur-
itum, similarities and differences
And Kiyrstin knew damn good and well what she was
doing to him at the moment. Kiyrstin thought him too . . .
detached. Kiyrstin, in great good humor, sought at every
viable opportunity to shake him out of his indifference to
what she considered basic human needs.
Beneath the twin cloaks of wool and nonchalance, he
fought Deymorin's reflected passion, striving with every
iota of energy remaining to leave Deymorin and his lady
with their privacy.
He chilled his mind and his body with thoughts of Anhe-
liaa  and the  implications  of the  storm raging  directly
overhead.
The power umbrella remained, diminished but intact, to
the edge of the old wall. Or so Deymorin's final images of
the City had implied. The gatekeeper had said the Khora-
tum expansion, that section of Rhomatum between the old
wall and the new, had not regained power since the collapse
of the web a month ago.
The collapse of the web. It was a horrifying thought, to
a man whose life had been structured around the firm belief
that nothing could disrupt the power of the Rhomatum
Web. But there was no denying the fact it had happened.
Likely, though he couldn't be absolutely certain until he
spoke to Anheliaa, as a result of the battle at Boreton.
Horrifying, indeed, but not so horrifying as what might
have happened had the Mauritumin intruders succeeded in
their plan to get their lightning-generating machine into the
Tower of Rhomatum.
Lightning and the ley did not mix. Sparks off clothing
could disrupt the smooth flow of energy from the Rhoma-
tum Rings. The Mauritumin machine had been capable of
using the power of lightning to create light in wires the way
the ley created light in leythium crystals. To put it in the
Tower - . . to activate it . . .
Mikhyel shuddered. It might have destroyed the Rhoma-
tum Rings. Without Rhomatum, the entire web would col-
lapse. Without the web, storms would rage down the valley,
and hundreds of thousands of people would die.
But that machine had never made it to Rhomatum. An-
heliaa had attacked the Mauritumins as they camped at a
nowhere spot in the road, a spot known locally as the Bore-
ton Turnout. Using the Rhomatum Rings, the power of the
ley, and (by some means they still didn't understand) that
link between himself and his brothers, Anheliaa had gener-
ated a localized maelstrom that had destroyed the machine
along with the men who had brought it into the valley.
She'd nearly destroyed her nephews in the bargain.
Somehow, he doubted Anheliaa would have minded the
loss. But they had escaped and made their way to Armayel,
the largest of the Rhomandi holdings and the one nearest
Rhomatum itself. From there, they'd sent careful probes,
men loyal to Deymorin for years, into the City.
At first, those men had come back with tales of riots
and chaos and fear. Later, they'd brought back street flyers
proclaiming the end of life as Rhomatumins knew it, and
finally with newspapers that gave lists of the dead and dam-
age reports.
As order returned, they'd risked a letter to Anheliaa.
Anheliaa had answered. Immediately. Anheliaa had ex-
pressed relief at their survival of the (so-called) Boreton
Firestorm, and delight at their well-being. And Anheliaa
had issued an urgent and heartfelt request for their immedi-
ate return.
They'd taken that request at face value: Anheliaa had no
heart. At least, not one that mattered.
So, this morningweeks laterwhen they were ready
and without formal announcement to Anheliaa, they'd set
out for Rhomatum. They'd taken a circuitous route in, stay-
ing as much as possible beyond reach of Anheliaa's aware-
ness, which meant off the leylines. And they'd chosen to
enter at Trisini Gate where she'd logically expect them to
use Oreno.
All to limit Anheliaa's preparation time.
Considering the chaos greeting them now, it would seem
they were overly cautious. Difficult to believe that Anheliaa
was wasting overmuch energy on her prodigal nephews'
whereabouts, when storms such as the one raging overhead
were bearing down on Rhomatum.
Anheliaa's letters had said the power had faltered the
day of the Boreton Firestorm; she hadn't said the web had
gone completely down.
Anheliaa had expressed concern at the diminished power
available, had said that the communication links with the
other nodes were erratic at best, that she couldn't tell, from
the Tower, exactly what damage had taken place.
But the clear demarcation at the old wall that marked
the pre-Khoratum expansion limit did suggest to Mikhyel
a different possibility, one which Anheliaa, trapped in the
Tower as her physical disabilities kept her, might not
have noticed.
It was possible they'd simply lost Khoratum.
The Khoratum leyline was the largest line in the vicinity
of Boreton, and Anheliaa had always said Khoratum was
the strongest satellite node, the hardest to cap, and the
most difficult to hold after it had been capped. If that line
had gone, or even if it was severely damaged, it could ac-
count for the web's erratic behavior.
Hard to judge which would be more devastating to the
security and cohesion of the Rhomatum Web Syndicate of
Nodes: a general collapse, or the failure of only that newest
highly controversial link.
Thirty-three years ago, when Anheliaa first seriously con-
templated capping Khoratum, she had made certain prom-
ises to the other seventeen satellite nodes in the Syndicate
whose cooperation, and power, she'd needed for the ven-
ture. Considering the promises contained in those contracts,
the repercussions of a drop in available energy, and the
rights of the satellites to demand compensation, three prod-
igal nephews might well be the least of Anheliaa's cur-
rent concerns.
She might, in fact, welcome them home with open arms
as alternate targets for the Syndicate's fury. Particularly
Mikhyel dunMheric, who was her primary voice to that
august body.
He shifted uncomfortably, Deymorin' growing sexual ex-
citement penetrating his consciousness despite his specula-
tive exercises. He was happy for his brother, he truly was.
Deymorin was a robust fellow, libidinous to the point of
obsession, to his way of thinking. To have found a woman
whose appetite matched his own had only improved his
overall disposition.
But a brother who preferred a calm and celibate life
would far rather endure the pain of Nikki's healing shoul-
der, or Deymorin's aching leg, or the cold, or . . . anything.
Somewhere, Nikki was radiating concern for a horse that
was "foundering," a term he'd heard his brothers use and
never truly understood. Mikhyel opened himself willingly
to Nikki, and a satisfying complex of images and emotions
and thoughts flooded his mind.
And still his body, with an appalling lack of consideration
for his peace of mind, responded along with Deymorin's.
The cursed link was worse here, far more intense than it
had  been  at  Armayel,  where  he'd  been  aware  of
Deymorin's . . . activities . . . but only as a half-dream,
easily ignored.
He curled over, pressing his fists to his temples.
"Mikhyel dunMheric?"
The voice was harsh. Unfamiliar. And agreeably outside
his head. He looked up. Dropped his hands.
The voice belonged to a man who, by his demeanor and
the rather forceful-looking individuals at his back, was offi-
cial. It was a guard. Several guards, only a handful of whom
wore the Rhomatum constabulary's midnight blue. The oth-
ers were markedly not in uniform.
He drew a breath and stood up, drawing his cloak about
him as he did so, painfully, distractingly aware of
Deymorin.
"Yes?"
"Do you have your papers, Mikhyel dunMheric?"
And suddenly, despite his brother, past the plain cloth-
ing, he recognized the man asking the questions, and his
blood froze.
"I explained to the gate"
"Do you have your papers, Mikhyel dunMheric?" the
man persisted.
The man's name was Sironi.
"INo, I"
He was gorTarim. Nikki's new wife's father's man.
"Then I'm afraid I must place you under arrest."
Deymio!
Deymorin jumped.
"Sorry, Rags," Kiyrstin said. "Too hard?"
"I No. Fine."
"Fine? That's it? Justfine?"
"No! Magnificent. Perfect. But"
{Gods, Deymio, I need} Mikhyel's voice. In his head.
He biinked. "Did you hear"
{Deymorin!} The thoughts were as clear as words, and
fraught with  embarrassment.  {If you  hear me  .  .  .
Papers...}
He cursed again, not at all softly. "It's Khyel. Something
about the damned papers."
He gasped as, with a whispered, "Khyel can take care of
himself," Kiyrstin returned to her previous pursuit.
But he'd never "heard" Mikhyel from so great a dis-
tance, and he feared more than identity papers had put that
edge of panic into Mikhyel's thoughts. A residual impres-
sion of green-and-gold-uniformed men sent a wave of ice
through him that overwhelmed all other emotions.
She cursed softly, and her eyes glittered up at him.
"Trouble?"
He nodded.
"Damn. Sorry." She stood up. "You get your clothes. I'll
look for the buttons."
"Under arrest?" Deymorin repeated, doing his best to
assume at least the appearance of outraged innocence. "On
what charge? By whose order?"
Heads appeared in stable doorways; Deymorin frowned
at them, and a few disappeared. Many did not, as vulgar
curiosity unerringly sensed a feeding frenzy.
"Deymorin, please," Mikhyel said, and an urge for cau-
tion filled that underneath sense. "Perhaps we should just
go with them. Straighten this out in private."
The leader of this mixed guard smiled faintly. Two men
in Rhomatum constabulary blue, three men in practical
Outsider clothing, all openly armed, and this businesslike
leader, who, by his moves, carried his own hidden arsenal
beneath his middle-class clothing.
Deymorin found something profoundly disturbing about
city  constables  taking orders  from  such  an  anonymous
source.
But there was no sign of the green-and-gold uniforms
he'd thought he'd seen in Mikhyel's mind, colors that he
associated  with  Lidye  Fericci  dunTarimnow  Lidye
romNikeanor.
"What's this all about?" Nikki, flanked by two men, ap-
peared from a side tunnel down which their horses had
been stabled. His voice held the shrill edge of adolescent
nerves. "Do you know who I am?"
Deymorin heard Mikhyel's soft groan, and Deymorin
thought, or perhaps it was Mikhyel's thought: Not now,
brother.
"I know who this man says you are, boy." The leader's
eyes ran rudely over Nikki's rumpled figure, over clothing
that had been a dandy's pride this morning, before wild
rides through storms and horses that needed grooming had
taken their ruthless toll.
"Nikaenor Rhomandi dunMheric," the leader said, refer-
ring ostentatiously to the gatekeeper's note. "The third I've
arrested this week."
"Third?" Nikki repeated and biinked, the arrogance fad-
ing. "What are you talking about?"
"Surely you don't believe you're the only one to hear the
rumors that the Lady Lidye's husband survived the valley
holocaust? I will say, you're the most complete group of
imposters we've arrested so far. I don't suppose you have
your papers. No? The Rhomandi seal ring, perhaps?" The
man's brows rose expectantly, his gaze moving again from
one to the other of them.
In vain, as it happened. The family ring to which he
referred had surely melted, along with the Mauritumin
hand illegally bearing it, in a blast of ley-induced lightning.
That "holocaust" to which this fellow so blithely referred.
The Boreton Turnout had been a horror, but the devasta-
tion had been exceedingly localized. And this official was
calling it a holocaust? One did have to wonder at the
sources of the rumors and the panic, when officials were
using such language in the presence of ordinary citizens.
But Deymorin held his peace. There were procedures for
them to go through, papers to fill out . . . hell, they'd send to
the Tower for someone to come identify them and have their
release authorized by the time they finished those forms.
The leader referred again to the gatekeeper's notes. "It
says here that you are the Rhomandi, Deymorin, dun-
Mheric, Princeps of Rhomatum. That this woman is Kiyr-
stine romGaretti, first wife of Garetti of Mauritum, and
that these are your brothers, Mikhyel and Nikaenor, both
of House Rhomandi, both dunMheric. Is that correct?"
"That's correct," Deymorin answered shortly.
"You are the Rhomandi?" the man repeated, and Dey-
morin paused.
The Rhomandi. As if he were still the family patriarch.
Mikhyel had not made that claim. Wouldn't, meticulous bas-
tard that he wasthat much hadn't changed. The gatekeeper,
or this man himself, had inferred it, meaning Nikki's as-
cendance to the title was not yet public knowledge.
They'd all agreed, at Armayel, that in all practical senses,
Deymorin was still the Rhomandi, but they'd never imag-
ined the issue coming up under quite these circumstances,
and considering Nikki's belligerent do you know who I
am . . . Deymorin was no longer certain how to answer.
Yet even as he hesitated, that sense they shared carried
Mikhyel's support, as well as Nikki's to acknowledge his
title, and so Deymorin nodded once, briefly and without
losing eye contact with the leader.
The man's eyes narrowed, and he seemed momentarily
taken aback. But only for a moment.
"In that case," he stated firmly, "I must insist that you
follow me."
8 8 8
They didn't give her time to collect her cloakby the
time Kiyrstin thought of that dereliction, it was far too late
to remedy the situation.
The guards led them to an iron-barred passageway, the
only such gateway she'd seen in this stony maze. While the
leader unlocked the gate, the guards collected torches from
the floor, old-fashioned light sources that flared at the touch
of the punk left simmering in a pot beside the doorway.
The grim-faced leader ordered them to sort themselves,
two and two, and then led the way into the wide tunnel.
They followed, Nikki and Deymorin to the front, herself
and Mikhyel behind. It was a conscious sort, at least on
her part, and, from the look he cast her, an arrangement
Mikhyel welcomed.
Mikhyel claimed he found her presence restful. Of
course, considering her competition for the honor, she
didn't set overmuch store on Mikhyel's choice of adjectives.
There were times, Mikhyel had revealed to her at Armayel,
when his brothers' thoughts could nearly overwhelm his
own thinking.
She could well imagine that this was one of those times.
Mikhyel stumbled; she caught his elbow and steadied
him.
"Thanks," he murmured.
"My pleasure," she murmured back; and when the
guards failed to object, she ventured, "Is it Deymorin?"
He nodded.
"His leg?"
"In part."
"How bad is it?"
"Worse than at Armayel."
"His leg? Or just how much you're picking up on him?"
"Both." Gray eyes shifted toward her in a low, sidelong
stare fraught with innuendo. And Kiyrstin thought of what
she'd been doing with Deymorin, and who Mikhyel had
been talking to at that same moment.
"Oh, dear," she said. "I'm sorry, Mikhyel. Truly."
"Could have been worse."
"By another minute?"
A momentary pause, then his shoulders began to shake.
"You might say that."
Another stumble. This time she was ready.
"Damn you, Deymorin."'
She barely caught his muttered whisper.
"What's going on?"
"He's worried about me. Again. Rings, I get tired of it.
He's afraid I'll collapse, or something, and sometimes . . .
sometimes my knees just give. It's as if his thoughts" A
curse coincided with another catch in his stride. "Bad
enough to be hauled off to Sparingate. I'd prefer to make
the trip with some remnants of dignity."
"You don't sound particularly concerned."
"I'm not exactly overjoyed, but there's little we can do
until they tell us why we've been arrested. It could just be
formality. I can think of several good reasons for processing
anyone claiming to be a Rhomandi very carefully into the
City, particularly if there are unknown individuals trying to
impersonate us. On the other hand, you should know that
these men" He glanced at his side, where a man in a
blue uniform walked, eyes straight forward, pointedly
granting them privacy.  "Most  of them,  at least, are
Ferricci."
"Lidye's father's men?"
"The web was down. The City's resources might well
have been overtaxed, the constabulary willing to accept
help from any quarter. Lidye's father was here for the wed-
ding. Her husband disappeared the day after. I'm not sur-
prised he's remained, considering what's at stake."
"Considering his daughter might just rule in Rhomatum?
Under the right circumstances, of course. Such as the Rho-
mandi brothers in prison? And Anheliaa dead?"
Another long look, and a stride steadied before the
rhythm could be disrupted.
"If Deymorin doesn't get you free of Garetti and marry
you soon," Mikhyel said, "I'll do it myself."
"To keep you on your feet?"
His mouth twitched, and for a moment, she was almost
sorry her heart had already been swallowed by his older
brother.
"I thought you were promised to that young Giephaetum
womanNethaalye," she reminded him.
"Well, there is that." His face took on a mournful look,
then brightened. "Would you consider being a second?"
"Khyel," she said reprovingly. "I've been first wife to
Garetti of Mauritum for fifteen years. Much as I love you,
I'd have to decline."
"Better to be the Rhomandi's mistress, than the Rho-
mandi's brother's second, eh?"
"Sad, what the standards of the world are coming to,
isn't it?"
He laughed outright this time, which drew a startled look
from the guards.
"Rings," he muttered, and his head turned away from
her. When he turned back, his face was grim.
"The man in charge?" His lips barely moved, but she
caught the question and nodded. "Sironi gorTarim."
GorTarim. A surname that indicated a man sworn for
life to Tarim Ferricci. More than a hired guard. Much more.
GorTarim meant that Sironi, if faced with conflict between
Rhomatumin law and Tarim's direct orders, would follow
Tarim's orders without question.
Tarim's orders. Lidye's father's. Not Lidye's.
And Sironi gorTarim had deliberately avoided staling the
reason for their arrest, for all his allusions to imposters.
Sironi would have stood at Tarim's back at all public events
here in Rhomatum. Sironi should recognize Nikki, even if
he didn't recognize the other two.
"It has to be an arrest because of who you are," she
murmured back.
He raised a brow. "One would think. On the other hand,
considering my rather . . . befuddled answers, he might well
believe he was dealing with a half-wit, if not an outright
imposter. With all due respect, my charming almost-sister,
this most recent demonstration of filial rapport only verifies
my conviction that when the time comes for me to face the
Councilor any other official body, singular or pluralmy
two brothers are going to be as far away as possible. Prefer-
ably alone. Preferably asleep."
"Ah, but sleep brings dreams," she pointed out.
"True. Math, perhaps? A good set of calculus problems
would keep them occupied."
"Or put them to sleep."
"Drugged!" He lifted a finger for emphasis. "That would
be . . . nice."
His voice trailed off. He was staring straight ahead, a
rather puzzled expression in eyes that were quite, quite
unfocused.
She held her hand just off his elbowjust in caseand
waited for him to return to her.
He was staring at the back of the guards, wondering to
whom those men might belong, knowing it was important.
He should know. . . .
He did know, and the guard was ahead of Deymorin,
not himself. Mikhyel sent a sharp-edged thought upstream
against the ignorance:
{GorTarim, Deymorin. Sironi goiTarim. Captain.}
And knew he'd been heard when Deymorin's head
jerked. And on the thread back to him came acknowledg-
ment. Apology.
Anger. Against Tarim.
But anger wasn't in order. Yet. Mikhyel counseled
Deymorin silently against assuming Tarim was responsible.
There were other possibilities, and falsely accusing Tarim
might well turn Sironi actively against them.
Deymorin's broad shoulders relaxed.
So much depended upon who was actually in control of
the Tower. If Anheliaa was in charge, their processing
should be fairly straightforward. If he could just get to the
Tower and talk, face-to-face with his aunt, their differences
could be put rapidly into perspective. It wasn't as if they'd
returned to Rhomatum to throw her out, he would argue.
With only Lidye romNikaenor to replace her in the Tower,
they'd be fools to try to overthrow Anheliaa.
Anheliaa would understand that level of paranoid
reasoning.
But Anheliaa's death was, of course, the eventuality Lid-
ye's father awaited. And Lidye's father's man was marching
them toward Sparingate. Lidye's father might well want
their return to the City kept from Anheliaa. Possibly even
from Lidye.
Lidye was, from his observations of her, a weak and eas-
ily swayed individual.  A father might well want strong-
minded Rhomandis kept away from herat least until he
had firmly established his own power base within
Rhomatum.
Laughter burst from Nikki and Deymorin, sauntering
arm in arm ahead of him. The mental thread that was a
constant in his life these days carried images of other tun-
nels, other underground rooms, and shared adventures.
And a determinedly cheerful outlook from Deymorin.
Deymorin didn't want Nikki worrying, he wanted them all
to project confidence to their guards, not concern.
Mikhyel was doubly glad, then, that Kiyrstin had chosen
to walk beside him. Pairing Deymorin with Nikki not only
prevented Nikki from intercepting Mikhyel's dark thoughts,
it gave his brothers this opportunity, however contrived, to
share fond memories.
There'd been too much of himself and Deymorin and
black history in recent days.
Deymorin and his adolescent friends had combed these
tunnels for years. Nikki, born with the soul of a historian
and infected early with Deymorin's capacity for getting into
trouble, had been losing himself in them ever since Dey-
morin first brought him here nearly ten years ago. But
Mikhyel had never been part of those youthful explora-
tions. Not Deymorin's earliest ones, not the later ventures
with Nikki.
Possibly he'd been invited, he couldn't say for certain
that he had not, but his life had been quite ruthlessly disci-
plined in those days, by his own choice as much as any-
one's ordering.
He stumbled yet again, would have gone to his knees but
for Kiyrstin's hand on his elbow. Not Deymorin's doing
this time, just an irregularity underfoot and his own grace-
less self. Kiyrstin's hands steadied him, and Kiyrstin's voice
reassured  his  brothersquickly  enough,  convincingly
enoughthat Deymorin never thought to worry.
"I should let you make my case to him all the time,"
Mikhyel murmured to her, when Deymorin's attention had
returned to Nikki.
"I wasn't certain. You looked very distracted for a
moment."
"I was. I'm fine now."
She tipped her head as if to see him better. "Truth?"
"Truth," he answered firmly.
She gave a quick nod, declaring the topic closed, and
slipped her hand in his, lacing their fingers together. Friend-
ship. Support. And respect for his privacy.
Unorthodox in her appearance, uncompromising in her
opinions, this Mauritumin lady of Deymorin's was nonethe-
less a very comfortable sort of person, and Mikhyel wel-
comed her as an almost-sister. Welcomed, as well, her
custody of his hand that gave him an anchor to his immedi-
ate surroundings.
"What is all this?" she asked, squinting past him at a
blocked side tunnel bearing an official nonentry sign. Be-
yond the blockade, barely visible in the flickering torch-
light, were signs of in-progress renovations.
'The first Rhomatum."
"Underground? Grandfather Darius was a bit of an ec-
centric, wasn't he?"
A hint of laughter touched her voice: deliberately, he
was certain. Kiyrstin, like Deymorin, had decided to let
Sironi worry about why his prisoners were not worried.
"Actually," he answered, striving to match her tone, "I'm
quite certain it was a good idea at the time. If Darius is to
be believed, the little squall that chased us in was a spring
shower compared to the storms that ravaged this valley
when the exiles first arrived. These caverns are natural.
They were here, ready to be occupied in those days. And
safe."
"How far do they go?"
"We don't know yet. It's only recently been rediscov-
ered. Historians are still piecing together what we've lo-
cated with the old records. We do know these tunnels
extend for miles into the Khoramali Range and toward
Tower Hill, though the vast majority of the living areas
appear to be in this area. They connect natural caverns of
all sizes that the first citizens adapted for use as everything
from stables to whorehouses to hospitals."
"How long?" The laughter was gone. Her voice held a
hushed awe Mikhyel did not believe contrived. "How long
did they have to live down here?"
"Years. For some families, generations. Until Rhomatum
was capped, these warrens were all that kept them alive.
Even then, Darius had to control Shatum and Giephaetum
before major construction could begin above ground. And
that would have been . . . oh, the better part of thirty
years."
"Thirty years""
"Eighteen years to recuperate from capping Rhomatum.
Twelve after Shatum. Life was not easy on Darius,
Kiyrstin."
"But . . . but there were thousands involved in the
exodus."
"Thousands?" Mikhyel asked, honestly amused this time.
There'd been five or six hundredincluding the children
who originally followed Darius out of Mauritum.
"And thousands more followed," Kiyrstin continued, and
that much was true. "Refugees from all over Maurislan.
Where did they put all those people? How did they make
room? How did they feed them."
"With shovels, I should imagine," he answered lightly,
finding the mood contagious. "And sheep. Lots of sheep."
She cast him a suspicious sideways look.
"Sometimes, Mikhyel dunMheric, you do remind me of
your brother."
"My apologies, dear lady."
"Accepted. And my sympathy, dear lord, for your
affliction."
"I do thank you."
Their joint laughter roused more interest from his broth-
ers, who demanded enlightenment, to which Kiyrstin re-
plied, "Mind your own business."
Deymorin shrugged, but his gaze slid down to their
clasped hands, pointedly lingering there. Without quite
knowing how, Mikhyel found his arm draped around Kiyr-
stin's shoulders, and hers around his waist, for all the world
like moon-touched lovers.
Which had to be Kiyrstin's doing, because it certainly
wasn't his.
"Deymio, I"
Deymorin just shook his head and turned away. "My
sympathy, little brother."
His almost-echo of Kiyrstin's words prompted another fit
of laughter, which Deymorin picked up, and then Nikki, in
a self-feeding loop that bordered on hysteria.
A prod from a frustrated guardsman wrenched Mikhyel
almost painfully free of the loop. Once free, he slammed a
wall down between himself and Deymorin, and walked for
a time in grim silence.
"Seriously, Khyel," Kiyrstin's voice disrupted his darken-
ing thoughts. "Where did they put all the people?"
"The prisons," he answered abruptly.
"Friendly."
Which might have referred to the ancient distribution,
and might refer to his attitude. Repentant, he elaborated.
"They weren't prisons then."
"Old Darius must have been trying to discourage them
into going back to Mauritum." Deymorin joined their con-
versation without looking back. "Caverns. Huge ones. A
whole series of them. They're the only part of the Old City
that have remained in permanent use since the Founding.
When the City grew above, so did the crimeespecially
since Mauritum insisted on sending us all the chaff. A few
well-placed cave-ins, and you've as secure a prison as any
warden could ask for. Thanks to Darius, we get the scut
from all over the web. 'Specially in the Crypt." He glanced
back with a wicked grin. "Better hope we don't get sent
there. Barrister."
"Rings, brother, don't even joke about it."
"Crypt," Kiyrstin repeated. "Dare I ask?"
"The more grievous the crime," Deymorin answered,
"the deeper they send you. The Crypt's the worst. And
guess who sentenced each and every one of those charming
individuals? Lovely place, Khyel. Primitive. Cold. Damp.
No privacy."
"Speaking from personal experience, Rags?" Kiyrstin
asked lightly.
"Of course."
"Aha, the plot thickens," she said. "What was he in
for, Khyel?"
"i__"
"Murder, Khyel," Deymorin prompted. "Tell her it was
for successful murder."
"I" Mikhyel felt the hysteria building again and fought
it down.
"Oh, never mind. For a politician, fry, you're an amaz-
ingly second-rate liar. I was a professional inmate. Shep-
herdess. Never made it any lower than the Pit, fortunately.
Most of the nonsense I was convicted of I even committed,
though not necessarily at the same time they took me in
for it. Not a bad system, actually. Get drunk, get a bit
rowdy, wake up in the Pit, and spend the next few days
repairing what you almost remember breaking. Learned a
lot about carpentry and plumbing that way, I assure you.
Civilized my cronies in a hurry."
"You took a bit more convincing, I take it," Kiyrstin
commented.
"Naturally," Deymorin said, and turned back to Nikki.
"Sweet Maurii," Kiyrstin shook her head. "The things
we don't know."
"We?" Mikhyel asked.
"Mauritum."
"That the Princeps-to-be of Rhomatum was a delinquent
juvenile? Because that's all it was, I assure you. We treat
our adult criminals rather less kindly. Why should you
know? We did our best to hide the fact, particularly from
hostile spies."
She chuckled. "Rest easy, 0 keeper of Rhomatum's self-
respect. No, just that the image Mauritum maintains of
early Rhomatum is, shall we say, far different."
She tucked her arm in his, and led him off into a discus-
sion of those differences, and he ceased his attempts to
direct the conversation otherwise. The relationship between
Kiyrstin and Deymorin baffled him. He admired it. He even
envied Deymorin a woman who could joke with him under
such circumstances.
But he didn't understand it.
Sometimes he wondered if he ever would.
Their path rose slowly but steadily from the stables
toward the prison, a pathway dry and sweet-smelling. Mod-
ern engineers, marveling at the drainage and ventilation of
the Old City, had searched in vain for the plans, refusing
to believe happenstance and luck had created it.
The earliest settlements had been tents set up in the cav-
erns to the northeast of the node, their location chosen
more for the natural benefits above ground than proximity
to  the node itself.  From here,  the  tunnels  had once
stretched clear to the heart of what had become Tower Hill
and far into the Khoramali foothills, and the gardens and
sheep pastures that had, indeed, kept generations alive.
Over the years, as surface life became increasingly re-
mote, those underground tents had become houses, and
ultimately apartments and even businesses, built farther
and farther away from the community caves, as refugees
continued to pour out of the Mauritum Web.
Tunnels had grown between all the areas into a huge
maze of which only the segment that lay beneath the Khor-
atum expansion had been extensively explored.
Officially. He'd never asked how far Nikki had gotten on
his solo expeditions.
They passed through one guarded doorway, and past a
door that appeared to be a lift platform.
Another guarded doorway, and then two lamps flickering
ahead indicated the path they followed branched. One
angled up, the other down.
One, Mikhyel knew from those maps, would lead to the
prison  offices,  and  those  wards  for  minor  offenses
Deymorin's Pit, the Womb, which was the female equiva-
lent of the Pit, and other, smaller holding areas.
The other, the downward path, led to the Crypt.
As they approached the branch, the guards closed in at
last, demanding silence.
And herded them toward the downward slope.
His name was Thyerri. He'd had another name once, as
he'd had another life . . . once.
"Boy? Boy! I want your skinny Khoratumin ass over
here, and I want it now\"
Once, a handful of weeks and a lifetime ago, he'd been
a dancer, in every sense of the word. Now. . .
Thyerri balanced the final mug atop three of its compan-
ions, swept the double-stacked tray off the counter and
over his head, then slid his way past crowded tables and
hands determined to impede his progress. One particularly
eager set of fingers nearly succeeded in toppling his tray,
but he sidestepped smoothly and in two toe-tipped strides
made the corner booth, where he distributed mugs and
plates with the economy of movement one mastered in the
first day on the job, else one didn't have a secondnot in
Bharlori's Tavern.
"Well, what have we here?" A fifth uniformed man had
joined a booth already overcrowded with large bodies, pad-
ded clothing, and steel weapons. "Boy, you said, dunMarn?
How can you tell with these slick-chinned hillers?"
The man called dunMarn laughed. "The prettiest are al-
ways men, captain, as you'll discover soon enough. After
the first handful of mistakes."
"Everything else looks too damned young to fuck," an-
other man grumbled.
"Oh, I don't know . . ." the newest addition to the booth
drawled, and his bored gaze traveled the room, like a con-
sumer studying the merchandise. His uniform had a leather
band emblazoned with an insignia of some sort. Captain,
so the other had called him, and new to Khoratum, from
their talk.
Not that it mattered to Thyerri. New faces, new accents:
one ceased after a time to try and place themassuming
one had ever cared in the first place. To Thyerri, they were
all foreigners, invaders of Khoratum. Lowlanders. Valley-
folk. Rijhili.
And Thyerri hated them, all of them, with the singular
bitterness of the dispossessed. In that former life, he'd been
nearly oblivious to them. They'd been nothing but names
and political concepts, invaders of the mountain, destroyers
of the village. Curiosities at best, with their complex politi-
cal intrigues.
Most of all, they had been the source of the dance rings.
In this life, that invasion, the associated destruction was
all too personal. In this life, a life without the Dance, the
faces changed, the accents changed, but the bold hands re-
mained the same.
"Ah, sirs," Thyerri said, forcing his voice to the pleasant
tone one had to use with customers, "you insult my lady
friends." He swayed out of range of the captain, who
seemed determined to challenge his companion's judgment
regarding Thyerri's anatomy, and pointed with his chin to
a voluptuous woman weaving among the tables. "Khani,
there, is worth a dozen of my humble self, don't you
agree?"
Not to mention she'd be more than willing to take the
lot on between one order and the next, for the right price.
Khani was Khorandi, born and reared, and she was accus-
tomed to rijhili looks and touches . . . and fond of rijhili
coin. As if sensing their eyes on her, Khani tossed her mane
of artificially curled hair back over a bare shoulder and
winked at Thyerri, before turning back to her customer.
"Your tastes are too flamboyant, boy," the captain
drawled. "A man of breeding might choose, instead, a se-
cretive air, and charms somewhat less openly offered."
This time the captain had judged accurately: Sakhithe,
whose lithe movements his avaricious gaze followed, was
indeed a womanas much as any ex-dancer was man or
woman.
Like Thyerri, Sakhithe wore the loose trousers and tunic
of the hill-folk. But while Thyerri's elbows gained a few
more threads toward freedom each night, and his tunic
sported blotches of inexplicable tenacity, Sakhithe's gar-
ments had delicate embroidery at hem and throat, and
seemed utterly impervious to stain.
Spare-fleshed, light-boned and black-haired, Sakhithe
was like enough to be Thyerri's sister. Alike enough to
make him wonder if the man, whose jaded gaze had shifted
back to Thyerri, was deliberately goading him.
The captain missed his mark in one sense: the physical
similarity was only that. Thyerri was not, at least to his
knowledge, directly related to Sakhithe. But Thyerri owed
his presence here in Bharlori's to Sakhithe's timely inter-
vention in his life, and he wasn't about to encourage this
coarse lowlander's interest in her.
"Exquisite, sir, I agree," he replied, and assumed a for-
lorn expression. "However, as her five large brothers would
take extreme exception to my suit, I keep my distance."
"And advise others to do likewise, eh, boy?" But the
captain's eyes drifted back to Sakhithe, a predatory gaze
that sent a warning shiver down Thyerri's spine.
Sakhithe's shorn hair and formless clothing, her very
movements, should have cued the man she wasn't for hire.
But this rijhili captain might not recognize the trademarks
of an ex-radical dancer of Khoratum. And even if he did
recognize the signs, this foreigner might not realize how
disinterested a radical learned to be, here in the newest
satellite node of Rhomatum.
And not likely to care if he did realize.
With some bitterness, Thyerri noted that dunMarn, who
had been so quick to correct the captain's first incorrect
assumption regarding hillers did not as eagerly correct this
new error.
Another hail, this time from the room's far side.
"Your order, sir?" Thyerri asked, and when the captain
seemed not to hear him, "Sir, your order? I've other ta"
A slit-eyed warning sent him an involuntary step back-
ward. "Ale, scut, if it's drinkable. And one of those, what-
ever it is." Pointing to a plate of merifin tubers and chicken.
"The rest looks like hog slop."
"Boy!"
Armed with empty mugs and another round ordered,
Thyerri hurried over to the impatient table, added their
order to his memory, and acknowledged a third party's ar-
rival before escaping to the kitchen, where Cook was wag-
ing war with her temporary help.
He gave Cook the numbers, dodged a flying soup bone,
and ducked back out to draw the ales himself. Zeiin, the
elderly bartender, was occupied at the counter's far end,
scrubbing mugs as fast as his hands would fly.
Business was, according to Bharlori, out of handthough
one didn't hear the harried owner complain overmuch. Up-
hill, in Greater Khoratum, most of the kitchens were down,
their modern, ley-powered heating elements sitting dark
and dead ever since the collapse of the Rhomatum Web.
Khoratum Tower being new and sometimes less than re-
liable, those buildings had hearths for emergency heating
and therefore they had the means to cook their own meals.
It was even possible the highly paid rijhili chefs retained in
those valley-style dwellings might even recall what to do
with an open fire.
But you couldn't tell that from Bharlori's vantage in
Lesser Khoratum. Bharlori's wood fires needed no web to
boil water and bake bread. Neither did Lhuiini's Bar,
Bharlori's competition here on the outermost fringes of
Khoratum. Consequently, for four weeks, ever since the
collapse, those occupants of the modern uphill mansions
had descended upon the tavern. From dawn to dusk and
late into the night, a steady stream of customersrich own-
ers, maids, and stableboyshad inundated Bharlori's for
everything from a multicourse feast to a bowl of soup.
A stream for which Thyerri, ex-apprentice radical dancer
of Khoratum, was exceedingly thankful.
"Oh, Thyerri! Bless the Mother, may I take these?
You're wonderful."
A whirlwind of skirts, Khani, he thought, swept past, tak-
ing his mugs with her.
He opened his mouth to protest, but she was gone. He
sighed, and jumped up on the counter to lean across after
clean mugs. A hand grabbed his shirt tail and pulled him
back.
"Guess who's out there?" Mishthi whispered in his ear,
and before he could answer: "Rhyys! I'm sure of it this
time. Please, Thyerri, is it?"
Mishthi served Rhyys at least twice a week. . . .
Except it never was. Rhyys dunTarec, Ringmaster of
Khoratum, would die of starvation before openly acknowl-
edging a use for Lesser Khoratum.
Thyerri, feigning the excitement Mishthi craved, strained
up on the points of his toes to see the customer (who bore
little if any resemblance to the Khoratum Ringmaster) and
dropped down again. "Sorry, Mishthi. I don't think so."
"Oh, well." She sighed, picked up her tray and hurried
back to her customers.
Rhyys dunTarec.
Thyerri opened the tap on another mug.
The surname, dunTarec, was fabricated, as was the family
name Thyerri couldn't at the moment recall. Valley names,
valley associations. To hear Rhyys talk, to see his clothing,
one would think him as foreign to Khoratum as a foreigner
who seriously considered soliciting a Khoratum radical
dancer.
Never mind Rhyys had been born in one of the thatch-
roofed huts visible from Bharlori's front porch.
Leaving the tap open, Thyerri exchanged mugs without
spilling a drop.
Bharlori's Tavern lay in the outermost edges of the Khor-
atum umbrella, where even at its best, the power fluctuated.
The wood-and-stone buildings here were old, the last ves-
tiges of the flourishing village of Khorandi, displaced fifteen
years ago when Anheliaa of Rhomatum announced the plan
to add Khoratum at last to her Syndicate of Node Cities.
Even before the capping, rijhili from all over the Rhoma-
tum Web had swarmed up the mountain to consume the
small village of Khorandi. Not to live there, not to savor
the beauty of the surrounding mountains, but to build
Khorandi into something foreign and ugly.
Tiny Khorandi had had no say in the matter. The more
fortunate, such as Bharlori, had kept their business by vir-
tue of their unfavorable location to the Khoratum Node.
Those farther uphill, those residences and businesses solidly
within the new power umbrella, had had no defense at all
against the rijhili developers.
Those who actually invested in the new node lived else-
where, sending lesser family members to handle their inter-
ests here. Petty people. Sniping people. People resentful
of their exile into the barbarous climate of the Khoramali
Mountains. People who cozied up to Rhyys in hopes of
escaping the cold winds, giving Rhyys a false legitimacy, a
respect he hadn't earned, save for being Anheliaa's choice
to master the Khoratum Rings.
Thyerri dived across the counter after more mugs, as
those he'd filled again disappeared.
Thyerri didn't careparticularlyabout Khorandi. The
village had welcomed the rijhili invaders, seeing in them
false hopes of personal prosperity. Thyerri did care about
the trees that had died with the capping of Khoratum, and
he cared about the rapacious squandering of the ley that
was the essence of the earth itself for purposes so foolish
as cooking Rhyys dunTarec's stew.
But without the invaders, without the capping, without
the rings spinning in the Tower uphill, the dance rings
would never have come to the Khoramali. Thyerri had
never known whether to bless or to curse Rakshi for that
gift.
Rakshi, the hillers' god of chancethe spirit that goaded
the true radical dancer to the edge of sanity . . . from the
moment Thyerri had seen the dance rings spinning and held
his breath as the first dancer flew among them, he'd known
the spirit of Rakshi had touched his heart. He'd dreamed
of those spinning silver rings flashing in the sunlight, felt
the brush of the ring-swept air against his cheek, the tug
of his hair as a ring flew past.
Rakshi's call, and only that, he knew now, had brought
him out of his beloved mountains and into the foreigner's
new city. And because of that call, he was alone now, con-
demned to a life that was not even a shadow of his for-
mer existence.
Fifteen years ago. Thyerri had been seven . . . or perhaps
six, when the first invaders came to the mountain village.
It was possible he'd been born in Khorandi; he didn't re-
member. It was possible he'd had a human mother. He
didn't remember that either.
He'd had a grandmother in the earliest memories of that
former life. And after that . . . after that, Thyerri had lived
in the hills. That was all he remembered; that was all he
allowed himself to remember.
"Boy!"
A glancing blow to the side of his head brought Thyerri
to a sense of ale slopping over his hand and growing a
puddle on the floor. Horrified, he shut the tap.
"Out of your supper, hill-boy." Bhariori filled the last
mug and shoved him toward the cramped and smoky room.
"We've customers crowding the door, dreamer. Ale. Food.
Silver and out the door. You know the rules."
Music caressed his ears as he hoisted the tray overhead.
and pushed through the swinging half-door. Pipes and lute,
those were a given, evenings at Bharlori's, but Kharmier
and Trahdio had brought friends tonight. A drummer,
whose beat a dancer's feet matched without benefit of
thought, a guitarist and flautist. It was a mix these valley-
born invaders likely found odd, but a mix this "hill-boy"
relished with every breath he drew.
Hill-boy. The hill-folk had a different name for them-
selves; as they had another, less flattering term, for the
invaders; and a worse one still for such as Bharlori and
Rhyys, who were hill-folk before they styled themselves
and their lives after the valley-men.
But Thyerri had learned words couldn't hurt, had learned
that not all invaders were rijhili, and that Bharlori was not
Rhyys. Bharlori had given him this job and a safe, warm
place to sleep, and good food and honest pay for honest
work.
Which, when all was said and done, was a better bargain
than any Rhyys had ever offered.
Sparingate Crypt; the maximum security ward reserved for
the most dangerous of criminals. Deymorin halted at the
first  security  gate,  outraged;  Mikhyel  cast him a rueful
glance and moved through the doorway.
"You can't be serious!" Deymorin protested both the
order and Mikhyel's acceptance.
"We have our orders," said the leader. Sironi, Mikhyel's
thoughts had named him. And gorTarim, honor-bonded
captain of Tarim's personal bodyguard.
"And we have our gods-be-damned rights! We've not
even been charged! What about a trial? What about notifi-
cation of our kin? This cursed farce has gone sour. I want
a messenger sent to the Tower. Immediately!"
"At this hour?" the Shatumin captain responded. "I'm
afraid that's not possible. We have our orders."
As if at a signal, his two guards again heaved him toward
the door. Deymorin slammed palms to the iron-reinforced
frame and heaved back.
"Where's Oshram? I demand to see Warden Oshram."
Their answer was a third synchronous shove, but he had
his leverage now, and their efforts were in vain.
"Whose orders. Captain Sironi?" Mikhyel asked, past
Deymorin's set feet and braced elbows.
There was a pause, and Deymorin chanced a glance over
his shoulder. Sironi's face had a startled look, then his eyes
narrowed, trying, Deymorin thought, to see past him to
Mikhyel. The next moment, a blow to the back of his weak
leg buckled Deymorin's knee, and he stumbled through the
door, into Mikhyel, who flattened himself against the tunnel
wall and extended a steadying hand.
"All right, man," Deymorin gasped, using Mikhyel's hold
to pull himself upright and resting his weight lightly on the
traitorous leg. "All right," he repeated, as Nikki passed
through, and guards followed. "But not the woman! Not
here!"
Sironi smiled. "Of course not. We'll take very special
care of her."
Forgetting his leg, Deymorin took a step toward the cap-
tain, who fell back, his smile fading.
But Deymorin reached past him, hooked Kiyrstin by the
waist and pulled her close for a declaration of proprietor-
ship that left them both gasping for breath.
"See that you do," Deymorin said to Sironi as he re-
leased her. "It's possible, of course, that you are right, that
we are imposters. Then again, we might not be."
Something in his face must have convinced the captain,
who blanched and inhaled sharply before assuring him,
"She'll be taken to the women's cavern, obviously. Given
private quarters, away from the whores"
"Thanks just the same," Kiyrstin said, eyeing the captain
with open suspicion, "I'll take my chances with the local
ladies."
"M'lady, I assure you," the captain began, but Deymorin
laughed, which simply made the captain squirm more.
Deymorin kissed Kiyrstin again, casually, confidently,
and said, "Try not to antagonize him, m'love."
"What do you mean, antagonize?"
"Don't bite him." He turned on his heel, and swaggered
down the narrow tunnel in his brothers' wake, forcing him-
self not to look back at her, exuding a confidence he by no
means felt.
8 ~ 8
More than ever, as Deymorin limped out of sight, Kiyr-
stin envied the brothers their silent communication. She
wished she could have five minutes alone with him, to help
the pain in his leg, to reassure him, to tell him not to worry
about heror his brothers.
And with that thought, she was afraid, truly afraid, for
the first time since they'd left Armayel that morning, more
frightened than she'd been since she met Deymorin. Dey-
morin would kill himself trying to protect his brothers in
such a place, Mikhyel from resentful offenders, Nikki from
his own youthful stupidity.
But there was nothing she could do for him except keep
herself prepared to recognize opportunity should it arise.
And to take care of herself, that most of all, so that next
time, he'd have that much more confidence in her, that
much less he felt he had to worry about.
And she had to trust Deymorin to realize that his 'life in
exchange for his brothers' temporary comfort was no
bargain.
Trust. It all came down to trusting one another.
Take care of yourself, JD. ...
A hand gripped her arm: Sironi. Kiyrstin let her gaze
move directly from his hand to his face.
"Tell me. Captain Sironi," she asked, "have you any in-
tention of using that hand again?"
His eyes widened, ever so slightly, and he released her
arm. Abruptly. Then he jerked his head, motioning her
down the tunnel, away from the Crypt, away from
Deymorin.
fgt    Q    "gt
As Deymorin's limp eased, Mikhyel tried not to begin.
It was Deymorin's pain, he kept repeating to himself, his
limping would do nothing to ease the sensation. Besides, if
Deymorin's leg truly was injured, Deymorin needed to
know now, not after it was too late.
They'd discovered that unpleasant fact at Armayel, when
the shoulder wound Nikki had acquired before the battle
at Boreton festered. Unknown to them all, Mikhyel had
grown weak fighting Nikki's pain, but until Nikki collapsed
they'd none of them imagined how dangerously infected
the wound had become.
It was an unpleasant and unkind gift he'd acquired, un-
kind to himself, and to his brothers. Nikki might have died
had the wound gone untreated much longer. Mikhyel didn't
know which was worse, the pain and festering, or the anger
and accusations, once Nikki was strong enough to argue:
Deymorin accusing Nikki of selfishly willing the pain to
Mikhyel's keeping, Nikki yelling that Mikhyel shouldn't
take it if he didn't want it, and Mikhyel wishing they'd both
shut up and go away and let him die in peace.
And in all the arguing, no one had pointed the finger at
the true culprit: this insidious rapport that took no effort
to create, and everything to stop, that kept Nikki from
knowing how sick he was until almost too late, and kept
Mikhyel's own mind so preoccupied, that his logic skewed
wildly.
This time, it was Deymorin's body that invaded his, and
the throb in his leg increased with each step. Beginning to
wonder if perhaps the guard's heavy boot had done serous
damage, he tried to catch a glimpse of Deymorin's leg past
the heavy cloak
And threw his weight onto what should have been a per-
fectly sound leg, but wasn't. He stumbled. Deymorin's
hands caught and steadied him. The pain shot through in
full force, and his leg collapsed.
"Nikki?" He gasped, and reached for his younger
brother. And Nikki was there, holding him on his feet, and
Deymorin was cursing him for a fool, and the pain in his
leg flowed out through the arm Deymorin retamed, so rap-
idly he could almost see the flow, so rapidly, the relief left
him light-headed.
{Damn you, Mikhyel dunMheric, say something next
time!}
Deymorin's thoughts flared and then the pain was gone,
for the most part, and his head was clearer and the guards
were urging them on.
Of the five men still with them, two wore City blue. From
their obvious discomfort they, at least, resented the actions
they were being forced to take against the Rhomandi
brothers.
Factions. Someone, Sironi, Tarim, Lidye, possibly even
Anheliaa herself, was trying very hard to create factions
within Rhomatum. These men in City blue were being told
to follow orders or . . . what? Power was shifting hands . . .
but to where?
Sironi shouldn't be here, shouldn't be taking them to the
Crypt, certainly shouldn't be bypassing all established legal
procedures. Rhomatumin law.
It had been a gamble, calling Sironi by name. Mikhyel
had hoped it might prove their claimand in that, he might
have achieved his goal.
But Sironi knew, now, that he'd been recognized. And
that, Mikhyel thought, as the heavy door to the Crypt
swung open, might not have been the smartest revelation
of Mikhyel dunMheric's career.
The smell alone on the dank air rising out of the black
depths beyond the oak and iron door was enough to de-
stroy any remaining delusions regarding the nature of their
home for the night.
A crypt indeed.
Mikhyel paused in the doorway, overwhelmed, wonder-
ing what had become of the marvel of engineering that
kept the tunnels so fresh.
He knew what lay below him, as he'd known the lay of
the tunnels they'd walked. He'd seen maps of the tunnels,
floor plans of the wards. Had read treatises on the humane
care and feeding of the prisoners. He knew what he sent
men into when he signed the sentencing papers.
But lines on a paper had little in common with reality.
The vast cavern swallowed the light from the tunnel. Or
perhaps, he thought, in cold analysis, that distant flickering
light in the tunnel was set precisely so the new inmate re-
ceived the most chilling introduction to his new abode.
A gauntleted hand between his shoulder blades sent him
stumbling into that darkness. He fought for balance, felt a
foot slip over an edge and threw his weight backward, into
arms that caught and held him.
Deymorin: the thought/sense/awareness that was inde-
finably his brother came through even the adrenaline-
induced panic that gripped him. He could see the edge
then, a darkness against a deeper black. They'd come in at
the head of a staircase. Stone-cut and foot-worn, open at
least on one side, those stairs extended far past the reach
of the doorway's dim light.
Gas lamps, jets protruding from the walls, made eerily
flickering pools of light among the irregular contours of the
cavern. Men gathered in those pools, passing the hours as
men did in places such as this.
Lighting was carefully controlled within the cavern, ac-
cording to those treatises. The intensity levels shifted at
regular intervals to simulate the passage of time above
ground. They were in evening now, late evening. Soon,
even these pools, for the most part, would disappear.
Tables, littered (as was the floor around them) with rem-
nants of meals, supported card games and dice. To his left,
barely visible past curving limestone, the light-pool glinted
with running water.
The latrine, his mental map recalled. The one spot in
the cavern that would remain in full-light the entire night.
Complete facilities with circulating bathing pool, and other
provisions for personal hygiene and comfort.
These men chose to live in the filth his senses insisted
lay below him; they were not forced into it.
Where that limited light failed to reach, darkness more
complete than any he'd ever known swirled and eddied.
Those private niches radiated sounds one didn't care to
investigate further.
Criminals, the Council maintained and Mikhyel had al-
ways agreed, should be discouraged from ever going to
prison again. On the other hand, a man cast here who con-
sidered himself innocent of wrongdoing might well feel
sorely used.
It seemed that lately his life had been filled with new
perspectives.
Without warning his sense of Deymorin vanished, that
gauntleted hand struck a second time
And he was falling.
(Lightning flashed.
(That which had been, was, or would be Mikhyel, 2nd son
of Mheric, 16th Princeps of Rhomatum, hung suspended in
the rarified air inside the spinning leythium-coated rings of
Rhomatum. Their hum surrounded him, engulfed him, pene-
trated to his very core, until, body and soul, he was one
with the ley.
(Body. Soul. Only his mind was exempt: observing,
calculating.
(Aware.
(A second flash, blinding bright, and he hovered in the
cloudless sky above a city that pulsed with the energy of
the node buried deep in the earth below Tower Hill, power
that rose and coalesced at the bidding of the Rhomatum
Ringsand the madwoman who commanded them: Anhel-
iaa, descendant of Darius.
(Anheliaa: powerful, madwho had had the shaping of
himself as she had shaped the web to her bidding.
(That power radiated outward, unseen to ordinary mortal
eyes, but not to his ley-sensitized vision, a throbbing opales-
cence that rippled to the limits of the Rhomatum power
umbrella and beyond, confined, now, to eighteen treeless
leylines with their pristine, fine-graveled highways: super-
natural spider-threads linking Rhomatum Node to her eigh-
teen satellite nodes.
(Eighteen buds to Rhomatum's mature bloom.
(A return swell: enhanced radiance from those satellite
nodes coalescing within Rhomatum. The satellites lending
power to the hub.
(A third blast that he realized now was not lightning at
all, but iridescent flames that pressed Rhomatum's perime-
ter, flames not from without, but from within, flames that
billowed out of Rhomatum Tower, coalesced into a single
raging finger, and reached Outside
(Toward a point between leylines, toward areas that ap-
peared night-black to ley-awareness, areas that the mind
insisted the ley could not reach.
(Toward Boreton.
(But body and soul denied that reason. The flames
reached and strained, striving for a point within the dark-
ness where there lurked an absence of light darker than
the darkest night.
(For Boreton. For the Mauritumin machine that lurked
in the shadows.
(Anti-ley machine.
(Harnessed lightning.
(The iridescent pulse arced from Rhomatum a fourth
time, and a fifth, in rapid succession, until the pulse became
a steady stream flowing irresistibly toward that anti-ley
source, destruction its objective.
(A stream whose origin was not Rhomatum, but the sat-
ellites, which continued to send wave upon opalescent wave
.down the leylines toward their parent node, who sent that
fire blazing outward.
(Toward Boreton.
(All to destroy that tiny point of nonlight.
(And in the center of that target: his brothers. Another
part of his being, not body, not mind, not soul, knew that
without question, as his mind reasoned that the Tower-
generated force bent upon destruction would take them
with it.
(Unless he intervened, that unidentified portion cried,
and his mind answered, How? then self-reasoned: The al-
ternative? To live while those two died.
(Unacceptable.
(He dove into the pulsing stream
(and the valley disappeared in a flash of utter
darkness.)
Screams filled the air. His. And Deymorin's curses.
"Damn you, get the light out of his eyes!"
Boreton. Boreton. Boreton . . .
And Deymorin's arms lifted him, held him against the
residual tremors that always took hold of him following this
newest nightmare. And {Quiet, Khyel ...} filled bis mind.
Invaded his mind.
Because of Boreton.
"Damn you, Anheliaa! Damn Garettil Damn you all
to"
{Khyel, shut up.}
Firm. Commanding.
Deymorin.
Whom he'd saved.
Deymorin.
Who hadn't let him die.
When he should have.
Damn you, Deymorin dunMheric.
He closed his mouth and the screams ended.
Slowly, his head cleared to madness surrounding him. To
men with lamps. Men with torches. Far more men than the
handful that had brought him here. Perhaps, he thought in
a surge of groundless optimism, men from the Tower, to
take them out of here. To take them home, to the
Tower . . . and Anheliaa.
Before the men incarcerated in Sparingate Crypt recog-
nized him. Somehow, even Anheliaa was preferable to
that fate.
There were lights again, shining into his eyes, and some-
one rolled his head this way and that, until, with a curse,
he pushed himself up and out of Deymorin's arms, away
from Deymorin's oppressive concern that was the real
weight holding him down. He was feeling well enough
except for a myriad of aches and bruises (his own for a
change)and not hesitant about saying as much.
"You'll do, little brother." Deymorin laughed, with relief
instead of humor, and the inner pressure eased, only to
flare again into a black anger that was directed up the stairs
at the lighted doorway. "No thanks to that murderous scut.
I want that man's name and identification number logged
with our arrest entry, Oshram," Deymorin said to the
shadow standing next to him. "Along with a willful attempt
to cause life-threatening injury. If Khyel has suffered any
significant damage, that guard's going to be held person-
ally accountable."
"It'll be done, Deymio-lad," the shadow answered in a
low voice, "but I doubt it will make" The voice broke
off. Mikhyel could wish that statement completed.
Oshram. The Warden of Sparingate. Who was (Why was
he not surprised?) on a familiar name basis with his disrep-
utable older brother. A Rhomatumin warden who was
afraid to speak his mind in front of these Shatumin guards.
"Oshram?" Mikhyel reached a hand to Nikki, who
grabbed it and hauled him to his feet, then steadied him
when his balance wavered. "Dare I hope that you can by
any chance get us out of here?"
Oshram stepped closer, a puzzled look on his face. And
his gaze shifted from himself to Nikki and up to Deymorin,
before coming back to him, still puzzled. The man didn't
recognize him, for all the Warden of Sparingate had been
present in the High Court innumerable times.
Or he did recognize him and was prudently saying noth-
ing the inmates slowly edging closer might hear. Which cau-
tion did not bode well for their immediate removal from
this ward.
"Can you at least tell us why we're here?" Deymorin
asked, and Mikhyel felt his brother's impatience rising, sent
cautionary thought back.
Oshram's eyes flickered toward the shadowy inmates, the
surrounding guards at the top of the stairs and keeping
those inmates back. "Well, Deymio, since Sironi didn't see
fit to tell 'ee, I can't see m' own way f doin' it."
"Why should a visiting dignitary's guard's dereliction of
duty keep you from following proper Rhomatum proce-
dure?" Mikhyel asked pointedly.
Another flicker of eyestoward the guards, Mikhyel
would swear it was wariness of the guards, not the inmates.
"IIf 'ee don' mind, Deymio m' lad. I'd like ye f come
wi' me f th' office. Get me the partic'lars on the situation."
A silent question permeated the link: Deymorin wonder-
ing if he should go with Oshram, or send Mikhyel. He
thought that Mikhyel would be safer with Oshram, but that
Oshram might speak more freely to him than to Mikhyel.
Mikhyel's immediate {Go!} intersected Nikki's agreement
and support, and the whole formed a dizzying, multifaceted
decision process that culminated in Deymorin's departure
with Oshram.
But as he followed Oshram out the door, Deymorin's
concern nearly deafened Mikhyel. Concern for Mikhyel,
alone among these men he'd sentenced, for Nikki, so very
young, and in many ways naive. And Deymorin's demand
for them to stick together, and a concern that they'd al-
ready been too free in their use of names and associations.
Too free, indeed. He, who was their greatest liability in
this place of convicts, had been babbling like a half-wit
when he came to. He could excuse his actions on the
grounds that his brains had been addled by the fall, but
excuses wouldn't make him any healthier, if the inmates
had heard and decided today's revenge was worth tomor-
row's price.
As Mikhyel's sense of Deymorin dissipated, a gnawing
pressure below his gut grew all-consuming, and for a mo-
ment he seriously considered (tired as he was) relieving
himself where he stood. From the smell, he wouldn't be
the first.
And then he realized that pressure wasn't his, any more
than the embarrassment surrounding it was his.
"Excuse me," he said to Nikki, and thought deliberately
of that mental map he had of this place, and of the latrine
he'd noted from above.
"Thanks," Nikki muttered, and darted into the shadows.
Gods knew what Nikki had been watching as he came
down the stairs. Too late, Mikhyel recalled Deymorin's ad-
monition to stick together, which was only common sense,
but decided he'd rather risk Deymorin's wrath than Nikki's.
Besides, at the moment, he seriously had to sit down.
The step met his tailbone rather more abruptly than he
could wish, but the minor discomfort seemed to clear his
brothers from his mind. At least for a moment. He buried
his head in crossed arms, limp and sore, needing all his
remaining strength simply to stay awake.
That was all he asked, now. Because as long as he was
awake, his thoughts were his own. Once he fell asleep, the
Nightmare lurked, waiting to suck them all in.
Fell asleep . . . or passed out.
Or panicked. He was a damned pistol on a leyroad, wait-
ing to explode at random. That nightmare had affected all
three of them more than once this past month. And it radi-
ated from his mind with a force that penetrated even
Nikki's resistant mind.
The dream was all he personally remembered of the fire-
storm. Deymorin had filled in details, such as he under-
stood them, but enormous gaps still plagued him.
He'd been in the Tower . . . Anheliaa had had him
brought to the Tower. He'd forgotten that. Brolucci gorAn-
heliaa, captain of Anheliaa's Tower Guard, had pulled him
from his bed and taken him to the ringchamber. There,
using the imaging sphere in the center of the Rhomatum
Rings and his then-embryonic link with his brothers, Anhe-
liaa had seen Deymorin at Boreton. And Nikki. In the
wagon. Injured. Scared.
And Anheliaa had seen the Mauritumin machine, recog-
nized its danger, and determined to destroy itat any cost.
Her desaeor his ownhad sent him through, had caused
him to transfer instantly from Rhomatum Tower to the
Boreton Turnout. Somehow, that transfer had completed a
bridge to Rhomatum and Anheliaa's Tower-generated fire
had destroyed the machine and all those around it.
Only he and his brothers and Kiyrstin had escaped.
Deymorin's mind pictures held images of the aftermath
of that firestorm. And of himself, sprawled naked on the
ground. And thoughts of pamicci salve that had healed
those unnaturally acquired burns, save for a handful of
scars on his back. . . .
Salve that healed his skin but stripped it of all the hair
that proclaimed a man no longer a child. Stripped him most
noticeably of the beard he'd worn all his adult life. The
beard whose absence now caused even his brothers to for-
get sometimes who he was.
He cursed that loss as he cursed the link that plagued
him night and day, that stole his autonomy from him as the
too-smooth face stole his painfully acquired individuality.
Deymorin had used that link, forged in the fires of Bore-
ton, to enter his mind and draw him out of an equitable
(damn it all) escape from a life filled with compromises and
mistakes, a life finally justified in that single action that had
saved his brothers.
He'd told Deymorin once, when Nikki balanced on
death's door and Mikhyel himself was nearly mindless with
pain, that he wished this cursed link with his brothers had
never happened. While Deymorin had tried to understand,
had said all the right words, his injured feelings had perme-
ated and overwhelmed Mikhyel's objections, and Mikhyel
had never again broached the subject.
Deymorin was convinced they were all better for the link.
Deymorin talked of memories shared, pointed out their
new understanding that would have been impossible with-
out this damnable connection. And if that was the case, if
that forgotten (on his part) sharing accounted for his revi-
talized relationship with Deymorin, he supposed he was
grateful, overall.
On the other hand, he could guess what memories Dey-
morin had tapped, and there were times he wished they
were back to where they'd been a year ago, sniping suspi-
ciously at each other, but private individuals, responsible
only to their own conscience. Their thoughtsparticularly
their memoriestheir own.
His own.
"Well, well, well, what have we here?"
It was a deep voice, with a cultured veneer to the accent.
Eastern . . . Fharatumin, or Khoratumin, or perhaps nei-
ther. City of origin hardly mattered here.
"Pretty hair." That was a different voice. Closer. Com-
mon in every sense. "Washed it this mornin', less I misses
m' bet."
"Sureties find no takers, Adris. And I doubt that's all he
washed." The first voice, and overhead. Given that much
warning, Mikhyel managed not to flinch when a hand
brushed lightly over his head, then lifted the braid lying
heavy between his shoulder blades. A tug, not so light.
"Give us a looksee. Suds."
Curious how in all his concerns about what he might
encounter here, he'd overlooked the most obvious.
Mikhyel lifted his head slowly, then recoiled from a lamp
thrust toward his face. The owner of the first voice whistled
softly through his teeth, and the hand left his hair to grip
his chin, holding him still for that lamplit inspection.
For his part, his eyes still over-sensitive to light, Mikhyel
could see nothing, not even shadows, beyond that blinding
glare. The callused fingers released his chin at last, and
rubbed his cheek curiously.
"Smooth as a baby's butt. Funny, you don't look that
young."
"Hill-boy, Ganfrion, that's what he is. Smooth chin.
Black hair. Gray eyes"
"Gray? I thought they were green. Open wide. Suds."
Mikhyel frowned, and jerked away. The callused fingers
slapped him lightly, and gripped his chin again. "I said
open."
He set his jaw and biinked into the light, his eyes begin-
ning to water.
Panic was his enemy, he understood the ways of Sparin-
gate well enough to know that. And while they might push,
this early in the game, to push too hard, too fast was to
waste a valuable commodityamusementin a place
where amusements were at a premium and time was in
oversupply.
The first voice, Ganfrion, grunted. "Telling tales on your
keeper, were you. Suds? Thought they kept the whore-spies
upstairsaway from corrupting influences. Who's the giant
Osh'm ran off with. Your owner?"
Whore-spies and keepers. Better, Mikhyel thought, than
the truth.
"Hill-boy, I tell you. Look here." Someone jerked at his
forearm, tore the lace away and gripped the wrist. "Break
it  with  one  hand,  I  could.  Whaddya  think,  prison-scut?
Any takers?"
Real fear gripped him then. He fought it down, knowing
his panic would consume his brothers as well.
But this new hazard threatened his calm in a way Ganfri-
on's innuendo did not. Forced sex, that was to be expected
here, amusement and dominance established in one eco-
nomical act. Even an honest beating or two, for the same
purpose. In that sense, nothing these men could do could
be worse than what he'd survived at Mheric's hands.
He'd learned there was a spot inside, as quiet and safe
as the closet at Armayel. Safer, not even Mheric could find
him there. And when he came out, it was over.
But the thought of broken bones, here, where setting
might be days away, if at all, of infection and lingering
death . . . He shudderedthen cursed his own cowardice
as the man holding his wrist laughed and tightened his grip.
Nikki, golden-haired, handsome . . . young, so very
young . . . was only a handful of steps away. If he panicked,
Nikki would hear. Nikki would come. . . .
He forced himself calm, found the safe spot within, and
felt his arm relax. Such as he could past Ganfrion's immobi-
lizing hold on his chin, he shifted his gaze to meet the other
inmate's lizard-eyes, the fetid grin waiting for him to beg.
The grin faltered, the face went lax, and the clamp on
his wrist eased.
"Let go, Brydn," the first voice, Ganfrion, ordered, in a
quiet tone, a tone that expected obedience.
The face hardened. The vise-grip clenched again.
"Hub? Got bets, Gan''
The hand dropped his chin.
"I said letgo"
Mikhyel's hand fell and struck the stone stair before he
had the wit to stop it, and Ganfrion, with a handful of
cloak that caught the coat beneath as well, hauled him to
his feet, held him there when his balance wavered.
The inmate was as tall as Deymorin. Mikhyel stared, un-
focused, uncaring, at the ragged-edged collar. Not bad ma-
terial, he thought absently. Faded stains, as if attempts had
been made toward personal maintenance.
As a handGanfrion's, he supposedsmoothed his hair
back from his face, he found himself drifting, as he'd
learned to do years ago . . .
"So, Suds, you and your friends sleepy?"
. . . found himself wondering where Nikki was . . .
"First night's easy, Suds."
. . . wondering how long Deymorin would be . . .
"If you cooperate."
... knowing it would be too long . . .
"Second night Well, depends on how good you are,
now, doesn't it?"
. .. and not giving a hell-sent damn.
Late in the evening, as the final supper crowd cleared and
the dedicated drinkers began accumulating to discuss the
day's events, the rijhili captaindunKarlon, Thyerri heard
someone call himreturned, obviously on the prowl, as
obviously having set upon Sakhithe as his chosen prey.
Thyerri tried to catch her eye, but she was laughing with
a customer and he had an order to get back to the kitchen.
He paused at the bar to order a glass of mountain cari'U,
on the house, which meant from his wages, but it was a
gesture that, with luck, would distract the hunter from the
hunt.
He dashed to the kitchen to leave the order, and
dashed back
Too late. Sakhithe's wrist was already imprisoned in the
man's hand and tucked up behind her back, forcing her
hip-first against his side.
Frustrated, but unable to halt the inevitable, Thyerri
gathered the tray bearing a handful of ales and half his
evening wages, and began a circuitous route through the
tables.
Over in the musicians' comer, Kharmier, Trahdio, and
their friends had left the standard melodies behind and
began improvising. The unknown drummer picked up her
beat, taking control from Kharmier's pipes with single-
handed, heartbeat-regular taps. Then, with her other hand,
she teased a counterpoint of a mountain lark's triple-beat
coo from the flautist. Slowly insinuating into the new pat-
tern, Trahdio wove his pipes in and around, like wind danc-
ing among the leaves. And beneath them all, the guitar
swelled into a relentless rumble, a mountain river in a
flash flood.
Thyerri found his feet moving with the insidious rhythms,
instinctive actions that soon drew the rest of his body
into motion.
The nearby customers grew silent, then joined their
hands to the symphony. At first, their clapping hands fol-
lowed the drummer, then led her, challenging the musicians
to make the music more complex, too complex for a simple
hiller waiter.
But a hiller waiter who had danced the rings could antici-
pate anything mere mortal hands could devise, and now
it was Thyerri's turn to lead with nothing but the subtle
movements of his hips, the tilt of his head or the flick of
a fingertip.
He glided among the tables, tray balanced on one hand,
oblivious to everything around him except as wrinkles in
his dancing space, cognizant only of the thrum vibrating
along his spine, the lyrical trill in his head.
Then the tray was gone, his movement unimpeded, and
he dipped and swirled among the flute's cascading tones,
the sounds more tangible to him than the rough-wood floor
beneath his feet.
Dancer. He was, first, foremost and always, a dancer.
Man or woman, human or beast, alive or dead, clothing,
hair, namesuch distinctions became irrelevant adjacent
that single truth. He'd forgotten that, in his mind, in some
foolish human preference for survival, but his heart remem-
bered, and heart ruled his body now.
"Thyerri . . ." Words, soft and gentle as the flute's breath.
"Thyerri? . . ." Sakhithe, his mind whispered, and the
word became a lyrical counterpoint to the flute.
He reached out to embrace that counterpoint.
A touch: Sakhithe's hand on his.
A moment's perception: dunKarlon's eyes on him.
A grasp of his fingers: Sakhithe was free and spinning
across the floor, in a dancer's controlled tumble.
Thyerri laughed, swirled in a sweeping spiral that carried
him up and around, and down to settle, gently as a falling
leaf, in a half-crouch facing Sakhithe, arms outstretched,
beckoning.
Sakhithe rose slowly to her feet.
Join me . . . Thyerri invited her silently. A dancer needed
no words. He spun about, stretched toward the ceiling . . .
and when his arms descended, she was in them.
Thyerri was drunk with the music and his personal resur-
rection. With Sakhithe, instinct discovered a whole new
mode of expression. He'd danced the rings, he'd danced
the mountain, he'd danced the wind and the rain, even the
ley itself. As a radical in training, he'd danced choreo-
graphed partnerships.
But he'd never danced another radical.
Sakhithe added a new random factor. Sakhithe found dif-
ferent complexities within the music, moving sometimes as
one with him, sometimes on a different, seemingly dissoci-
ate course, only to return to his arms without a single dis-
cordant step.
Time had no meaning. Space had none. There was the
Music. There was Sakhithe. And there was Thyerri. To-
gether, they wove a pattern that was in their time and their
space absolute Truth.
Only when Sakhithe stumbled and collapsed against him
did the world's Truth infringe on theirs. Exhaustion: Thy-
erri's and Sakhithe's. Holding Sakhithe close, Thyerri spun
the drumbeats to a spiraling, continuous roll that rose to a
climactic peak, then imploded as he and Sakhithe collapsed
in a tangle on the floor.
Silence. Then pandemonium. Applause, cheers, stomping
feetbut nothing that could drown out the laboring of his
own heart.
It had been the exquisite madness of a frenzy dance, the
like of which Rijhili couldn't imagine, let alone experience.
The like of which Thyerri himself hadn't, except in lonely,
hillside moments where his music was the birds and the
wind and a waterfall's rumble.
Sakhithe bugged him, right there on the floor, and gasped
blessings in his ear. Crying. Sakhithe, six years his senior,
whose dance must have been as dead within her as his had
been within his own heart.
Something small and hard struck his shoulder, another
his knee. Still more pinged off the floorboards behind him.
Hail? His mind wondered dimly, spinning back to those
hillside dementias, and he buried his face in Sakhithe's
shoulder, protecting both their heads with his arms.
But he was inside . . .
Not hail. Coins. A hail of coins clattering all around them.
Hands reached and touched, raised them to their feet. Some-
one drew Sakhithe from his arms. Or him from hers. She was
lost in a sea of bodies. Another wave pulled him about,
exclaiming in wonder and pressing on him the strange
printed notes that substituted for coins in other nodes.
Other nodes.
Foreigners.
Valley-folk.
Rijhilii.
Thyerri let himself be passed from one table to the next,
wondering vaguely what had become of his tray and the
glass of carili, for which he would still have to pay.
An exhausted haze settled over his vision and his
thoughts. He was out of condition, embarrassed. His dance
had not been for them. Not for their cheers, certainly not
for their money.
Even aiding Sakhithe had been nothing but happen-
stance. She'd been there, an addition, not an encumbrance,
to the dance.
His dance.
But they didn't know. Strangers. Rijhilii. They didn't un-
derstand that to reward a frenzy with money was tanta-
mount to insult. So he accepted the notes they tucked into
his sash, or thrust into the overlapped front of his tunic,
thanked them blindly, and escaped at last to the kitchen.
Sakhithe was there before him, perched on a stool beside
Bharlori. On the table before them was a scattering of coins
and notes, piles that grew as the other employees darted
into the kitchen between orders.
Sakhithe hopped down when she saw him, her face glow-
ing with excitement. She bugged him, hard, and whispered,
"Thank you!"
Their embrace crackled; she stepped back, taking his
hands and holding them wide.
"Look at you!" She laughed. "Thyerri the money tree!"
She pulled him over to the table and emptied his tunic,
exclaiming over the inscribed values on the notes. And
there was gold among the copper and silver on the table.
Dazed, Thyerri wondered if he ought not return the
money: a true frenzy was said to disrupt the sanity of the
viewers, and he had to believe that this generosity would
be regretted in the morning.
For all he knew, it was illegal to accept the offerings.
But such moral and legal decisions were not his concern.
This treasure, as did all the customer gratuities, belonged
to Bharlori, and as ownership went, so followed conscience.
He said something he hoped appropriate, and returned
to his customers, only to discover they no longer wanted
ale or food, but him.  Some wanted to flood him with
praises. Some wanted to know who he was and was he
available for intimate parties.
A few simply wanted to buy him for the night.
Panicked, he tried not to insult anyone, and with a plea
to Khani to take his tables, escaped a second time, slipping
out a side door and into the back alley, where a feeble oil
lamp granted safe anonymity.
There, beside the midden box, the cool, mountain air
rushed between the buildings and cleansed him of the
smoke and heat of Bharlori's.
Panic faded, Thyerri's heart slowed, and as his gut re-
called the music of his heart, his body swayed in small,
stationary dance.
"So this is where you bolted," a voice said out of the
darkness, and dunKarlon stepped into the dim light be-
neath the lamp. Two others appeared at his flanks, almost,
but not quite, barring Thyerri from the door.
But Thyerri was no fool. Even were he a fighter, which
he was not, he'd have no chance against three men, each
of whom was half-again his size. Even had he a chance,
he'd be a fool to challenge one of Bharlori's paying custom-
ers: better bruises than back on the streets.
Thyerri forced indifference into his voice. "I warned you,
sir, three large brothers. I had to interfere. I didn't want
them angry at me."
"I thought there were five."
"How clever you are." Despite his efforts, Thyerri's con-
tempt for dunKarlon and all his ilk crept into his voice. In
fear, then, of his own unruly tongue, he moved a step
toward the almost-opening. "If you please"
His attempt came a heartbeat too soon, a shade to ea-
gerly. DunKarlon's arm intercepted him, and shoved him up
against the wall.
The midden-box pressed against his leg.
"You needn't worry about the hiller-bitch's brothers. I'm
not interested. Not in her."
"Very wis" Thyerri's voice caught as dunKarlon's
gloved hand gripped his chin, and two gloved fingers
pressed into his neck. And Thyerri wondered if Rakshi had
given him back his dance just so he could die.
But he didn't want to die. Not any more.
"Sir," he whispered, "I"
DunKarlon hissed. "You owe me, whore."
"I1 don't underst- "
"No man moves like that." DunKarlon released his
throat, holding him captive with his hips. One gloved hand
gripped his hair and jerked his head back, the other in-
vaded the tunic, pulling the plackets apart, exposing him to
that dim light.
Thyerri, confused, frightenedand angrydidn't move.
The gloved hand groped lower, past the tunic, past the
drawstring waist
And stopped.
Gripped hard enough to bring tears, but Thyerri clenched
his jaw and smothered a protest.
"Damn!" dunKarlon hissed with all the fury of a man
who had just made a fool of himself.
Thyerri laughed, half-hysterically, thinking the incident
closed.
He never saw the blow that sent him reeling. Reflexes
responded late, but turned the stumbling fall into a tumble
that brought him back to his feet in a blind, instinctive dash
for the shadows down the alley.
But legs as uncertain as his reflexes faltered, and the men
were on him. He struck wildlyfutilely. There were too
many of them.
And he was no fighter.
"Thyerri?"
Feminine voice, shrill above the clamor.
"Thyerri!"
A scream that would wake a corpse.
And his attackers were gone. Nothing but booted feet
scuffling and thudding all around him. Dazed, aching, Thy-
erri curled around his bruised and aching ribs, trying to
protect his head from those heavy boots.
"Thyerri, help'."
Sakhithe. Without thought, Thyerri threw himself toward
the voice. His arms encountered booted legs and clamped
tight.
Sakhithe screamed. The boot kicked, trying to shake him ,
off. He clung with both arms and bithardclamping his
teeth into the flesh behind the man's knee. Clinging like a
wolf to a boar.
A roaring curse overhead: dunKarlon.
The captain kicked again. Thyerri dug his feet into the
mud and lunged all his weight against that knee. A snap
next to his ear. Another roar, this time of pain, and Dun-
Karlon fell, with Sakhithe, into a pile of arms and legs.
And all the while, Thyerri clung, hands and teeth, to that
leg, while the other rijhili kicked him and cursed, while
breathing grew difficult, and blood filled his mouth.
And the world grew quiet.
A sharp, slicing pain along his cheek brought Thyerri
back to his senses.
"And don't come back. Ever."
That was Bharlori.
Pounding feet: the rijhili running away, and Thyerri
wanted, insanely, to chase them, for all he couldn't find his
feet. And he fought that anger, fearing such blind stupidity
more than he feared the blood bubbling in his mouth.
"Thyerri!" Sakhithe's hands fluttered over him.
Then Bharlori's voice ordered her aside and the tavern
owner's powerful arms surrounded him, lifted him against
a barrel chest. And Bharlori's voice boomed above his
head, "Out of the wayall of you!"
Bharlori swayed, a sickening twist that put Thyerri's head
low. The blood bubbled and he began to choke.
"Get the damn door! Now."'
Thyerri grasped blindly for Bharlori's shoulders, trying
to bring his head up.
"You! Fresh straw for his pallet. Extra pillows and blan-
kets"
"But"
"Your own, dammit!"
Thyerri tried to object, tried to get Bharlori to put him
down. Terrified at that moment that the customers were all
leaving and Bharlori would blame him and he'd lose his
job because he couldn't work, not with the blood bubbling
down his face.
"Khani," Bharlori said, "fetch Brishini. Now."
Brishini. The local physician..
"No," Thyerri whispered, then with more strength than
he thought he had left, "No! I'm fine. Please, sir, let me
down!"
But Bharlori wouldn't let him go. Bharlori hauled him
into that back room he shared with the girls and Besho,
and set him gently on his pallet. And put pillows at his
back to keep his head up.
"Rest easy, son," Bharlori said, which Bharlori never
called anyone, and there was a strange tone in his voice.
"We'll take care of you. And never you worry about the
cost."
"I will, Thyerri," said Sakhithe, suddenly there beside
him. And seemingly unhurt, though it was difficult to tell
with one eye swelling shut. "I can take care of him. Master
Bharlo. He's from the hills. He won't be wanting a valley
doctor."
Which argument (along with a promise to call the physi-
cian in an instant, should Thyerri's condition worsen) got
him at least a reprieve, and his own pallet, and his privacy,
save for Sakhithe who was part of his privacy these days.
"Sakhithe," he whispered, as she knelt beside him, hold-
ing a mug of spirit-laced, herbal tea, "is Bharlo going to
fire me?"
"Fire you?" She rocked backward, as if to see him better.
"Why would he do that?"
"I . . . They were customers. . . . I know b-better. I tried
not to fight, Sakhithe. I truly did, but"
"Fight?" she repeated, and he could tell she was trying
hard not to laugh. "Thyerri, dear, that was not a fight." She
smoothed his hair back from his face; hair that was stiff
from the hated dye, wet and evil-smelling from the mud
beside the midden. He winced as her touch brushed a rising
mouse on the point of his cheek. "No, sweet, after tonight,
it will take much more than that little squabble to convince
Bharlo to turn us out."
He didn't really understand, but Sakhithe wouldn't lie to
him, not about something so important, so he didn't ask
her to explain.
"You really should learn to protect yourself. Thy," Sak-
hithe continued, as she smoothed an aromatic paste over
the cut on his cheek. "You're too small to stand up to the
like of that rijhili. Talk to Zeiin. Last year, he won all the
festival wrestling matches, and he's not very big. Bigger
than you, but..."
"I'm not a fighter, Sakhi," he mumbled around his mug,
putting an end to her murmured advice.
He finished the tea, and lay back, willing the herbs to
ease his aches, anxious to find sleep among his chaotic
thoughts.
Sakhithe sighed, and rested a hand on his chest, arid said
she understood, and told him to sleep, now.
But he could tell from her voice, the issue was not yet
closed.
The guards called it the Womb. Kiyrstin would wager the
ladies interned there had a different name for it.
By any name, Kiyrstin decided, settling onto her
assigned cot, it was undoubtedly more welcoming than
the Crypt toward which Deymorm and his brothers
had descended.
The Womb's central cavern had fairly well swallowed the
light of the handful of lamps lining its walls, but had given
hints of tables and a variety of amusements: board games,
a painting easel, stitching framesdecidedly not hardened
criminals in this ward.
Sironi had led her through that cavern and down a tun-
nel, past a latrine and bathing facility, and into a honey-
comb of small cubby holes containing cots. And then,
Sironi had just . . . left.
She was, Kiyrstin decided, at an unpleasant disadvan-
tage where it came to information: not her preferred po-
sition. One reason she'd put up with being romGaretti as
long as she had was that being the wife of the High Priest
of Maurii put her in a position to know more than any
woman and most men in Mauritum about the forces rul-
ing their lives.
She threw herself back into the pillow and swung her
booted feet up onto the cot, wishing she had the cloak
she'd left lying beside a stack of hay, not to mention the
bag of personal essentials she'd somehow hauled out of the
carriage. That bastard Sironi hadn't given them a moment
to think, hadn't let them gather anything before he hustled
them off through the tunnels.
Afraid they'd say something to someone.
A kohl-rimmed eye peeked around a curve of stone.
"Hello," Kiyrstin said.
The eye flitted away. A moment of whispers and
sounds of a scuffle, then the eye and its attached young
woman came stumbling in. Shoved, Kiyrstin would
guess.
She was a rather flagrantly pretty young woman, who
clutched an armload of blankets to her ample bosom. From
the paint-job on her face, she'd obviously arrived with sub-
stantially more personal effects than Sironi had allowed
Kiyrstin.
Kiyrstin swung her feet back to the floor and propped
her elbows on her knees.
"Can I help you?"
The girl stared, eyes wide. And again glanced toward
the door.
"Are those for me?" Kiyrstin tried again, and the young
woman inched over to the cot and flung them at the point
farthest from Kiyrstin, then backed quickly away.
Kiyrstin tried very hard not to laugh. Miss black-eyes
only substantiated her impression of the main cavern, and
the quality of her cell mates.
"What's your name?"
"B-Beauvina, sir. Ma'am. M'Lady!" Breathy voice.
Panicked.
"Sir." Kiyrstin glanced down at her leather-clad legs and
high boots. "Oh, dear." She smiled, trying to set the girl's
fears at ease. "It's all right, child," she said gently, feeling
old as Maurii.
The young woman chewed her lip.
"So, Beauvina," Kiyrstin tried again, "what didn't you
do?"
A blink.
Kiyrstin sighed. "Why are you in here, child?"
Her mouth made a little oh. "I didn't do nothing wrong."
"Of course not."
"Well, I don't think it was wrong, anyway. But one of
m' fellas I'm a legal lady, m'lord. Uh, ma'amm'lady."
"Call me Kiyrsti, child."
Beauvina's shoulders heaved in a sigh. "Yes, 'm. Mistress
Kiyrsti. And I'm Vina, if you like."
"I very much like, Vina." Kiyrstin pulled her knees up
and crossed her arms comfortably over them. "And what
did your fella do, Vina?"
"Give me a . . . well, a real pretty bauble. I shoulda
knowed. But I thought it wasn't real, don't you know?"
"Ah. Stole your present from somebody else, did
he?"
"I can't say that. Mistress Kiyrsti. Mebbe he bought it
from summun who stole it. Can't say, now, can I? Warn't
there. And there was lotsa lootin' goin' on, just after th'
lights went off, now warn't there?"
"You've the makings of a lawyer, Vina. So, if someone
gave you the bauble, why are you in here?"
" 'Cuz it were stole from one o' my other fellas."
"Ah. And he saw you wearing it and assumed you had
taken it."
She nodded vigorously.
"An' he were important, up on th' hill, y'know."
"Ah. And have you many important fellas, Vina?"
Another vigorous nod. "None of 'em as nice as Nikki,
though."
"Nikki?" Her attention pricked at the familiar name.
Beauvina's  eyes  went  dreamy.  "Nikaenor  Rhomandi
dunMheric."
The syllables of Nikki's name floated off her tongue with-
out a hint of the common accent that colored her other
speech. She must have practiced saying it every day for
a month.
"One of the Rhomandis?" Kiyrstin asked.
Her nod this time was more a tilling sway of her head,
and Kiyrstin sensed that her mind was about to be
distracted.
"Excuse me a moment," she said, and rising from the
cot, edged past Beauvina to the opening. Just beyond a
curve of stone, a bevy of older women lay in waiting.
"Sent the rookie in to do the work, did you?" Kiyrstin
asked.
Glances were exchanged, then one woman thrust her
shoulders back and swaggered forward. "Yeah. So?"
"I've no complaints." Kiyrstin let her gaze wander the
lot of them. "But I don't speak to hidden audiences. You
want to know anything about me, you leave. Now. Beau-
vina and I will have a pleasant little chat this evening, and
I'll talk to the rest of you in the morning. //1 like what
Beauvina tells me about you all. 1 do hope you've been
nice to her."
There were grumbles and loud complaints, but the
woman who looked to be their leader ordered them away,
and with a final under-the-brows glare at Kiyrstin, she left
as well.
Definitely the minor delinquents ward: Sironi must have
taken Deymorin's warning to heart. Or Sironi knew exactly
who he was dealing with and was taking no chances with
Garetti's wife, no matter how estranged her relationship
with Garetti.
Kiyrstin slipped back into the room. Beauvina hadn't
moved.
Kiyrstin took a blanket from the cot, tossed it toward
the wall and settled with it cushioning her behind and the
smooth stone supporting her back. She waved a hand
toward the cot. "Please, Beauvina, sit."
Beauvina glanced toward the door.
"If you want to leave, I won't stop you, but I'd like
someone to talk to."
Wide eyes turned to her.
"Of the local options, I definitely prefer my present
company."
With a hesitant smile, the girl sat gingerly on the cot,
hands folded in her lap.
"You were telling me about Nikki." Kiyrstin reminded
her. "What was he like?"
"Beautiful. The most bee-u-tiful creature I ever did
see."
"Oh, my," she said appropriately.
"And he writes poetry."
"Oh. My." The girl was making it very difficult to keep
the enthusiasm up. "How was he in bed?"
She biinked. "He stood on it well."
"Stood." The concept astounded even her.
"He was a wonderful kisser."
"Oh, that's promising. Did you do a great deal of
kissing?"
She nodded, head tilled, eyes misting.
"How many times did you see him?" Kiyrstin prompted.
"Only once. But that once was . . . special."
"How delightful for you."
"It was his birthday."
"I see."
"I was" A heavy sigh, and Beauvina bugged herself
gently. "I was his birthday present."
"How lovely. His friends bought you for him?"
A slow shake of the head. "He had no friends." Another
sigh. "I was his present to himself." And a sniff. "I think
that's very sad."
Oddly enough, Kiyrstin found herself in agreement.
She'd heard about the night of Nikki's seventeenth birth-
day, but never from Nikki. Only from Deymorin, who had
laughed, and Mikhyel, who had been appalled. For once,
she wondered how Nikki felt about it.
"Mostly, he talked."
That figured.
"What about?"
A suspicious look, and tight-pressed lips.
"Come, Vina." Kiyrstin encouraged her. "If we're to be
friends, you can't keep such a wonderful time to yourself."
"I dunno if I should say . . ."
"Oh. Did he reveal great secrets to you, then?"
She shook her head. "No, nothing like that. He talked
about his brothers."
"Not himself?"
"No. Not really. Except that he wished they would get
along, and that Mikhyel would let him do more. And that
he loved them very much. He made me cry."
That figured as well.
"He didn't seem at all the way I thought he'd be."
"And how did you think he'd be?"
"Well, you know, talk was, he was more useless than his
older brother."
"Mikhyel?"
"Oh, no. Everybody knows Mikhyel dunMheric is so
smart nobody can understand him. No, his brother Dey-
morin. The farmer, you know."
"Farmer."
She nodded. "And an Outsider." Another wise nod.
"I see."
"But Madam Tirise, my em-ploy-ei, she says all that
talk is stupid. That mostly it's the Councillors who want
something out of Mikhyel and he won't give it to them.
Then they blame Deymorin, don't you see? And Madame
Tirise, she'd know. She's known Deymorin Rhomandi
forever."
Yet a third nonstartling revelation.
"I don't think Deymorin is at all the way they say either.
Not from what Nikki said about him."
"And you believe Nikki."
"Absolutely."
"Well,  Vina,  you're  right  to  believe  Nikki  about
Deymorin."
Her eyes narrowed. "How would you know?"
"Because I know Deymorin, too."
"Know him?" A pucker appeared between her eyes, then
disappeared. "Like / know Nikki?"
"Well..."
"And did he stand on the bed, too?"
"Frequently," Kiyrstin responded with a wink.
"Oh, how wonderful"' Beauvina held her hands to her
mouth, and seemed to be thinking. Then she began to
bounce excitedly. She waved to Kiyrstin, and patted the cot
beside her.
After calming her down, Kiyrstin settled next to her.
Gingerly. At least until the rope suspension and straw mat-
tress proved able to support both of them.
Beavina sent a suspicious glance toward the door, then
dug carefully into her bodice. She pulled out a crumpled,
many-times folded envelope and began resurrecting the
contents.
A letter. From Nikki, undoubtedly. Kiyrstin wasn't cer-
tain she was up to reading the contents.
Beauvina slid  the tightly penned pages out, and
smoothed them open on her lap, then paused, biting her
lower lip.
"I'm not sure . . ." She flickered a look up at Kiyrstin.
"What if you're not telling me the truth?"
"Are there secrets in that letter, then?"
She pressed her lips together.
"Well, Vina. If I wasn't to be trusted, and I wanted to
read it. I'd just take it from you right now, wouldn't I?"
Her eyes widened and she clutched the sheets to her
bosom. Kiyrstin swallowed hard, and clenched her teeth on
the brewing laughter.
"But I won't, Vina. I'm your friend, whether you believe
me or not. I won't try to read that letter, I won't tell anyone
about it or about what you've told me, until you want me
to. But"
She paused; Beauvina slowly leaned forward, her soft
mouth opening ever so slightly. Waiting.
"You see, Vina, I do know Deymorin. And Nikki, and
even Mikhyel. And I believe you about your fellas. And as
soon as Deymorin gets me out of here, I'll talk to him
about your fellas and the bauble, and maybe we can get
you out of here. Would you like that?"
Beauvina just looked at her for a moment, then:
"You're trying to trick me."
Kiyrstin gave a shout of laughter. "You're absolutely
right, child. But I won't try again. I promise. You can
keep your letter. Nikki wrote it to you, and he meant all
those pretty words for your eyes, not mine. But if I get
out before you, I'll still see if I can't get you out as well."
Beavina smoothed the papers. "They're not all pretty
words for me."
"No?"
Her eyes flickered up and she held out the letter. "I
think, maybe he'd like me to share them with you."
d    8    <gt
Nikki was nowhere in sight when, on a sheepish apol-
ogy, Oshram shot the heavy iron bolt behind Deymorin.
Neither was Mikhyel. More ominously, that sense Dey-
morin had come to expect inside his skull remained ut-
terly silent.
He tried not to panic. The guards outside the door had
reported the Crypt secure. Quiet. Nikki couldn't be sub-
dued quietlyhe'd taught the boy better than that. And
had the animals incarcerated here attacked Mikhyel, Nikki
would have been in the middle of it.
Besides, whatever had happened, or was happening, he
had to find his brothers before he could do anything about
it, and thanks to that link, his panic might well set his broth-
ers to something stupid. Therefore, torn between concerned
and irritated, Deymorin opted for cautious as he made his
way down the steps.
The prison was even darker than before, at least half the
wall lamps had been cut completely, and the remainder
were turned way back. A handful of lamps such as the one
Oshram had pressed into his hand at the last moment
formed islands of light in a black sea.
In one such island, a game of chance separated one man
from his money or perhaps tomorrow's meat ration; in an-
other, three friends (or at least temporary business associ-
ates) passed a bottle from hand to hand taking reverent
sips; and in a far recess, a male prostitute was busy negoti-
ating a warm haven for the night with several of the local
residents.
Deymorin looked away, disturbed that so innocuous an
offender should be housed hereuntil he reminded himself
he and his brothers were also here. Reminded himself as
well to assume nothing about his fellow inmates, including
that man, whose crime might well be the most heinous of
the lot.
But nowhere did he see his brothers, and still that inner
sense failed him. The sense had faded the farther he'd got-
ten from the Crypt. By the time he'd reached Oshram's
office, there'd been nothing.
Except for one brief, disturbing contact.
Panic. From Mikhyel. He was learning, slowly, to sort
out the sensations, though the nature of the link seemed
to shift constantly according to the give and take of their
own personalities.
There was Mikhyel relaxed, which was a faint sense of
position, an occasional hint of emotion; there was Mikhyel
in his "touch me at your own risk" mode. And there was
Mikhyel when he wantedeither consciously or uncon-
sciouslyto be heard, which was damned near inescapable.
Everything else he got from Mikhyel was a variation on
one of those modes. Sometimes with the clarity of speech,
other times, just impressions.
Nikki radiated constantly: thoughts, images, emotions.
Any or all of them, scatter shot and difficult to track, until
Nikki began thinking hard, and then he became a deluge of
information, his need to be understood sending everything
uncontrollably outward. When they were all tracking the
same thought, as when Deymorin had been trying to decide
whether or not to go with Oshram, Nikki's impressions
came through quite clearly.
But right now, that spot that should hold his brothers, in
one form or another, was simply empty.
Deymorin walked the nature-carved labyrinth slowly,
seeking some sign, visual or otherwise, of either brother.
He groped within that dark, seeking his brothers with that
inner sense, wishing he had more control of it.
If only he'd been able to convince Mikhyel to investigate
their link more thoroughly during their time at Armayel.
Mikhyel had resisted, afraid, Deymorin suspected, that
some slip on his part would expose the last of his secrets.
Reserved, priggish and intensely proud, Mikhyel had found
it  difficult  enough  to  share  those  secrets  with  his  older
brotherthough that sharing had saved Mikhyel's life. To
share them with Nikki as well . . . Deymorin supposed that
might well destroy Mikhyel.
Which meant he probed blindly, his mind marginally
more reliable than the small lamp at illuminating darkened
corners. Except to make certain his brothers weren't in-
volved, he avoided the various activities he encountered,
many of them rough and unpleasant, their participants all
too ready to include passersby.
It was clear the rules here were different than the
roughhouse jollying of the wards he'd frequented in
his misspent youth.  He  sincerely  hoped  he  and  his
brothers would not be incarcerated long enough to
learn those rules.
Keep low, he told himself and tried to shout it to his
brothers' minds. (Keep low. Keep quiet.) .
Survive.
8 9 8
{In the closet, Nikki.] Mikhyel sang over and over in
his head. {Get in the closet and stay there until I come
for you.}
The shadows closed around him, comforting and safe,
not scary like the city brats said. City brats were scared
stupid of their own shadows. Deymorin said so, and then
tossed him high in the air and called him a fearless, fresh-
water fry.
But he didn't need Deymorin to tell him his closet was
safe, Nikki thought, and pressed himself into the welcoming
darkness. He and Mikhyel had been hiding in its depths
since
Except he wasn't at Darhaven. And he was seventeen
years old. And he was in
{Find the closet, Nikki. Stay there until I come for you.}
Mikhyel said if he was very, very quiet, he could hear
the Tamshirin in the woodwork, 'and someday, if he was
very, very patient, they might even come out and play
with him.
Tamshirin? He had seen a Tamshi. Mother was Tam-
shi. Why
{Find the closet, Nikki. Find the safe place and stay there
until I come for you.)
His feet were tingling, and he wanted to leave the closet
to wake them up, but Mikhyel's voice shouted in his head:
(You stay there, Nikki. Don't you come out. Don't you move
or you'll scare the Tamshirin away!}
He froze then, there in the featureless dark, and wiggled
his toes in his fuzzy house boots, and made faces at the
shadows, because that made the Tamshirin laugh, Mikhyel
said so.
Mikhyel said. Deymorin said. Dammit! Nikki shook his
head, trying to rid himself of the images, the memories. His
head struck stone. Hard stone. Bringing tears to his eyes.
He was in Sparingate. In the Crypt, and
{Wait for me, Nikki .. .]
He didn't want to wait. He was cold. He was hungry. It
was dark. And the stone pressed around him like a
giant's fist.
{Don't you dare move, Nikki .. .}
Move? He couldn't move!
{Don't be scared, Nikki. Hold still, Nikki. I'll come for
you...}
And he always had. Sometimes it took a while, but Mik-
hyel had always come for him. And then they'd sit in the
silent dark and listen for Tamshirin until Mikhyel stopped
shivering, and then Mikhyel would tell him stories, in a
quiet, whispery voice that Nikki was sure made the Tam-
shirin come and listen, there in the shadows between the
shelves of toys and fancy-clothes mannequins.
{That's right, Nikki. Be good. Relax. I love you .. .}
But Mikhyel was taking a boring long time, and he was
angry, and the Tamshirin weren't laughing or making any
noise at all, and he wished very, very hard that Mikhyel
would come and tell him a story, or that Deymorin would
come and toss him in the
"Nikki?" Deymorin's voice, and a blinding light that
made his eyes bum. And he screamed, remembering Mikhyel,
and the lightning and the eyes that were nothing but
seared flesh.
"Nikki, get out of there!" And Deymorin's hand grasped
his shoulder and hauled him free of the darkness. "Dammit,
boy, where's KhyelT'
Nikki yelped, and eyes that were all distended pupils
flinched from the lamp.
"Sorry," Deymorin said, and pulled the lamp back. Then
he leaned into the narrow opening and called Mikhyel's
name, for all he knew Mikhyel wasn't there.
Nikki had found a bolt hole, a barely man-sized pit. He
couldn't imagine how the fry had squeezed into it. He'd
have gone right past, had Nikki's silent petition not enve-
loped him as he passed.
But Mikhyel wasn't there. Of Mikhyel, there was only
that cold, impenetrable wall, and Deymorin's heart began
to race in sudden fear.
"Where is he, Nikaenor?"
Nikki biinked. His eyes were still huge. He seemed not
to hear or see Deymorin at all. Deymorin set the lamp
down, and shook Nikki by the shoulders.
"Dammit, boy, wake up!"
{Find the closet, Nikki . . .)
Deymorin jerked his hands away, and the voice, Mikhy-
el's voice, vanished from his head.
Find the closet. Wait for me. He knew then what depths
of childhood Nikki roamed, sent there at Mikhyel's behest.
Mikhyel at his most powerful. His will undeniable. Driving
Nikki back to their childhood when Nikki hid, safe in the
closet, while Mikhyel intercepted their father's ferocity.
Keep Nikki safe: Mikhyel's prime motivation since the
day their mother died.
"Dammit!" Deymorin slapped Nikki's face hard enough
to sting. {Nikki, wakeupf}
Nikki cried out, and slumped, nearly taking Deymorin
down with him. Deymorin braced himself and hauled him
back upright.
Nikki's face was corpse-white.
"Where is he, Nikki?" Deymorin demanded, feeling no
sympathy.
"Where is . . . Mikhyel?" Nikki biinked eyes that were
slowly returning to normal. "Isn't he back . . . ?" Confusion
spread across Nikki's face. He looked around, taking in the
tight  quarters,  the  lamplit  opening  of  his  bolt  hole.
"Where . . . Why are we . . ." He raised a hand to his
head. "Rings, my head . . ."
Deymorin shook him again.
"I don't give a damn about your head. Where's Khyel?"
Nikki gripped Deymorin's arms, and closed his eyes, and
Deymorin felt his effort to draw himself together. To
remember....
The discomfort of a full bladder, amused directions from
Mikhyel, and the latrine.
Dammit, why hadn't they stayed together?
An image then, of Mikhyel slumped on the stair, of men
standing around him; and that same fear-hazed impression
he'd received in Oshram's office, followed by a coldly indif-
ferent wall.
And then: Go to the closet, Nikki . . .
Nikki's hand fell, and Deymorin released Nikki's shoul-
der, painfully aware of the endless shadowed corners, any
one of which could contain his brother.
{Khyel.']
Nikki cried out, then added his silent call to Deymorin's.
{Khyel, where are you?]
Reassurance flowed past the wall, and was as quickly
masked. Mikhyel: alive, then, and aware of his return and
his thoughts.
A hint of images seeped past the wall along with the
specific message, and Deymorin knew beyond doubt, then,
which pool held his brother. He grabbed Nikki's sleeve in
one hand, the lamp in the other, and headed down the
narrow aisle toward the entrance stairs. But:
{Damn you, Deymorin! Keep Nikki away!}
Clear and fiercely proud. Unashamedbut determined
to spare Nikki the brutally clear images that burst past the
barrier along with that command.
Deymorin surged forward.
{Damn you, Rhomandi. It's under control!}
And Khyel didn't need his older brother's help, that was
very clear, except to keep his younger brother ignorant.
Well, damn what Khyel wanted. He ran on, Nikki, igno-
rant, but trusting, at his heels.
Ice flowed through his brain, chilling the anger. Freezing
him to the core. He couldn't move. For a moment, he
couldn't breathe.
Nikki slammed into his back. As suddenly as it had ap-
peared, the chill was gone.
Deymorm staggered to the stairs, dragging Nikki after
him, his mind a seething mass of images from Mikhyel, his
own anger and frustration, and fears for Mikhyel.
Keep Nikki ignorant. As if Nikki wouldn't know. It didn't
take any mind picture to guess what Mikhyel was facing at
this moment.
"What was that all about?" Nikki asked. "Where's
Mikhyel? I left him right here."
"It's . . . all right," he said, the only explanation he could
think of. He didn't add why the hell had Nikki left him
alone.
"What do you mean, 'all right'?" Nikki repeated, indig-
nantly shaking his arm free and smoothing his sleeve. He'd
taken his time in the latrine: face and hands spotless, hair
combed into submission, and beneath his cloak, his fancy
coat showed little evidence of the day's adventures.
"What's all right? Where's Mikhyel?"
Taken his time and left Mikhyel to those damned wolves.
Anger flared again. Anger against the wolves, anger toward
Nikki, who should have known the trouble Mikhyel could
find here.
Anger against Mikhyel for keeping him here now. Igno-
rant. Impotent to help. He clenched his fists and beat his
own knee. Waiting.
"Dammit, Deymio, what's going on? One minute. I'm
going back to find Khyel1 thought he'd had the sense to
follow me. I couldn't damnwell piss in the corner, now
could I? The next. I'm in the dark, in a filthy hole, and I
can't move! Khyel's voice is yelling in my head, making
me stay 'in the closet,' but it wasn't the damned closet!
It's Sparingatel"
So, Nikki didn't know. Had caught none of those images,
hadn't realized the significance of what he had seen.
Deymorin clenched his jaw on a sarcastic retort. Such
ignorance made a man wonder how he'd come to raise so
naive a child.
And on a second thought wonder if he had the right to
condemn Nikki so quickly. He thought of his own frozen
muscles. And: Go to the closet, Nikki. Stay there until I
come for you.
Just like the old days at Darhaven. With Mheric. And at
the moment, what Mikhyel was enduring wasn't a beating.
Bile rose. He fought it down. In the hours after Boreton,
he'd shared Mikhyel's mind. He'd thought he knew every-
thing about his father. He'd thought all Mikhyel's dark se-
crets had been revealed.
Now, he wasn't so certain.
He tried to smother the thoughts and speculations. Mikhyel
had never told Nikki about their father, had demanded a
promise from Deymorin never to reveal to Nikki what he'd
discovered during the sharing of their minds. However
much Deymorin might disagree with that decision, they
were Mikhyel's experiences to share or not, as he chose.
But what Mikhyel was facing now . . . at this moment . . .
"Deymio," Nikki asked, "shouldn't we find Khyel? What
if he's"
"Khyel is fine, Nikki," Mikhyel himself answered out of
the shadows, and in the shadows he stayed, propping him-
self casually against a cornerstone just beyond the ring of
light.
His cloak, an expensive, gold-embroidered garment,
draped negligently from one arm, and his hair was hanging
loose behind his shoulders. Deymorin couldn't remember
the last time he'd seen Mikhyel fully dressed with his hair
loose.
The effect was . . . chilling.
He'd thought he knew everything of significance there
was to be known about Mikhyel dunMheric. Now, seeing
him standing there, knowing what he'd just done, Dey-
morin wasn't certain he knew his brother at all.
"Where have you been?" Nikki demanded.
Mikhyel's easy laugh sent another shiver down Deymor-
in's spine.
"Negotiating with the locals," Mikhyel said, and tugged
a strand of loose hair, as if suggesting the price of his nego-
tiations had been the silver and enamel pin that had held
his braid in place. "This area" He kicked a chunk of
loose mortar toward the shadows beneath the stairs.
"has been declared ours for the night. Beyond that. I'm
counting on Kiyrstin's Just Deymio to . . . hold . .."
Mikhyel's head lifted, looking beyond Deymorin. That
inner sense radiated a private warning: Mikhyel's attitude
issued a clear challenge.
Deymorin twisted to loqk' over his shoulder, and
surged to his feet to face tne man stepping into their
circle of light.
Few men could look Deymorin Rhomandi straight in the
eye. Fewer still would dare. Deymorin was a large man,
tall and powerful. He was also clever, well-trained in the
arts of self-defense and offense. And he had been born to
be the Rhomandi.
Those were the facts of his personal existence, facts
he'd never seriously questioned. He'd grown up in utter
confidence that there were few men he couldn't at least
hold his own against, one on one, in a battle of wits or
of strength.
With this man . . . {Ganfrion) Mikhyel's mind supplied
the name, and if a mind could spit, Mikhyel's spat . - . he'd
be inclined to caution.
It was a rare sensation.
He wasn't at all certain he liked it. Not here. Not with
this man.
"How much?" the manGanfrionasked, in a surpris-
ingly civil voice, and Mikhyel answered:
"I told you"
"I'm not talking to you, Suds." Indifferent. Patronizing.
Delivered without so much as a blink in Mikhyel's
direction.
Even Nikki flinched from the anger that flared through-
out the link. Anger, Deymorin noted, surprised, that origi-
nated with Mikhyel, not himself. But Mikhyel controlled
that blaze immediately, and Deymorin received a clear de-
mand to play along with the man's notions.
Which evidently meant (he assumed when Mikhyel's
brow tightened in response to the thought) that wringing
the man's thick neck was not an option.
"How much?" Ganfrion repeated, speaking directly to
Deymorin, this time fingering the money pouch openly dis-
played at his belt. The pouch was heavy, bulging; one as-
sumed with coins.
And no one, the open display declared, dared take it
from him.
"Howmuch." Impatience tinged the rough voice.
"Not for sale," Deymorin answered flatly.
"Come, man, I've only five months left in this sty. You'll
have him back. I've a fancy for cleanliness, and Suds, here,
smells as good as any woman. Certainly better than any-
thing that's come down those steps since I arrived."
"My answer stands."
"Too bad." Ganfrion clucked and shook his head, look-
ing toward Mikhyel's shadows for the first time. "Don't say
I didn't try to give you a civilized option. Suds." He began
to turn away, caught Deymorin's eye, and paused. Hostility
flared one way and the other. Then Ganfrion's scarred lip
lifted in a sneer. "The hill-boy has settled your tab for
tonight. Beyond that, well, you might find yourself de-
fending your territory." His sidelong gaze drifted indiffer-
ently across Nikki, then settled on Mikhyel, still standing
in his shadows. "All your territory."
"I think I can manage," Deymorin replied, relaxing now
the stage had been set and the players identified.
"One man against seven. Brave words."
"Three," Nikki said, and Deymorin glared at him, willing
him to keep his mouth shut.
"Three," Nikki insisted, ignoring him. "Where's your
seven?"
The man scanned Nikki briefly. "A fop, a whore, and . . ."
Returning to Deymorin: "... just what are you, friend,
other than very large?"
"What am I?" Deymorin bared his teeth. "Definitely not
your friend. Now, if you don't mind, my unfriend. Suds,
the fop, and I have had a long day. A very long day. So . . .
go play with your pack, will you? Thanks ever so." And
when the man hesitated, Deymorin repeated, "Go, go, go!"
And shooed him away with several flips of his hand.
Ganfrion pulled back, narrow-eyedstartled, perhaps.
Deymorin noted the shift of weight, the mouth that opened
slightly, preparing a retort that was left unrealized. Accus-
tomed, more than like, to different results from his intimi-
dation tactics. But the inmate shrugged, and sauntered off
into the shadows.
"Fop?" Nikki sputtered when Ganfrion was gone.
"What's he babbling about? Who's a whore? Khyel, who
was he?"
"Deymio?" Mikhyel's voice quivered around the edges;
Deymorin felt sick, knew it for spillover and answered:
"Go! Trust me."
His final words echoed to empty space. Mikhyel had dis-
appeared into the darkness toward the latrine, leaving his
gratitude floating in the air Deymorin breathed, and his
cloak in a glittering heap on the littered floor.
It was some few moments before Deymorin could trust
his own stomach enough to say: "Don't ask questions,
Nikki. At least, not just now. Khyel negotiated us out of a
very unpleasant"
Spasms ripped through Deymorin's gut. Instinct said pro-
tect himself, shut Mikhyel out. But instinct be damned.
Twenty-seven years of being Khyel's older brother said his
churning gut was no accident: Mikhyel had kept the reality
of the last hour from him, as he he'd kept a hell of a lot
else private, even during those moments of uncompromis-
ing truth a month ago.
Whatever prompted Mikhyel to let this much through,
whether anger, or spite, or just a desperate need for under-
standing, trust was close behind. Trust that Deymorin
would understand. Trust that Deymorin would help. Trust
that  Deymorin  wouldn't  reject  him  regardless  of his
reasons.
Either that, or Mikhyel sought to drive him away in total
disgust. Perhaps Ganfrion wasn't the only one receiving a
challenge tonight from Mikhyel dunMheric.
And with sensations as real as if he stood in the latrine
beside Mikhyel, he had his arms around Mikhyel, holding
him steady against the involuntary spasms, controlling his
own rising bile, sending that control through his touch to
Mikhyel.
{Doesn't matter. Barrister,} he thought as clearly and em-
phatically as he knew how. {Doesn't matter. I'm here,
brother. Always.}
A return swell of relief and gratitude failed to mask
Mikhyel's residual resentment. Old resentment: a sense of
disbelief. Distrust based on a lifetime of Deymorin not
being there. Of being left to face Mheric . . . Anheliaa . . .
And an almost overwhelming fear that his assurances
were just words. That tomorrow, he'd be gone. Again. And
it would be Mikhyel alone . . . again.
"I'm sorry, fry," Deymorin whispered out loud, for all
there was no blame he could assume. Not this time. He
couldn't have stood between Mikhyel and Ganfrion, and
been with Oshram as well
Another spasm; a sense of bitterness, of frustration and
self-anger. And he felt Mikhyel sink to his knees, felt the
damp stone against his brow.
Deymorin clenched his fists. There was nothing he could
do, short of following Mikhyel to the latrine. And for that,
Mikhyel would never forgive him.
"Deymio?" Nikki asked softly, and gripped his elbow,
then pulled away as if stung. "Rings, Deymio, what's
going on?"
"Felt that, did you?" Deymorin swallowed hard. "I don't
think Mikhyel meant you to. He's still unwell, Nikki. Those
men, well, you heard the one. His name is Ganfrion.
They've made some assumptions about Mikhyel and my-
selfperhaps you as well. You be careful who you turn
your back on, hear me? Mikhyel has . . . promoted those
assumptions because it's far simpler than the truth."
"Not to mention safer," Mikhyel finished firmly, re-
turning to their small pool of light, radiating self-assurance.
(They mustn't learn who we are, Nikki.}
But Nikki just shook his head, and his half-understanding,
his frustration, permeated that underneath sense. Nikki
didn't hear as clearly as Deymorin did, not even when
Mikhyel wanted him to, although he'd heard well enough
when Mikhyel had demanded he hear.
And Nikki still hadn't figured out what had happened,
that was crystal clear from the half-thoughts and images he
spewed like a flood-driven fountain.
Hell, Deymorin thought, he hadn't put all the pieces into
their proper places. He only knew he'd never felt so useless
in all his life.
Mikhyel drew closer and continued, aloud, but very
softly, and Deymorin felt it in his head as well: a dual
expression that Nikki did apparently follow. At least his
confused frustration eased from his corner of the mind-
triangle.
"But why did he call you a hill-boy? What did you tell
him?"
"Nothing, Nikki. They He decided that on his own. I
saw no reason to correct him. Whatever misconceptions
these men make can't be as dangerous to us as their associ-
ating us with the High Court that sent them here. They're
not really very happy with Mikhyel dunMheric, and there's
no way of telling what they'd do to his brothers to get at
him. They've little enough to lose at this point, and the
simple fact that we're here means someone wouldn't be all
that upset if we never left."
"But what did they"
"Nothing you need to know about, Nikki. Just, for all
our sakes, stay close to Deymio. You're young. You're"
{Innocent/ignorant}  filled the  underneath, but Mikhyel
didn't say the words, and because Mikhyel didn't say, Nikki
didn't hear. "That's like blood in the water to these men."
Deymorin opened his mouth to object that ignorance was
not an asset here, but Mikhyel had turned away, mentally
as well as physically.
"Well, fop and unfriend. I'm for bed, such as it is," Mikhyel
said, in natural tones, and picked up his cloak in two-fin-
gered repugnance. "The sooner to sleep, the sooner morn-
ing and light."
He disappeared under the steps into their negotiated ter-
ritory, leaving behind a shadowy need for conferenceat
least in Deymorin's mind. Deymorin caught Nikki's eye and
jerked his head to follow.
Closer examination revealed the area, as promised, unoc-
cupied, for reasons that rapidly came clear. Cold air rushed
in from several narrow openings in the stone, pumped in,
one end in the air circulation system.
Cursing loudly to satisfy the hardened humor of the in-
mates who had hustled them, they found a spot near the
corner where they could huddle together in fair comfort.
Nikki dropped down next to Deymorin.
Mikhyel kept apart. Standing.
"So, Deymio," Mikhyel began, in that bilevel voice,
"what did your friend Oshram have to say about our
arrest?"
"Tower orders."
"Official?"
Deymorin nodded.
"You saw the documents?"
"I'm not that ignorant. Barrister. She signed them."
"Forgery?"
"That scrawl of hers? Possible. Not likely. Who would
dare?"
"Lidye?"
Nikki twitched.
"To gain what?" Deymorin asked.
"Time?"
"If Anheliaa's dead, who's to argue?"
"If Anheliaa's not dead?"
Deymorin opened his mouth. Closed it again.
"Those letters held words, Deymorin. Things I'd swear
only Anheliaa would know."
"Clues?"
"Only to their authenticity."
 "Would she have passed those keys on to Lidye?"
"I wouldn't think so. It was . . . our code."
"You didn't say anything about that before."
Mikhyel shrugged.
"What other secrets are you keeping, Mikhyel?"
"What other secrets are you keeping, Deymorin?"
Deymorin frowned. There would always be secrets. But
in the end, only one thing mattered.
"Trust me?" he asked.
"Absolutely. Trust me?"
Deymorin waited for some pressurereassurance or
pressure to complyto manifest underneath, but Mikhyel
had placed the cold wall between them. Trust him. Or don't
trust him.
"Absolutely," Deymorin echoed him.
"I believed, Deymorin, that those clues indicated she was
alive. I still do. But Ferricci's men are worrisome."
"They're in charge."
"Obviously. Their orders?"
"Signed by Anheliaa," Deymorin said. "Not unreason-
able. When the city panicked, the Constabulary would need
all the help it could get."
"Did you ask Oshram about the power umbrella?"
"The whole city went dark for three days. He said that
when the lights came back, the Khoratum expansion re-
mained dark, and that afterward, the dark started creeping
inward from the old wall."
"As if the web were deteriorating."
Deymorin shrugged.
"The Khoratum expansion again . . ." Mikhyel mur-
mured, and he leaned back against the wall, arms crossed,
one hand cupping his chin.
"What are you thinking?"
"Boreton is on the Khoratum line . . . If the web is
deteriorating . . . But you said the sky was clear over the
old wall."
"As far as I could see. I wouldn't trust my analytic preci-
sion. There were just a few distractions at the time."
"Granted. But what if the Khoratum line was actually
damaged. I mean, physically, there near Boreton. Could
that account for what we're seeing?"
"You're asking me?"
"Sorry." Mikhyel gave a wry chuckle. "And our arrest?
It wasn't the identity papers. Not considering everything
else."
"I still don't know. Oshram's been cut out. But he said
that Ferricci men have been bringing in one poor sod after
another vaguely matching our descriptions, on a variety of
charges, generally unfounded, and always dropped within a
day. That was one reason he took so long to get down
here."
"We guessed wrong," Mikhyel stated the obvious, still in
an undertone, but louder, that inner sense gone suddenly
blank. "They've expected us to try to sneak into the City."
"They? Who? Who the hell do you think is in charge
here?"
"Anheliaa. Lidye. Tarim. What difference does it make
who wants us out of the way? We know Anheliaa hired at
least one man to kill you; perhaps there were others. We
thought that danger minimal, that there was enough at
stake she'd at least listen first. But what if we were wrong?
That man who pushed me down the stairs . . . What if that
wasn't an accident?"
"And she dropped us in here to disappear? We'll just
have to disappoint her, now won't we?"
"Her? Anheliaa? or Lidye?"
"I'd as soon disappoint them both."
Mikhyel's mouth twitched. "I've no inclination to argue
with that. We've got to get a message out. I've got people,
JD. People I trust."
"I know. Barrister. Oshram's grandson is going to try. I
decided Raulind would be best to contact. And the boy's
just asking him to come here."
Mikhyel agreed with a nod and a slight smile. An image
crept through, a sense of absolute trust in the man who
had been companion and servant to Mikhyel since Mheric's
death. The depth of that faith came as something of a sur-
prise to Deymorin, but confirmed his choice.
"Any of my people will recognize Raul," Mikhyel said.
"He'll get someone here to help."
"I'm counting on it," Deymorin answered. "Nikki?"
"Who?" Nikki gave a grossly exaggerated start. "Oh . . .
me. Sorry. I'd forgotten I was here. Yes?"
"Stop it, Nikki."
"Sorry. Thought I was injecting a little humor," Nikki
spoke out loud, apparently making no attempt at their pri-
vate conversation. "Lightening the mood, you know."
"And horses have wings. We can tell differently, boy."
"So you claim."
"What do you mean?"
"I meano eldest brother who hears my every thought
I hardly hear you at alleither of you. Even now, half the
time you are a buzz. How do I know you can 'tell differ-
ently'? How do I know you're both not just willfully misun-
derstanding what I say just to give yourselves the excuse
of not considering my opinions? What about my resources?
Why Raulind? Why not Jerri? Because Jerri is my man?
Because Jerri is just a boy, like me? A selfish fool, like
me"? You never used to think such disgusting things of me,
but you've got each other now, haven't you? You don't
need me anymore, so you can insult me, and you can insult
my friends, and accuse my wife and her father, and ignore
me because I don't matter, do I?" Nikki was on his feet,
the words flowing from him, rising to a shout, unchecked
by any real thought. "Nikki's just a problem. Nikki's just a
boy who doesn't understand . . . anything. Go to the closet,
Nikki. Get out of the way, Nikki. Let big brother take care
of everything, Nikki."
Deymorin thrust himself to his feet, buried his fist in
Nikki's fancy coat and shoved his brother up against the
stone. He filled his own mind with the need for caution
and the inmates closing in, and Deymorin's fist laying Nikki
out cold if he didn't damn well shut up, then thrust that
image toward Nikki.
Let him claim he didn't hear that one.
Mikhyel cried out. Nikki's face went white. And Dey-
morin experienced a moment of contrition. But they
couldn't afford the delicacy of genteel behavior here. Better
that Nikki learned it from him now than from Ganfrion a
week from now.
"Let him go now, Deymio." Mikhyel was beside them,
his hand on Deymorin's arm. "You've made your point."
{So has Nikki.}
Deymorin's anger faded, his arm relaxed, almost without
his willing it, and Nikki slipped free. This time, when Nikki
sat down, he sat alone. Mikhyel leaned against the stone,
rubbing his temples.
Headache. And Nikki was still pale. And not half an
hour ago, Mikhyel had stopped him in his trackswith a
thought.
Damn, they were fools. Deymorin sighed, and slid back
into his former spot. In conceding to Mikhyel's privacy, just
how  much  potentialfor good  and  illhad they
overlooked?
In the first few days following Boreton, he and Nikki had
played games with the link, trying to determine its limits.
They'd decided it was more curiosity than value.
They weren't playing games any longer. And in retro-
spect, Deymorin realized that any test that did not include
Mikhyel was no test at all.
"Nikki," Mikhyel said softly, "did you recognize the man
who arrested us?"
Nikki just looked confused.
"Sironi, Nikki. Sironi gorTarim."
Awareness dawned in Nikki's face and in the underneath
sense, and a moment of embarrassment that he hadn't no-
ticed. Then Nikki's jaw set stubbornly. "So. Lidye's father's
man. That means it's my fault we're here, I suppose. I mar-
ried the wrong woman, too. Let's see, what else can we
blame on Nikki?"
"Is that what you truly believe, Nikaenor?" Deymorin
asked. "That we blame everything on you? That we con-
sider you and your perceptions unimportant?"
"Yes!" Sulky tone. Hurt. While underneath Nikki radi-
ated absolute conviction to the contrary, colored with a
blatant desire to hear Deymorin admit as much.
And suddenly, Deymorin was tired of Nikki's childish
notions, tired of giving little brother Nikki the benefit of
every doubt. Tired of treading daintily past Nikki's vulnera-
ble ego.
"Fine," he replied bluntly. "You're wrong, of course, but
you know that. You know you're actually quite important.
You're Lidye's husband. A Rhomandi. Whether the Rho-
mandi or not, makes no difference to Lidye. Or to Anhe-
haa. Your existence grants Lidye validity."
"They don't need me anymore. Lidye's carrying my
child! That's the only Rhomandi they need!"
"And if it dies? What if it doesn't even exist? Wake up,
Nikki. How could they know? Anheliaa's hoping Lidye's
pregnant, but she still needs youjust in case she's mis-
taken. Mikhyel knew that. I did. We granted you the dig-
nity of assuming that you realized it as well. Apparently
we were mistaken."
Nikki opened his mouth to protest; Deymorin ignored
him.
"If it makes you feel special to believe you're the victim
of some gross conspiracy on our part to cut you out, there's
little I can say, is there? Moreover, there's nothing I care
say."
Shock. Frustration. Confusion. But nothing of hurt. Noth-
ing of shame or self-evaluation. That would come laterif
Nikki were indeed the man Deymorin believed him to be.
Nikki glowered at him, at Mikhyel, then back at him.
Deymorin ignored him. Mikhyel's barrister face was sol-
idly in place.
Without warning, Nikki flung himself to his feet and
stalked off into the dark. Mikhyel started to follow, but
Deymorin raised a hand to stop him. Old resentments
flared, differences of opinion regarding how to handle
Nikki.
{Curse you, Deymorin, you know what's out there!}
{Sometimes, Barrister, you've got to take the risk. If he

needs us, he can damnwell call.}

And you could have kept those names to yourself!}
The damage was done. Nikki had already}
Nikki's a boy\)
Nikki can't afford to be a boy. Not any longer.}

I                                                                                                                                   J                                        rf                    '~'            I

Nonetheless, relief flooded him as Nikki returned, barely
visible behind an armful of straw, bits trailing behind, more
bits falling toward their small lamp.
"Dammit, fry." Deymorin rescued the lamp. "Be
careful!"
Another silent objection from Mikhyel, which he ig-
nored. His head hurt. He wasn't interested in any more
discussions on child-rearing.
Nikki flung the armload down and stalked off again. Sev-
eral more such trips had a sizable pile from which Nikki
built himself a nest. Then he wrapped himself in his cloak
and threw himself down, leaving the majority of the straw
still in a pile.
For them.
And underneath, real concern that his gift would be
rejected.
Deymorin met Mikhyel's glance, and Mikhyel's barrister
face slipped away, leaving a sense of relieved amusement.
Deymorin went to Nikki's excess pile to throw an armload
toward Mikhyel, who began arranging it against the wall. A
second armful landed where he'd been sitting. A third . . .
Deymorin snuck a glance at Nikki, found one half-lidded
blue eye watching him, felt the hope surge underneath . . .
And tossed the third armful on top of Nikkinest, cloak
and all.
Nikki sputtered upright, visually indignant; Deymorin
smiled, and said softly, "Thanks, fry."
Nikki burrowed back into his nest, and out of the tangle
of hair, straw, and young man came a simple, muttered,
"Welcome."
Deymorin plucked a straw free of the blond curls, and
returned to arrange his own nest, not to sleep, but as pro-
tection against the chill and to cushion the hard stone. He
settled, upright, fully intending to spend the night awake.
"That's not necessary," Mikhyel said.
"Didn't say it was. I'm just not exactly sleepy."
He didn't add that he wasn't running the risk of Gan-
frion coming anywhere near his brother, or that a part
of him hoped the damned rapist would try. Mikhyel
frowned, and turned toward the stone, a black shadow
among shadows.
"Khyel, I'm . . ."
"Sorry? I know that, Deymio." Weariness permeated
Mikhyel's voice and the underneath as well. "I . . . know
that."
Deymorin slumped into his own mound of straw. He
couldn't imagine what Mikhyel must be feeling behind that
wall of nonemotion. He feared what ancient nightmares
lurked within Mikhyel, ready to plague them all tonight.
He wanted Mikhyel to know, deep within, that it wouldn't
happen again. He wanted the nightmares, Ganfrion . . . all
of ithe wanted that gonepurged from Mikhyel's soul
forever.
And all the wanting in the world wouldn't make it go
away.
He wanted to hate Mheric. But the Mheric of his memo-
ries was too different for Mikhyel's memories to take solid
root in his own mind. He couldn't make the man who had
been his father, who had taught him to ride, and wrestled
with him, and laughed with himhe couldn't make that
man capable of the acts the evidence increasingly
suggested.
Besides, Mheric was gone.
So in the absence of Mheric, he hated Ganfrion and all
his ilk. Hated those who took pleasure in another's humilia-
tion and pain. He thought of what Ganfrion had forced his
reserved and frail brother to do, and he thought of what
he'd do to Ganfrion, should the opportunity arise. . . .
And found in those plans some relief from past guilt.
Mikhyel's shadow rippled. Pale fingers and a fall of torn
lace appeared, slipped toward the cloak, caught the hem . . .
and froze.
Images seeped into Deymorin's mind. Glitter of gold
braid, black wool padding his knees . . . Mikhyel's knees.
Matte weave turning sleek and shiny as fresh-oiled leather.
Water, or some other liquid, oozing through the wool, wick-
ing through black, kidskin breeches.
The wall slammed down between them. The cloak
slipped free, the white hand vanished, and Mikhyel bur-
rowed into the bare straw.
Only a blind man would need an interpreter.
Deymorin unfastened his cloak; Mikhyel jerked. A
frowning eye appeared over a narrow shoulder.
(Keep your damned clothesand your pityto yourself,
Rhomandi.} The words hissed in his mind.
"Don't be a fool," Deymorin said, deliberately aloud.
Steadfastly ordinary. "I don't need it. Yours is soaked." He
tried not to think of how it came to be that way: a foolish
gesture, doomed to failure. The eye disappeared.
(Go to hell.}
"For the love of Darius, / don't need it. You do. You've
been ill, remember?"
The shadow shifted, gained eyes and a pale face.
"We need you. Barrister."
The eyes disappeared, this time behind lowered lids.
Deymorin sensed compromise and raised an arm.
"Share it?"
Mikhyel pushed himself upright, braced his elbow on his
knee, cupped his chin in his hand, and frowned across at
Deymorin. Then he buried his face in both hands, and his
shoulders began to heave: laughter, Deymorin realized in
some bemusement.
He raised his arm again, hopefully, and with a final shake
of his head that set his hair to rippling in the faint light,
Mikhyel relented. As his arm closed around Mikhyel's
shoulders, Deymorin felt bone beneath the layers of cloth-
ing, and beneath the layers of self-control . . .
Rings,  he thought, no wonder  Mikhyel kept himself
separate.
Exhaustion. Cold. Consumed with fear that he'd fail
everyone, his brothers, his city, just when they needed him
the most.
But nothing about this most recent humiliation. There
was no self-pity beneath Deymorin's arm, and no regrets.
Nothing of Mheric or Ganfrion or anything that Deymorin
had expected. The Barrister had done what the Barrister
had to do. For his brothers. For the City.
As the Barrister always had.
Deymorin had coined the phrase Hell's Barrister for the
cold-eyed advocate who had faced him before the Syndicate
and won. Khyel had been seventeen. Younger, by several
months, than Nikki was now.
And the Barrister had been Mikhyel's armor ever since.
Deymorin realized that now. He knew that, as much as he
hated that facade, Mikhyel needed it. Desperately.
And he conjured the image now, using it to counter the
self-doubt, picturing the Barrister outmaneuvering his el-
ders in the Council, controlling the debates through his elo-
quence, his scholarship, and the unnerving figure he cut on
the rostrum.
"Rings, Deymorin," Mikhyel whispered aloud, keeping
his inner-self sacrosanct. "How would you know? You were
never there."
"Wasn't I?" And he thought of those times he'd come
to Rhomatum, unannounced, and stood in the Council
Chamber, listening from the crowd as the acting Rhomandi
bent the City to his will.
"Damn you, Rhomandi," came the uneven whisper.
"You could have told me."
Deymorin shrugged.
Mikhyel sighed heavily, and sagged against him, and
Deymorin could almost feel him wrapping himself in
Deymorin's fraternal reassurance as surely as he wrapped
his body in Deymorin's cloak.
Across the pool of light, beyond the final flickerings of
their tiny lamp, Nikki lay alone, radiating rejection, then
self-pity, then guilt for feeling sorry for himself, then feeling
sorry for Mikhyel, because he was sick, and then jealousy
because Deymorin could make Mikhyel feel better and Nikki
could only make him worse, and jealousy for Mikhyel, lying
there sharing Deymorin's cloak with Deymorin's arm
around him, and for that warm feeling they exuded.
Not in words; Deymorin rarely received anything so co-
herent from Nikki. But Mikhyel was trying to sleep, his
head sinking deeper into the cloak, and Deymorin tried to
think of himself as a cloak against Nikki's thoughts, as the
cloth shielded Mikhyel from Nikki's curious eyes.
Thoughts that soon turned to Ganfrion, curiosity that
centered around the inmate's comments. Images of Mikhyel
and Deymorin, and a sense of wondering if it could be true;
wondering about the years before he'd arrived, trying to
imagine the two of them together. . . .
A new image then, of two men beneath one cloak, of
Deymorin's arm around Mikhyel. And Deymorin's hand
brushing Mikhyel's hair. And Deymorin's head bending
over Mikhyel'slike a lover's.
And from under his arm, out of the haze of exhaustion
and near sleep, came need. Desire. Hope. Emotions that
mingled uncomfortably with those images from Nikki.
And vanished, as Mikhyel came awake.
Mikhyel pushed away, escaping Deymorin's touch, and
Deymorins' cloak. Gathering his soiled and damp garment
off the stone floor, Mikhyel moved away from the circle of
light, isolating his feelings from the cocktail Nikki was serv-
ing them all.
Nikki watched him go, despair and self-loathing adding
themselves to the mix.
"Damn you, Nikki," Deymorin said slowly, deliberately,
and realized with a marked lack of surprise how little
Nikki's stricken look moved him, realizing, at that moment,
how amazingly simple it would be to hate his youngest
brother.
Mikhyel clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes closed,
trying to force Nikki's formless anguish from his mind. He
wished Deymorin would take his recriminations back,
would leave Nikki his comfortable illusions, the easy secu-
rity of love without reservations, without conditions, if not
for Nikki's sake, then to quiet all their minds.
But that, he knew, wasn't possible. Not for Deymorin.
For Deymorin, lovetrue adult lovewas never uncondi-
tional, it was a by-product of respect and admiration of a
person toward whom he was predisposed to feel affection.
Never mind he'd raised Nikki to expect otherwise. Never
mind they both had.
Anger, betrayal, curiosity: all those and more flowed
from Nikki. Strongest of all was fear. Nikki had realized at
last what Mikhyel had done, and he was scared, his con-
jured images far more horrific than actual fact had been.
Nikki didn't understand that the deal was made, that he
was safe for the night.
At first Mikhyel passively accepted that flow of brotherly
anguish. Then he actively sought it, drawing it out like poi-
son from a wound. The effort left his pounding head filled
with uncertainty and strange images of himself and Deym-
orin and Ganfrion, but he could mark those images as
Nikki's and ignore them.
And he could send back to Nikki a soothing salve of
reassurance, of safety. His reward, as his younger brother
finally settled into exhausted, quiet sleep, was his own
peace. Peace and
Deymorin. Within arm's reach, an instant and instinct
short of making that contact that would grant him undeni-
able access to Mikhyel's thoughts.
Deymorin was trying to stay quiet, trying to control those
instincts to eradicate the pain and the humiliation that he
believed Mikhyel must be experiencing, but despite those
valiant efforts, Deymorin's concerns filled the air like a
thick, cloying smoke.
Deymorin's concerns. Deymorin's guilt. Mikhyel wished
he could explain to Nikki that once Deymorin ceased reliv-
ing the past, lifeall their liveswould return to something
akin to normal.
Deymorin wondered whether he should leave Mikhyel to
his private thoughts or push him to purge those thoughts
with expression. And Deymorin was worried that, if he
chose incorrectly, poor, violated Mikhyel might fall over
the edge into some pit of self-hatred that would destroy
him forever.
And on a more basic level, Deymorin couldn't under-
stand Mikhyel's reactions now. Deymorin wanted him to
break down, or to turn Deymorin loose on Ganfrion. Mi-
khyel's cold acceptance of the incident . . . frightened
Deymorin. An assessment Mikhyel doubted Deymorin
would make of the emotions he radiated.
More importantly to Mikhyel, those memories of Mheric
that Deymorin believed Mikhyel needed to purge were as
far off the mark of past truths as Nikki's imaginings were
regarding Ganfrion's pack.
Speculation. Deymorin hadn't gotten as much of Mikhy-
el's past as he'd thought.
For which ignorance Mikhyel was exceedingly thankful.
"Nikki's an ass," came out of that turmoil at last.
"He just hasn't figured out how to keep quiet yet. He
tries hardtoo hard, I sometimes think. Maybe that's why
he can't hear us." He shrugged, for all it was too dark for
Deymorin to see. "Who knows?"
"And you don't care to find out."
"Not at the moment."
"Doesn't excuse what else he was throwing around."
"What was he supposed to think, when you coddle me
more than you do Kiyrstin, whom you supposedly love so
deeply?"
"Kiyrstin doesn't need coddling."
"Neither do 1."
"Looked in a mirror lately?"
" 'Fry'? Why don't you complete the question . . . big
brother?"
"I wasn't thinking that."
"No? You could have fooled me. Poor little fry. The
closet was a damned long time ago, JD."
"The closet. What makes you think I care spit about
the closet?"
"I don't think, I know\ For the past month, every time
we're in the same room that damned outdated image floats
between us."
Even as he spoke, the black hole that was the door of
the closet at Darhaven flashed in Deymorin's mind. An
instant later, it was gone, a conscious shut-down from
Deymorin. But he was too late.
"You think I'm responsible for it being there?" Dey-
morin asked.
"Who else?"
"And I suppose I'm the one who sent Nikki to the closet
tonight," Deymorin said, from behind that blank spot his
mind had become. And this time, though Mikhyel con-
sciously sought a deeper explanation, the fickle link had
closed Deymorin's thoughts to him.
"What do you mean?" he asked finally.
"You don't know?"
"If I did, I wouldn't ask!"
"I found him in a bolt hole, Khy." Deymorin's voice
was low, with that internal augmentation they'd discovered.
"Your voice was in his head, demanding he stay there. In
the closet."
"Then that's . . . That's why he was so angry. 'Go to the
closet, Nikki, get out of the way, Nikki, let big brother take
care of everything, Nikki.' " Mikhyel rubbed a hand across
his eyes. "Rings, who can blame him? I was forcing him
right back into childhood."
"And you, Khy? What forced you back?" It was a tenta-
tive probe, silent as well as verbal, seeking the truth about
Mheric. Mikhyel evaded, "What doesn't any more? The
dark. The fear . . ." An image of Ganfrion, sharp and clear.
Those imaginings about Mheric superimposed. Questions.
Confusions.
Mikhyel choked on something between laughter and a
curse. "Nothing so dramatic, I assure you. One of them
threatened to break my wrist, that's all. I panicked. Your
brother's an abject coward, JD, you'd better learn to live
with it."
"Coward?" Deymorin repeated slowly, and in his mind
was a kaleidoscope of truth and supposition about Mikhy-
el's life, ancient history and recent. "You're possibly the
bravest man I've ever met."
"You're coddling again," Mikhyel said.
"Hell if I am," Deymorin retorted. "I know coddling."
"So do 1. You coddle me."
"Maybe I do. Maybe I don't. Maybe I just want an excuse
to coddle someone."
"Then try coddling Nikki. He'd love it."
"Nikki doesn't need coddling."
"Neither do I!" The words exploded out of him. Irrita-
tion at this newest twist in Deymorin's misconceptions, re-
action to the increasing pressure to supply Deymorin with
information he damn well didn't want Deymorin to have.
"So, what you're saying is, I should have left you to keep
us awake with your shivering, rattling bones."
"It would have spared us the rest of what Nikki's 'throw-
ing around.' "
"I've got news for both of you. Even if Kiyrstin needed
coddling, sex would be the farthest thing from my mind.
You . . . I don't know how to break this to you. Barrister,
but you're just not quite my style."
It was an honest enough attempt at humor, but Mikhyel's
attempt at laughter choked on his bitterness.
On the other hand, it was a natural enough speculation,
considering what else Nikki had learned about him tonight.
"What do you mean?" Deymorin asked, and Mikhyel
realized he'd spoken aloud . . . or thought too clearly.
"There's nothing natural about it!"
He shrugged.
"Had to learn somewhere, didn't I?"
"Learn?" Deymorin repeated. "Learn what? You've left
me behind in the swamp."
"Ringssex, JD. Men with men. You're his source for
all such information." Mikhyel drew a steadying breath.
"Nikki has some quite amazing notions regarding what did
or did not happen between myself and Ganfrion tonight. If
I were Nikki, with Nikki's overly romantic, rather confused
notions about sex and love, I'd probably prefer to think
that my brother had had some . . . pleasant experience
before facing a pack of Sparingate wolves."
"Experience," Deymorin repeated flatly. "Sex." A pause
for a response that Mikhyel didn't make. "With me."
"Far more palatable than the available options, isn't it?"
"We were children."'
"We aren't now."
"We haven't spoken to each other in years without
fighting."
"We have in the last month."
"Butthere was never anything of that nature between
us. Not even the thought - . . Or at least . . . Rings, Khyel,
was there? Did you . . . ?"
Surprise came through to Mikhyel, along with an image
of himself, asexual, almost androgynous. And on its heels,
another image, as he'd appeared this evening, hair down,
challengingshockingly (to Deymorin) sultry. But he
sensed  nothing  of  loathing.  Nothing  of  revulsion.
Curiosity . . . that, perhaps.
"Did I want to be with you?" Mikhyel asked. "Sexually?
I don't think so, but I don't really know. I'm not certain I
know what it means to want . . . Certainly I've never de-
sired you the way you desire Kiyrstin."
"Kiyrstin?"
Mikhyel acknowledged silently. "In the past month, your
feelings for her have provided me with a . . . a benchmark
for feelings I don't believe I've ever understood. When I
spoke of Nikki's notions about sex and love, it was in philo-
sophical abstracts. What Nikki expects out of life, what you
feel with Kiyrstin . . . frankly, Deymorin, makes no sense
whatsoever to me."
"And Ganfrion? Did that make sense, Mikhyel?"
Sharp. Direct. That question had been brewing for an
hour and more. Unnecessary concern on Deymorin's part;
it had been humiliating to capitulate to the wolves of Spar-
ingate, but nothing more.
"Only in economic terms, Deymorin. And in that
sense . . . in that sense there were times ..." His voice
grew hoarse with humiliation. "There were times that . . .
Darius forgive me, I'd have filled your bed in an instant, if
that would have kept you in Rhomatum."
"For the love of Darius, whyV'
"I don't" He realized too late the memories he
tapped, tried to stop the mental images, but he was too
tired, and too slow. Memories of being a child with
Deymorin, of swimming in the mountain lakes, and of
playing in the snow. Of a warm body to huddle close to
at night.
He'd been nine when Nikki was born. Deymorin had
been twelve. Nothing had been the same since. But in the
years since, even after Mheric's death, that desire to have
Deymorin near, the resentment every time he left Rhoma-
tum, had never faded.
"In  Rhomatum,"  Deymorin repeated out of those
thoughts. "But not for yourself? Your own desire?"
"Desire, no. Friendship . . . that very possibly. Alliance.
Advicedefinitely. But not desire. I've no appetite for it,
man or woman. Never have had."
"No appetite . . ." And Deymorin's thoughts were on
the woman Deymorin himself had placed in Mikhyel's
bed on Mikhyel's seventeenth birthday. "Man . . . or
woman." And of the sight he'd seen when Anheliaa
threw open Mikhyel's bedroom door. "Don't lie to me,
Khyel." And of a three-way sharing on Nikki's wedding
night. "Not now."
"I'm human, Deymorin. Cut me, and I bleed."
A long pause.
"It's a strange metaphor you choose."
"Is it? Perhaps. And perhaps it's just one more bodily
function I'd rather live without."
A longer pause, during which Mikhyel fought the in-
stinct to invade Deymorin's mind to find out exactly what
his brother was thinking and feeling. Fought until the blood
pounded in his head, and the bile rose in his throat.
How could he expect Deymorin to understand? Dey-
morin, for whom women and sex and children were the
essence of being alive.
Then,  suddenly,  Deymorin  sighed  exaggeratedly.
"Thank the ley. Kiyrstin would not, I fear, be inclined
to share."
Out of the pain, out of the embarrassment, the fear of
consequence, came laughter, full and heartfelt, his own or
Deymorin's, it didn't matter. Mikhyel released his internal
control; and as Deymorin's arm fell around his shoulders,
heavy, strong, and natural, he found Deymorin's thoughts,
and his own, quiet at last.
8 9 9
"And this one?" A long fingernail bearing a hoarded
vestige of chipped enamel pointed to a word in the last
tightly penned paragraph.
"Beguiling," Kiyrstin read the word aloud.
"Beguiling," Beauvina echoed. "Is that good?"
"Very."
The girl smiled, then repeated the word. Once aloud,
twice more to herself, while looking at the word, then read
the entire sentence silently, though her polished lips moved.
It was quite a letter Nikki had sent the young woman.
A letter written shortly after Nikki's seventeenth birthday,
the day after Nikki had promised to wed Lidye dunTarim.
And quite a young woman he'd sent it to. The letter had
arrived in an envelope marked private, and Beauvina had
respected that request. In the months since she'd received
it, she had taught herself to read just so she could make
sense of that so-intimate letter. And no one else knew she
had it. Except her employer, of whom Beauvina seemed to
think very highly.
And since that employer, knowing Beauvina couldn't
read, had delivered that envelope marked private still safely
sealed with Nikki's Rhomandi stamp, and afterward never
pried into that envelope's contents, Kiyrstin was inclined
to agree with Beauvina's assessment.
Not that Nikki had revealed anything particularly indis-
creet. He'd written to thank Beauvina for making his birth-
day special, and to explain why he wouldn't be back to see
her as he'd promised, because he was honorbound now to
wed Another, and he intended to love his wife as a husband
should, and that didn't include falling in love with Beau-
vina, so he'd best never see her again.
And then Nikki had simply poured his heart out in terms
only a seventeen-year-old whose life had been turned inside
out on the most important day of his life could use.
And through a letter intended for someone in whose
good opinion Nikki had no stake, Kiyrstin began to see,
for the first time, the young man Deymorin and Mikhyel
had loved, the young man who had existed before that link
among the brothers had exposed so ruthlessly the chaotic
inner processes of his young mind to his very worldly
brothers.
A young man who had cared so deeply for his older
brothers and longed so greatly for their reconciliation, that
sometimes, he'd work for weeks just to contrive a single
evening together without an argument, fearing every time
that something would happen to drive one or the other of
them out of his life forever.
To Nikki's mind, on his seventeenth birthday, the very
day he'd come of legal age, that long-dreaded eventuality
had come to pass. The morning after his party, he'd awak-
ened to discover Deymorin gone, and for the next half year,
Nikki had been allowed to believe that exile had been of
Deymorin's own choosing.
That misrepresentation had been Mikhyel's doing, as
much as Anheliaa's. And out of well-meant necessity. But
that fact hadn't made the truth any easier to accept, when
that truth had come out.
In the letter, Nikki had confessed his belief that Mikhyel
and Deymorin had far more in common than they had dif-
ferences. And now that fate had proven Nikki correct,
Nikki found himself left out, or at least forced to share his
brothers in a way he'd never imagined.
This letter left no doubt that prior to his wedding night,
Nikki had held out hope that he and his future wife would
be everything to one another: romantically, politically,
and spiritually.
Hope. And naivete. The letter swam with both. But Kiyr-
stin could hardly blame Nikki for that.
Kiyrstin had managed, from the day she'd been married
at sixteen, to keep sex and friendship and hatred in what
she'd always believed were their proper perspective. She'd
married with no thought of romance or love, only family
and responsibility and power. At thirty-two, she'd believed
herself immune to the insidious influences of that mental
enigma called love.
Deymorin had annihilated that self-delusion and warped
the perspective, and thanks to his insidious charm, she
found herself allied with Garetti's enemies-by-tradition,
dodging lightning bolts on a regular basis, and currently in
danger of spending the rest of her life in Sparmgate Prison.
Better that than sitting in Garetti's Mauritum villa having
babies and making doilies.
Better for her. Better for Deymorin. But for Nikki . . .
Nikki the poet, Nikki the romantic had had to face that
perfect love of theirs daily. Probably been forced to share,
to some unknown extent, Deymorin's feelings when Dey-
morin was with her, possibly as intimately at times as Mi-
khyel. She wouldn't know; Nikki didn't talk to her the way
Mikhyel did.
In fact, Nikki hadn't talked to any of them much over
the past month. It had to hurt, to be seventeen, and to
experience that perfect love he'd sought vicariously, know-
ing what awaited him in his own marriage bed.
And now he'd arrived in Rhomatum to have that same
wife, or her father, have him thrown into Sparingate Crypt.
Not exactly the marriage he'd imagined, back when he'd
written that letter.
Beauvina read the letter through again, then dabbed at
her eyes with her already damp handkerchief. There'd been
a fair number of tears. Beauvina's was a romantic heart,
and Nikki's story one to inspire such waterworks. Sometime
since,  she'd  excused  herself and  come  back  soft-eyed,
washed free of makeup . . . the image of common sense
and common understanding.
"I think, he's really a very nice young man," Beauvina
said quietly.
"I think, Vina, that you're right."
"I wish I could help him . . . somehow."
"I think you already have, Vina."
"I'm . . . glad."
Kiyrstin smiled, and Beauvina smiled back, then leaned
back against the wall, the letter pressed to her bosom. Her
eyes grew dreamy, then drooped closed, and she slid slowly
down onto her side on the cot. Kiyrstin chuckled, and
spread a blanket over her.
Perhaps the most revealing aspect of the letter was the
fact that the only person Nikki had had to confide his con-
cerns to was a nearly illiterate prostitute he'd met only
once.
Knowingly or not, Deymorin and Mikhyel had worked
hard over the years to see that what Nikki wanted to be
true, was, and Nikki had learned to act on the assumption
that the world was the way he wanted it to be. He'd never
really had to reach beyond his brothers because, overall,
his world had made sense. Because his world was his broth-
ers. When that structure collapsed, he was left without any
alternate support, and he struggled now to keep that new
world stable.
Interesting, she had to admit. She'd judged him based on
other seventeen-year-olds she'd known. And, for the most
part, her reservations still held: he was spoiled, and self-
centered, and thoughtless.
He also wanted to be more than that. Someday, he might
well become more.
If he lived long enough to grow up.
{Nikki . . . Nikki . . . Nikki? Nikki, keep}
"Wake up, dunMheric! You're leaving."
{Calm, Nikki. It's all right, Nikki. Don't fight . . .}
Fight? Why should he
Fingers bit into Nikki's shoulder and hauled him upright.
Light flared in his face and he flinched, throwing an arm out
to ward off his assailants. A club struck his wrist, driving it
back toward his face.
His mind reeled with the images flooding it from a source
other than his own light-blind eyes. Men in uniforms, some
in Tower black, most in Fericci green and gold. None in
City blue.
"Deymio?" he called to Deymorin with voices internal
and external, and for a moment, he thought he had an
answer, thenthe sound of flesh meeting flesh, a grunt, and
a thud. "Deymorin!"
Hands jerked him to his feet and held him there as his
balance wavered. When he could stand on his own, he
strained to see past the guards to Deymorin's pile of straw.
It was empty. And he remembered Deymorin had left him,
had said he hated him and then followed Mikhyel and not
come back.
Fear surged.
"Deymorin!" he cried and: "Mikhyel!" And he reached

for both of them, wanting to hear them.

(Nikki, it's all right. . ..}
(Devmio!l But

(Mikhyel,l filtered back, calm and remote. And he could

see now, into Mikhyel's dark corner, and Mikhyel himself,
who was also flanked by men dressed in green and gold.
Deymorin was sprawled on the stone floor, facedown.
Limp.
Panic threatened, but {Unconscious,} invaded his head
along with Mikhyel's engulfing calm. Panic died, overpow-
ered by Mikhyel's cool detachment, even as logic chal-
lenged how Mikhyel could possibly know.
"What's going on?" Nikki asked aloud.
"These men have come for you, Nikki," Mikhyel said,
as if commenting on the weather. And underneath, clear
and pointed: {To take you to the Tower.}
The Tower. And Deymorin had been trying to stop them.
"Deymio!" Nikki broke free of his guards, and dropped
down beside Deymorin.
Conscious of all eyes following his efforts, he rolled
Deymorin over and lifted Deymorin's head and shoulders
into his lap, an undertaking far simpler in theory than in
practice, Deymorin being a large man and Nikki being sev-
enteen and not yet to his adult strength.
Still, he managed despite their veiled derision, and when
he had Deymorin braced on his arm and lap, he patted
Deymorin's face lightly, calling his name, trying with all his
might to feel his brother, to reach into his mind and draw
him out of unconsciousness and the brink of death, the way
Deymorin had once done for Mikhyel.
And wonder of wonders, there was a flicker in the
darkness, and Deymorin's head grew lighter on his arm.
Deymorin cursed softly, and Nikki heard Mikhyel whis-
pering to Deymorin, filling him in and heard Deymorin
answeringconfused, disgustedhalf in his head, half
outside.
{Deymorin!} Nikki screamed in his head, desperate that
Deymorin hear. {They want to take me to the Tower. What
should I do if she wants me for the Rhomandi, and to}
{Dammit!} Deymorin's arm swung wildly about, sideswip-
ing Nikki's jaw. Nikki dropped his hold, and Deymorin slid
back to the floor.
Deymorin cursed again, and other curses answered him
from the shadows beyond the guards' flickering torches.
Curses less soft and more articulate: inmates complaining
at the light and the noise, yelling at the guards to get out
and let condemned men sleep.
And the guards cursed back at the shadows, then cursed
at Nikki and hauled him to his feet, impatient with his
delays.
And Mikhyel's thoughts invaded his (Calm, Nikki.
Keep calm.}
Voices in his head, voices in the shadow, voices and
hands pulling at him, one way and another, one moment,
a torch in his face, the next, black shadows.
{Get out!} he shouted inside. And aloud: "Wait!"
He shook himself free, staggering back to where he could
see, dammit. And screamed into the shadows: "Shut up,
damn you all!"
And amazingly, for a brief moment, there was respite.
He brushed his sleeves free of straw, shook the dust from
his hair, taking a moment to pull the comb from his pocket
and force it through the curls, and when he was composed,
he asked, "What about my brothers?"
One of the guards said, "Our orders cited only you, if
you are indeed Nikaenor Rhomandi dunMheric."
"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not."
Mikhyel's protest rattled in his head. He ignored it. Stub-
bornly not interested in Mikhyel's opinion. He wasn't arbi-
trarily leaving with these men.
"Whose orders?" he demanded.
"The lady Lidye Fericci romNikaenor, Ringmaster of
Rhomatum."
Lidyeringmaster? Suddenly, he was shaking. Surely
he'd heard that wrong. The Tower was Anheliaa. That was
the order of the universe, never mind he knew one day it
wouldn't be true. But when he left, Lidye and Anheliaa
were working together, but Lidye as ringmaster meant An-
heliaa was dead.
And Sironi gorTarim had brought them here, where Mi-
khyel had been pushed down the stairs and left to Those
Men, and Deymorin lay senseless on the floor.
This time, there was no outside control for him his pain.
He'd thrust Mikhyel out, and couldn't get him back, no
matter how much he wanted him to be there.
Lidye had married him, thinking she could control him.
Anheliaa had made him Princeps in Deymorin's place,
thinking she could control him. But he'd left. He'd defied
them both. And now he was being singled out, taken to the
Tower. Under guard. Lidye's father's men.
Lidye's father, who owned controlling interest in the Sha-
tum Rings. Tarim Fericci, who wanted a figurehead in Rho-
matum. Tarim was out to rule the web, and he'd do it by
controlling Nikaenor dunMheric. With the determination of
the truly terrified, Nikki reached underneath for his broth-
ers, stretching mental hands toward both. And it was as if
hands clasped his, cool and sure.
(Go with them.} He could feel the relief in Mikhyel's
thought as it burst into his head. (Get yourself out
first.  Free  us  later,  if  you  can,  but  you're  no  good
inside here.}
But what if he couldn't free them? What if he tried to
argue for that, and Lidye got mad and sent him through
the rings to some unknown mountain lake as Anheliaa had
done to Deymorin? He'd seen Mikhyel on the other side
of that transition, and for him there'd be no Mother, no
Kiyrstin, no magic potion, only pain and death and
(Get control of yourself, boy!)
Like a slap to the face, that chastisement rocked him out
of his panic-driven fears. And another voice in his head:
(Stop whining. If the bitch wanted you dead, there are
easier ways. Don't play hero, just get out, keep safe, and
keep alive.}
{Deymorin!} he shouted inside, and felt it echo clear to
his toes. But Deymorin's groan followed, and Deymorin's
thought went all black and fuzzy.
{Deymorin?}
{All right.} Mikhyel again. {Go, Nikki. Don't cause trou-
ble. Get outside. Get safe.}
Outside. Where they didn't have to worry about him. He
could figure that much without Mikhyel's saying anything.
Stop whining, Deymorin had said. Well, he wasn't whining
now. And if Mikhyel thought his input useless beyond
keeping his own skin in one piece, well, Nikaenor Rho-
mandi dunMheric, Princeps of Rhomatum, would prove
them both wrong. He'd prove he had the right to his title,
same as either of them. He'd go with these guards who
belonged to his wife's father, and he'd free Mikhyel and
Deymorin, and he'd have Lidye under control and supper
waiting before they reached the Tower.
He lifted his head and preceded the guards up the stairs
and out of Sparingate Crypt.
8    *"    9
The door closed behind Nikki and the torches, casting
the prison back into darkness. But no door could close
Nikki off completely from Mikhyel.
Mikhyel wished his younger brother safe, continued
sending advice though he could tell Nikki was ignoring him
again by the feeling he got of beating his head against a
noisy wall. Finally, he gave up the effort that gained him
nothing and left him with a pounding, sickening headache.
He sank down to his knees, pressing his fingers against his
temples, striving to maintain consciousness against the pain,
that was his own, and the lure toward insensibility that
was Deymorin.
Deymorin's mind was a velvety black that wasn't con-
sciousness, or sleep, and wasn't death. Mikhyel could feel
Deymorin breathing. Mikhyel knew Deymorin's heart was
beating, because if he let it, his own heart strove to echo
Deymorin's.
But the velvet gave Deymorin position and substance
within the lightless room, and allowed Mikhyel to work his
way over to his brother's prone body.
"Deymorin?" he whispered, and sought his brother's face
with his fingertips. He brushed dirt and straw from Dey-
morin's lax mouth, and, closing his eyes to eliminate the
illusion of sight, searched by touch alone, finding a sticky-
damp spot among the hair: blood.
He tried to straighten Deymorin's body, to get his head
up, and to protect the rising lump from further mishap.
"And then there were two."
A whisper in the dark at his back.
"Well, Suds," the whisper continued, "your bodyguard is
dwindling fast. Doesn't look too good, does it?" A hand
touched his hair, fingertips that caught the strands and
pulled them back from his face. "It'll be morning soon. The
clock's spinning down. Why don't you just tell your boy-
friend here to bow out gracefully?"
"I might," Mikhyel answered. "Unfortunately, he rarely
listens to my advice."
"Oh, I doubt that. Have you told him, yet, what you
did?"
"He knows."
"Does he, now?" An inexplicably savage tone laced the
whisper. "And I'm still alive? Doesn't speak well for your
champion, does it . . . Suds."
"He's not my champion. Therein lies the error of your
logic."
"Saves that for blondie, does he?" The hatred increased.
"Grown too old for him, have you?"
Mikhyel said nothing. He told himself that Ganfrion was
simply probing after information, hoping to goad him into
revealing something useful.
"Or is it just that . . . hill-boys . . . are expendable?"
But in the process, the inmate revealed a curious animos-
ity . . . toward Deymorin. It was an unexpected twist. He
had anticipated his own discovery. The effect of Dey-
morin's own personality on these men might prove a far
greater complication.
The voice shifted to his other side. Drew closer. "And
does he know the whole of it. Suds? Did you tell him how
it was your idea? Your deal? Might change his opinion of
his property. Might not be so eager to keep so willingly
popular a commodity."
"I doubt it."
"Doubt. Which?"
"Take your choice."
"Ah. Perhaps I can convince him."
And the presence rustled at his side. Mikhyel leaned for-
ward, intercepting Ganfrion's touch.
"Keep your hands off him."
"How sweet." Once again, the tone shifted. Became
mocking. "And how do you intend to stop me, my skinny
little friend?"
"We had an agreement."
"Ah, yes. Crypt honor, and all that. Until tomorrow,
then." The hand he'd stopped slid along his shoulder, and
lifted his hair to an audible sniff. "Mmmmmm, yes. Tomor-
row. After that, I fear you'll smell like all the rest and I
might well lose interest." The hand tightened and pulled,
just enough to remind Mikhyel it could be worse, and when
he spoke again, his voice had shed that assumed disinterest.
"I can protect you, Suds. Men like you burn out fast with-
out a protector."
"Like me?" he repeated advisedly.
"Too skinny. Too clean. Too frail. The wolves love the
weak ones, while they last."
"Wolves? Like you."
"Maybe. Then again, maybe not. But wouldn't you rather
a lone wolf than a pack?"
"Maybe. Then again, maybe not. Looks can be decep-
tive, wolf."
"You think you can handle that pack? You think you
can handle me?"
"I think we had a deal, and I'd like to get some sleep."
The presence leaned close; a chuckle stirred the shorter
hairs around his ear. "Sweet dreams. Suds."'
Interlude

Comes a time when every mother must release her young
to the world. Fledgling birds must fly, salmon must swim
to the sea, fawns must run the high meadows, butterflies
must burst from their cocoons, tadpoles become frogs,
aphids and bees
Well . . . Mother wasn't a bug.
Ever.
Comes a time when every mother's energy wanes, when
she must retreat to her own private haven to renew her
essence, to restore the vitality she expends nurturing her
young,  helping them  mature to that state of adult
independence.
And sometimes, she gets just a little too much interfer-
ence from her own progenitor. Just when she'd gotten her
buds maturing nicelydespite that monstrosity overhead,
just when she was beginning to seriously connive her own
independence, that creature down in the valley had to go
and argue with a misplaced lightning bolt.
Now, thanks to her progenitor's bad taste. Mother was
wounded, her tap root to the original Source damaged, and
her greedy siblings were stealing all Mother's vitality.
So it was that Mother came to be in her caves deep
within the heart of Mount Khoratum, drifting lazily among
the ragged-edge veils of crystalline-leythium lace, her toe-
webs immersed in the nurturing ooze of liquid ley. Re-
laxing. Renewing.
And bored.
So it was that when one of h*- surface-dwelling children
thought of her with gratitude and longingand that inde-
finably human needMother welcomed the diversion. She
located the point of activity, a shimmering mote within the
fainter glow of the universal pattern, and answered with
an impulse of Motherly interest. She fed the need with
reassurance of Mother's cognizance and a promise of Moth-
erly aid . . . when she got around to it.
Ridiculous, she thought and yawned widely, drawing the
motes of vaporized leythium into her lungs. One tiny little
brush with the surface world, and she was exhausted.
Mother hadn't felt this lethargic in aeons. For the last
few earthly heartbeats, she'd walked the surface world
quite freely, mixing with all the various species, running as
a deer one season, a wolf the next.
And with her humans, of course.
Her humans amused her most of all. They fed her with
their love, their faith . . . and their chickens. Thanks to her
darling children. Mother had grown in strength and power
until she had been ready to claim her own independence,
to free herself, to burst from her own cocoon.
To leave her obnoxious, over-bearing progenitor to the
valley muck and slime he loved so well.
The soothingly-warm/briskly-chill leythium shimmered
liquid rainbows in response to Mother's delicate shudder.
Sucks-pond-water had grown Old without ever enjoying
Youth.
Mother rolled the concepts about her tongueconcepts
she'd learned from her darling humansenjoying the
flavor.
There he sat, an ancient source beneath an eroded moun-
tain,  progenitor  to  eighteen  other  sources  (of  which,
Mother reluctantly admitted to herself, she was one), a
lump in the valley floor, absorbing, relishing the essence of
the humans sitting on his head.
Any humans.
Another shimmering shiver; Mother would melt first. She
chose her humans with utmost care.
Never mind the human-built stone and wood now sitting
over Mother's head like an ugly, too-heavy crown. Never
mind the leythium rings spinning within the tallest of those
buildings, directing (or so the unwelcome, unChosen hu-
mans liked to believe) Mother's essence. That city, the
abomination the unwanted humans called  Khoratum,
wouldn't be there forever; Mother would see to that.
Eventually.
Somehow.
Mother had been small when her humans first arrived
within her sphere of awareness. Young, compared to Sucks-
pond-water. Young even compared to her siblings.
And perhaps because she was (at the time) small, per-
haps because her surface manifestation was (at the .time)
confined to a bubbling spring atop a tiny barren hillock,
the humans had climbed the mountain to reach her, ignor-
ing the great leythium source in the valley.
The humans' lively thoughts had filled her sphere with
energiescolors, tastes, and smellsshe'd never imagined,
when it was just the birds and the wolves overhead. And
fear.
Fear unlike the fear of prey whose cycle had ended. The
humans' clever imaginations created Unnatural, Unreason-
ing fears that disrupted the energies within the ley and
disturbed Mother's existence, that sent uncontrollable rip-
ples through the leythium lace and turned her chambers to
unpleasant yellows and violent flashes of red.
And so it was that when the humans cried for fear of
the storms that raged in the skies over their heads, Mother
came to study the patterns in the leythium above her head,
noting how those shifting veils reflected the fury of the
surface storm as well as the humans' cries.
She'd played with those patterns in the ley, using her
essence to create waves to counteract the human-generated
ripples and to send the storm's fury to her periphery. Her
humans' fears had eased, and the surface storm pattern
modified as well, which had been a curious thing. She'd
tried, then, to shift those leythium patterns deliberately, to
shunt the fury off toward her siblings, who were too dull
and stupid to object.
The subsequent gratitude and love of her humans had
proven intoxicating.
That unexpected exhilaration, combined with her already
roused curiosity, encouraged her to try other, more subtle
tweaks of the storms using her essence. Such efforts were
at first enormously tiring, but over time she'd grown in
strength and skill until now she could swim the clouds and
dance the lightning as deftly as she swam and danced the
ley.
Other human requests had proven more difficult. They'd
begged her to heal their sick, which was a much more curi-
ous thing than sending storms away, because living crea-
tures contained internal rhythms: conception, gestation,
birth, growth, life, death, sickness, health . . . all things that
occurred according to their own schedule, and it seemed
quite silly to desire it to be otherwise. And in lives so fleet-
ing, Mother had had to wonder what difference a handful
of season-cycles could truly make.
Still she'd answered those calls .  .  . when she  heard.
When she wasn't exhausted from dancing with the light-
ning, that being, in those early times, far more exciting than
anything her humans could offer. She'd learned to brush
their wounds with the sweet nourishment of the ley, adding
its essence to their own natural healing powers.
Miracles, her humans had called her effortseventu-
allyas they eventually called her Mother, and Goddess.
They had very different words for her earliest attempts;
there, were some things even Mother needed to learn. But
she'd cleaned up after herself. . . .
Mother paused in her reflections long enough to lick
her lips.
For some reason her fastidiousness had disturbed her hu-
mans more than her mistakes. For a time, they feared her
greatly and called her "evil" and "demon" and endeavored
to cast "spells" to keep her away.
But still they called for help, and when she eventually
inferred the  advantageous procedure for healing,  they
began to call upon her to keep herself away.
Ah, her silly children. Her silly, fickle humans.
A glimmer in the web. Another child was thinking of its
Mother. A very young child. Mother touched that receptive
mind and nurtured it with the scent of Mother, the taste of
joy, the warmth of optimism, before her interest waned and
she returned in all senses to the world cave.
How she longed to walk the surface world, to watch her
children  perform  their  incomprehensible  but  amusing
antics, to taste the wind, the rain . . . the chickens. To
experience the real sweetness, the real crunch of real aphids
on real drenal leaves rather than making do with the recre-
ated sensations on her tongue.
Which she might also have created, for all she didn't
quite remember making her tongue for the first time.
But then, Mother's sense of time had been severely dis-
ruptedrecently, she believed, though who could say,
considering?
Mother thought, perhaps, there were thoughts she should
be thinking, concerns she should be concerning herself
with, but Mother was tired. Thinking, concerning, remem-
bering, those required more energy than dancing with the
lightning.
So Mother floated. Mother drifted. Mother waited for
the ley to surge through her once again. Waited for total
restoration. Mother could feel the moment coming.
Soon. Very soon.
Unlike the old days.
Mother had been a bit slow back . . . then. She'd redirect
a storm, then sink her toes into the ley to rejuvenate until
she heard a call, and then she'd surface to heal some poor
child with a chicken to spare.
She'd learned later that her moment's rest might have
been, in human terms, days, weeks, years, or even human
generations. But with practice, and as the leythium web
grew, expanding its liquid and crystalline structure in all
directions, sending tendrils out to gather the world's es-
sence and channel it to her caverns deep in her mountain's
belly,  she'd  visited  the  surface  world  with  increasing
frequency.
She grew quite fond of her humans. For all they were a
bit silly, for all their goals were irrational and shortsighted,
they were decidedly more amusing than her own slow-
thinking offspring percolating within the surrounding ley-
thium caverns, and infinitely more attentive than her
progenitor.
She'd even brought some of her humans into her world
cave, to teach them to dance the ley. The clumsy ones fell
between the strands, and into the pools to become one with
the ley. Some took fright when they witnessed the fate of
the clumsy and ran, only to find their steps mired in liqui-
fied leythium, their feet dissolving beneath them.
But one had reveled in the dance, flying with joy among
the strands, even laughing at her when she dared to chal-
lenge him with a sudden dissolution of the strand between
his fingers.
Rakshi. Her first Dancer-child.
Rakshi returned to the surface to beget others who, like
Rakshi himself, could dance the ley. And as the human
generations turned, a precious few learned to draw on the
ley, a precious few who could, like Mother, sink themselves
into the leythium pool and draw its essence to them, rather
than be consumed by it.
Those, her special  children, she  cherished beyond
measure.
When she remembered them.
Mornings in Bharlori's back room were invariably noisy.
With little to do until mid-morning, it was a time of sharing
the gossip gleaned from customers the previous night. Gos-
sip similar to that in Rhyys' court, only rather more accu-
rately recounted, here in Lower Khoratum, where the only
ears to overhear were hiller peasants, whose influence was
nil, and so whose opinions didn't matter.
But last night, Bharlori's had created its own fine topic.
And that topic felt terrible.
The young women gathered around Thyerri, arguing
about the proper care for him. Some were for propping
him upright in a nest of pillows, others insisted that he
should be lying flat on the hard floor.
They decided on the pillows, then took turns bathing his
brow, and feeding him sips of tea and bits of bread. All
the while they exclaimed over his bravery, saying how Sak-
hithe had explained everything, and those awful men would
never have attacked him if he hadn't stepped in and res-
cued her, and how if it had been Biertha (whom no one
liked), she'd have only gotten what she deserved, but Sak-
hithe never sought attention, so she didn't, and he was a
fine fellow to have championed her.
Their chatter made Thyerri's head spin all over again, or
perhaps it was the spirits they slipped into the tea. Thyerri's
attention wandered; the fresh balm on his cuts stung, the
fumes made his eyes tear, and he soon decided all he really
wanted was to go back to sleep.
He drew his blankets high under his chin, closed his eyes,
and tried to see himself hale and well, his cheek smooth,
scarless. The balm grew warm, and the sting went away.
But the other aches were worse this morning, even past
the drugged tea, and Thyerri grew frightened because he
didn't know what that mind-hazing pain meant, and not
knowing, couldn't think the pain better.
He'd never been in a fight, never been seriously injured
or illor if he had. Mother had taken care of it. He had
nothing against which to judge the sensations flooding his
body. Nothing except the self-knowledge gained as a
dancer-in-training. So he sought, in the quiet of his own
mind, to assess his wounds.
As he considered the possibilities, the might-have-beens,
had this kick been a finger's-breadth lower, or that cut a
shade deeper, he began to shake. He remembered hands
doubled  into  fists,  booted  toes,  belts  that  carried
knives . . . swords . . .
And he thought of the anger, the hatred . . . the desire
to hurt . . . to . . .
He could be dead.
The blankets slipped from his nerveless fingers; a palsy
consumed him, dislodging the carefully placed pillows at
his back, and he curled on his side, shaking with fear and
cold and horror.
After the Collapse of the web and with his chance at the
Dance gone forever, he'd flirted with the notion of death
frequently. But this was different. This death would have
been meaningless, the result of a stranger's momentary,
senseless anger that sent him over that brink prematurely.
And he knew thenas light feminine voices exclaimed
in concern, and gentle hands soothed him, and warm bodies
joined him under his blankets, pressing close, shifting him
to take the weight off the sore spots, holding him against
the shivers that made his joints hurt more than ever, that
he truly was not ready to die.
He unwound his arms, clenched as they were to his mid-
dle, and curled them around the inviting warmth before
him, the humanity that was still so strange to him. He
wasn't certain who it was he embraced, only that his need
was not rejected.
Strange sensations, and familiar rippled through him.
Warmth. Security. He'd known that. Sympathy. Perhaps
even understanding . . . that was new. Different.
He'd always known he was different. He was a dancer
like no other dancer before him. But then, so were all true
Rakshi dancers unique.
He'd wagered everything on that belief, and lost
everything.
Thyerri had been raised not by human hand, but by the
wind and the rain, the meadow grass and the mountains.
There were early memories, images from before grass and
the meadows and the wind, but they faded with time, as
life became the dance . . . and Mother,
That which the hillers worshiped in secret, the leymother
herself, had kept him alive when he would have died. And
Mother had taught him to dance, had, such as she was able,
loved him.
Or so he'd always believed.
Following the Collapse, he'd run through the hills calling
for her, begging her to answer. But the hills had remained
silent. Cold. He'd have transferred to her caverns deep in
the mountain's heart, would have risked life itself in the
doing, without the ley-touched oil to protect his fragile
human skin, but the mountain was closed to him.
Mother had expressed concern in those final days that
he had lost touch with his humanity, and losing his human-
ity he had lost, or so he had extrapolated from her musings,
his value to her.
He'd defied Mother once. in hopes of finding that hu-
manity, had risked her love and her goodwill to become,
at last, what he believed she desired.
And she'd rejected him.
He'd known beyond doubt, then, that he was lost.
The dance was gone. Mother was. There were others
for Mother. Other children. There always had been.
There would be many still. Others who wouldn't disap-
point her.
Aimless, faint with hunger, seduced even then by the
dance rings, he'd returned to Khoratum. And there, in the
chaos following the collapse, Sakhithe had found him and
brought him to Bharlori and bullied the owner into ac-
cepting the most inept of raw recruits.
He'd found humanity, found bravery and cowardice,
selfishness and selflessness, love and hate . . . but he still
didn't know where he fit within that web. For him, life was
the Dance. Anything short of the Dance was merely
survival.
A hand cradled his head, worked in among the hair still
filthy with last night's mud, and pressed his cheek against
a full, soft breast. He sighed and nestled there, safe, warm,
entwined in a mood that was the antithesis of the anger
and hatred that had permeated the alley behind Bharlori's
last night.
It was a new sensation, but one to which his bruised and
chilled body conformed easily. Naturally. Gratefully. Until
the hand on his back began wandering lower.
Thyerri shifted, trying to avoid Mishthi's searching touch,
seeking Sakhithe, who knew better. Sore, bruised, muzzy-
headed with their potions, he still wanted none of what
Mishthi so insistently suggested.
"Sakhi," he whispered, and his voice caught. He didn't
know how to tell Mishthi to leave him alone, and her hands
were deep into his clothing now.
"Mishthi, behave!"  Sakhithe's voice whispered from
somewhere above his head. 'You know he's a dancer."
"No, he isn't. Wasn't." But Mishthi's hands retreated, to
brush along his chest. "He was a novice. But he's not any
more. He failed. And now, he's ready to become a man,
aren't you, pretty, brave, wonderful Thyerri?"
"Have pity," he mumbled and grasped Mishthi's wrist.
"I feel as if I've been tossed off a cliff, struck by lightning,
and poisoned for good measure. There's nothing left,
Mishthi!"
Instantly remorseful, she cooed and petted, apologized
and promised, and he relaxed again into his warm, human-
scented cocoon.
But it was just a matter of time before Mishthi, or Khani,
or one of the others tried again. Only his own disinterest
had kept them at bay this long. He would speak with Sak-
hithe. Perhaps she could convince them their hopes were
in vain. He was twenty-two years old and those feelings
Mishthi sought to rouse had never affected him.
For which dearth he was eternally thankful. More than
one dancer's career had ended when the body decided, not
when the heart had.
He had been an apprentice dancer, yes; and he'd proba-
bly never have another chance at the rings, that was also
true. But he was still a dancer, last night had reminded him
of that simple truth, and as long as he was a dancer, hope
remained, however unrealistically, that he still might one
day dance the rings.
And for a dancer, those sensations Mishthi sought, the
emotions and distractions that came with them, were a
death sentence. That was the common knowledge, and not
a belief this would-be dancer cared to challenge.
Waking came with a flare of light and a noisy announce-
ment of breakfast's imminent arrival.
Deymorin, complaining of a headache, stumbled off to
the latrine, to return with a wet head and a stream of
curses.
"If you will flaunt authority" Mikhyel began.
"1 should thank my ancestors for giving me a hard
head?" Deymorin finished sarcastically.
Mikhyel answered with a lift of one shoulder. The move-
ment disrupted his unsecured braid, and the loose strands
slid forward into his face. He silently cursed the man who
had claimed his pin, and this time just flung the hair behind
his shoulders.
It slid back into his face.
"I swear, I'm going to join the Brothers of Barsitum and
shave it off. That would at least give Raul something to do
with my razors."
"Count your blessings, brother." Deymorin scratched his
stubbled chin. "Would that my leyapult, as Nikki calls it,
had done me a similar favor."
"There are tweezers in the latrine."
"There's also a cold-water bath. I can still hold you
under, and I doubt your new talents include gills. As for
shaving your head, only if you explain to Kiyrstin that I
couldn't stop you. She thinks your hair is utterly splendid.
But frankly, I don't give a rat's ass. Let's go eat."
The prisoners had formed a living wall at an obviously
long-established demarcation line, waiting with surprising
decorum while double-guarded kitchen aides set piles of
loaf-bowls on the tables, then scurried back up the stairs.
When the aides were gone, guards manned a cast-iron
cauldron at one table and a spigoted barrel at the other,
and at a signal from the captain of the guard, the inmates
surged forward.
Mikhyel would have held back, waiting until the others
had theirs, but Deymorin hauled him straight into the
crush, to establish, so Deymorin conveyed along with the
throbbing in his skull, that they were one of the crowd, no
better, no worse, and ready to protect their rights.
Deymorin passed two bread-bowls filled with a thick
gruel to Mikhyel and grabbed two mugs before chasing
Mikhyel back through the milling bodies to their spot be-
neath the stairs.
The gruel was agreeably palatable, and the bread, fresh-
baked, with a hard, water-brushed crust, gave a man's jaws
a satisfying fight for supremacy. Mikhyel managed about a
third of the gruel, exchanged bowls with Deymorin, and
nibbled slowly at the crust of Deymorin's empty bread-
bowl. The simple fare proved far more sympathetic to his
half-starved gut than the typical five-course spread they'd
have faced in Rhomatum Tower this morning.
"Here," Deymorin said, and handed him one of the
mugs.
"What is it?"
"Ale. Morning, noon, and night," Deymorin answered,
taking a healthy swig.
Mikhyel set the mug down, untasted, uncertain he could
face even the smell this early in the morning. After lunch,
perhaps. On a hot day. Very hot.
But the bread was dry, and eventually he conceded. He
lifted the mug to sniff gingerly, but his overtaxed nose
could detect no discernible odor. He eyed his brother's
bland expression suspiciously, doubly so when he realized
Deymorin's normally emotion-rich essence had gone blank.
A cautious sip found, rather than the threatened ale, a
pleasant, dilute fruit juice. Sending Deymorin the glare his
brother obviously expected, he drained the mug and went
after his own refill.
Whether by chance or design, Ganfrion intercepted him
at the barrel. He met the man's look with outward calm,
and stepped aside to allow the inmate first access to the
barrel, tacit acknowledgment of Ganfrion's superior posi-
tion within the prison power structure.
A faint smirk tweaked Ganfrion's scar-twisted mouth. He
tipped his head in amusement, and pulled the tap. When
his mug was only two-thirds full, the stream of liquid drib-
bled to a halt.
"Oh, dear." Exaggerated gentility dripped from the
words. "It appears I've taken the last of it. Here, Suds."
Ganfrion held' the mug out. "Have mine. After all, we have
you new lads to thank for the fancy fare this morning,
don't we?"
Mikhyel turned away. Ganfrion's hand on his elbow
stopped him, brought him about to face the barrel again.
"I'll share mine with you."
Suddenly, the tactic was too obvious, the depletion too
convenient. Mikhyel reached past the inmate, who refused
to move away from the tap, and pulled the lever. Fruit juice
sprayed across the man's already stained pantleg.
"Oh, dear," Mikhyel said, mimicking Ganfrion, words
and tone. "It appears to have had an air pocket. Ex-
cuse me."
This time, the inmate did move aside. Mikhyel filled his
mug and returned to Deymorin's niche, reaching it with his
mug still full despite his shaking hands.
Deymorin said nothing, but from the look in his eyes,
and the murderous anger underneath, Mikhyel could only
hope Raulindor Nikkicould secure their freedom
today. Soon. He'd seen the reports on men who had tried
to make a lone stand in the Crypt; Deymorin would only
get himself seriously hurtif not killed.
And Deymorin would be alone in such a stand. Mikhyel,
when all was said and done, was useless in the sort of en-
counter Deymorin would provoke.
Morning and a third mug of juice led to natural conse-
quences. Having convinced Deymorin he had been going
to the latrine on his own for several years now, and with
Deymorin's {Just don't fall in.} echoing in his head, he
wended his way in the gas-given daylight to that area of
the vast chamber to which his instincts had led him unerr-
ingly in last night's dark.
The flames were brighter this morning, and more numer-
ous: the prison's attempt to simulate passage of time. Rho-
matum believed in punishing her wrongdoers, but not in
outright cruelty. She'd learned constant dim lighting was
not, in the long run, economical, as it turned already mar-
ginally socialized men into unreasoning animals.
And these daylight levels did make the massive chamber
infinitely less intimidating. What had been a confused mon-
tage of suddenly-there stone walls last night became a hon-
eycomb of narrow corridors and antechambers.
Most of those chambers contained straw-filled pallets and
crumpled, stained blankets. Substantially more pallets than
there were inmates to fill them. If he and Deymorin were
forced to spend another night here, it was quite possible
that they might do so in slightly more comfort than last
night.
Or (images of Ganfrion and his pack intruded) they
might not.
There were two men seated side by side in the latrine
comparing philosophies of purgatives when he arrived. One
voice, at least, belonged to last night's pack.
Mikhyel ducked into the nearest stone pocket to await
their departure.
Their conversation drifted from purgatives, to politics, to
prostitutes. Based on a mixture of fact, rumor, and innu-
endo from all over the web, they created a curious kaleido-
scopic view of the world above. As Mikhyel waited in
increasing discomfort, he decided that if a man truly wanted
to test the pulse of the City, he should find just such a spot
juxtaposed to the public latrines and set up constant
surveillance.
"So, think they'll trip us fer th' fun'ral?"
The second man's response was little more than a mum-
ble, but it roused coarse laughter.
"Hah. Web's fried. Frizzled. Old Annie-girl's dead or
near enough as makes no never mind. Sooner th' better, I
sez. Or bitch runs th' web like it's 'er own friggin' dinkin-
rod. She goes, th' web goes" A noise followed Mikhyel
did not believe originated in the man's throat. "Ask me if
I gives a fuck."
More mumbling.
"Shit, no. I jes hopes she takes that fuckin' asshole of a
nevvie with 'er."
A pause for mumbles, then: "Naw. Those ain't the Rho-
mandi, more's the pity. Jes one more batcha fakes. I 'mem-
ber  that  black-haired  second.  Mean-lookin'  bastard.
Proud." A pause, then laughter. "This 'un, he had
practice."
A pause. Laughter. Mikhyel stared into the shadows and
waited, coldly indifferent.
"Yup. Frustrated as 'ell. All prepared fer a bit more per-
sonal attention, ol' Gan was. Has a taste fer th' hiller-brats.
Too bad blackie ain't dunMheric. Mebbe get us pard'ns,
each 'n ever' one uv us, bein' so restrained an' all in our
urges. 'Say again? Yeah, well leastwise long 'nough f go
f th' old ringbat's immersin'. 'Ell of a party at'll be. Ever'
damn shiny-pocket, tax-eatin' thief in th' web'll be there."
More mumbling.
"Private immersin'? That'sthat's uncivilized! Cheats th'
lightfingers, it does! Big funeral like that 'un should be
all the rich-uns, all that weepin' an' wailin'hells, we'd be
set up fer good n' all. Then we get th' 'ell outta here afore
they locks us back Ah-h-h. That's it fer me."
Mumbling and the splash of water, and the area was
free. Finally.
The prison's plumbing was simple. Rainwater, collected
in cisterns somewhere above ground, exited here in con-
trolled, narrow streams from spouts along the wall. Cupped
stone basins received and pooled it for washing, then fun-
neled it to a urinal channel along the wall, flushing liquid
waste down past the seats (where the previous users had
been so leisurely enthroned) and ultimately, he would sup-
pose, to the ley itself, where such human by-products, in
the manner of the ley, disappeared, to nourish the growth
of another generation of leythium crystals.
Off to one side, a slate-edged sunken pool provided cool,
but clean, bathing water, and piped spigots, filled from
somewhere outside the cavern, gave foaming liquid.
Suds. He frowned, irritated that the memory of last night
had any power still to disturb his thoughts. No reason a
man couldn't stay clean here. Provided, of course, he was
allowed to bathe in peace.
He was wondering, as he refastened his clothing, what
the odds of that happening might be, when a blow between
his shoulders sent him up against the stone wall. He re-
bounded, scrambling for balance on the shallow conduit's
slick stone.
A hand imprisoned his wrist and twisted his arm back
and up between his shoulders. A large body pressed him
hard against the stone.
"You are left-handed, aren't you. Suds?"
He hadn't the breath to answer, even had he been so
inclined. Anger flared. And fear, as Deymorin sensed his
anger and surged to his feet, out there beneath the stairs.
Ignoring his captor, Mikhyel wished Deymorin to be calm,
to stay where he was, and he knew relief when Deymorin
settled.
"You don't have to answer," the voiceGanfrionwas
saying. "I know. I remember those white fingerssigning
my death sentence."
So, the secret was no longer. He said nothing, still think-
ing primarily of Deymorin and calm. But that was patently
false. He remembered every man he'd ever sentenced to
death, and this Ganfrion was not one of them. Ganfrion
was trying to goad him into
Another twist threatened every joint in his arm. He
clamped his jaw on a cry of protest.
"I could take you here and now, dunMheric." Spittle
dribbled a cold, slimy trail down his neck. "I could take you
and leave you for the rest. They're over there, dunMheric.
Waiting. You could be dead before that big brother of
yours even missed you."
"I'm not"
Ganfrion's lower body slammed his into the irregular
stone of the wall, obliterating his protest. Ganfrion's other
hand buried itself in his hair, took a twist and pulled, arch-
ing his head back, forcing eye contact. The too-close face
swam in time with the throb in his head and body. He
stared through the image, thinking of Deymorin and calm.
"I know who you are, Lord Supreme High Justice Mi-
khyel Rhomandi dunMheric." The hissed whisper was for
his ear alone. "That smooth chin threw me off at first, but
I remember that look of yours, lawyer-man, and your
Tower-born airs, and I'm here to tell you, it did my heart
good to see you on your knees in front of me, you arrogant
son-of-a-whore."
Another driving thrust of hip and arm sent shafts of pain
through his body and drove the air from his lungs. Mikhyel
pressed his face against the cold stone, closing his eyes
against gray-and-gold swirls that seemed to surge toward
him and fall away at one and the same time.
{Stay where you are, Deymorin. Stay calm. Mikhyel is
fine.} The thought became a litany in his mind.
The pressure eased enough for him to draw breath.
"Do you remember me, dunMheric? Or do you throw
so many lives away they all blur together? Do you remem-
ber? Do you know why I'm here?"
That was" almost too easy. Only a handful of offenses
could legitimately land a man in this particular grotto.
"Murder, I should imagine." His gasping after breath
robbed the comment of the indifference he sought, and
Ganfrion chuckled, a throaty, mocking sound.
"Not rape? You wound my pride, lawyer-man."
"On the con" His answer collapsed in a grunt, as
someone entered the latrine and Ganfrion leaned his full
weight on him.
His arm and shoulders were on fire, his feet were going
numb. He fought for balance against slippery stone and
Ganfrion's deliberately shifting weight, while the unknown
inmate urinated quickly, and as quickly departed, politely
ignoring their presence.
When they were alone, the pressure eased, and Mikhyel
continued on a gasping intake of breath, "trary. I was
implying your pleasure didn't require force."
"Funny man. Clever man," said the whisper in his ear.
With a parting thrust, the massive weight let up. The
hold on his wrist relaxed and guided the numb limb to
a controlled drop. But he wasn't fool enough to believe
himself free.
"Assassin, as happens," Ganfrion continued. "Politically
felicitous elimination. The system taking a good dump.
Hardly the same thing as common murder."
"If you insist."
"And do you know who hired me?" The hand worked
its way up his arm, rubbing gently. Solicitously. Mocking
his weakness. "Do you know who promised, on her honor,
I'd not be prosecuted if I were caught?"
"Should I care?"
"Oh, yes, Lord Justice, I think you should."
The answer was suddenly obvious. Mikhyel glanced
back. "Anheliaa."
"Clever, clever, lad. Suds." Fingers infiltrated his hair to
caress his scalp, paused and took a ruthless twist. "And do
you know who I was hired to kill?"
"Me?" It was an embarrassingly small, choked sound he
made, but the fingers smoothed his hair aside, booking it
over his shoulder, then slid down and around his waist.
"Now, Suds, you know better than that. Try again."
"Deymorin." Again, obvious. And it meant Ganfrion had
been here a minimum of seven months. Likely longer.
"Very good. Suds."
He tried to remember back. Tried to remember the
man's name, his face. Certainly, he'd never have forgotten
the charge. If Ganfrion were telling the truth
Warm breath on his cheek, a brush of rough-trimmed
beard. "Still so smooth. What do you do. Lord Justice, wear
a fake to hide the fact you haven't the baits to grow your
own?"
Mikhyel stared straight ahead, ignoring that touch, ignor-
ing the taunt, both intended to shake him from the fact
that the man's story didn't fit. Assassin: possible. Hired by
Anheliaa: also possible. But an attempt on Deymorin . . .
"You're lying," he stated firmly. "I sentence no one arbi-
trarily, I would remember"
He swallowed the rest as Ganfrion's hand slipped the
first button on his breeches.
"Auntie got the charges changed. Suds. She kept her
promise at least that far. And since an attempt on the
Princeps of Rhomatum would have been a death sentence,
I suppose I should thank her for that."
That still didn't explain why "You didn't recognize
him."
"Didn't I?"
The hand slipped the last button and invaded his cloth-
ing; Mikhyel fought to keep Deymorin out of his head and
seated on the stairs.
"But I had to wonder. Suds, when you three showed up.
Did she intend me to finish the job? Do you suppose after
they took your bodies from here, I'd be free? Or dead?"
He said nothing.
"I heard baby brother and big brother arguing last night.
Appears you lads have a problem."
"Nothing we can't work out."
"No? I suppose not. You and big brother Deymio can
work out everything, can't you? Brother Nikki. Who runs
the city. Who fucks brother Khyel . . ."
Mikhyel's heart beat loudly in his ears. Ganfrion's hand
rested quietly on his flank, a tactic as unexpected as it was,
considering the alternatives, welcome. But Mikhyel didn't
trust that restraint, and he wondered when the pretense
both physical and verbalwould drop.
"Why am I still alive . . . Barrister? What kind of brother
is he? Is he a true brother at all? Or just Mheric's son?
Does he enjoy seeing you humiliated, too?"
Mikhyel closed his eyes and calmed his breathing, con-
centrating on Deymorin and stairs, not the fantasies of a
man who couldn't begin to know the truth of his outland-
ish accusations.
"Perhaps the whore would like to see the unfriend humil-
iated"
"Touch him, and you'll regret it."
"Really? Such loyalty. And toward someone who sat on
the stairs while you . . . well, we won't talk about that any
more, will we? And what will you do, little hill-boy whore?
You'll get no sympathy from anyone here. The lads will
laugh while they're fucking you to death."
"You seem to take your own death very lightly. Because
when this is all straightened out, if I'm dead, if Deymorin
is, Nikki is capable of having the lot of you executed. And
there are those in the Council who will support that."
"Ah, yes. Death. That's a powerful card, lawyer-man."
Its passivity at an end, the hand began to inch its way
randomly along his skin. "And Nikki-boy is gone, now.
Green and gold took him, along with the Tower black. A
man interested in living would have to wonder what that
means. Tarim in control? Would Tarim want his daughter's
husband's competition taken out? Or would he fear the
Lord Justice more? What do you think. Suds? Which would
you choose?"
"Deymorin's never wanted Rhomatum," Mikhyel an-
swered, without hesitation. "He'd pose no competition to
Nikki's position."
The hand paused.
"So you would eliminate the Lord Justice? If you were
I?"
"If my goal was to curry favor with Tarim. Yes."
"Curious. On the other hand . . . perhaps I don't have
to choose. Perhaps if both of you"
Temper flared, without warning.
"Damn you!" he hissed into the stone, then realized the
temper for Deymorin's, and shut them both down.
"You presume too soon. Suds. Tarim's is not the only
game. Anheliaa's isn't. What if I leave youand your
brotheralone? What if I keep the others off you? You
might be out of here before nightfall. Or perhaps tomor-
row. Perhaps a week, but you will be free, won't you? If
you're alive. Your kind, you slick and powerful scum, never
stay, regardless of your crimes, regardless of the Family's
current little power games."
Temper flared again. Deymorin's, perhaps, or his own at
this indictment against the system in which he took great
personal pride.
"If I take care of you, one day, you'll be here, the next,
you'll be back in your courtroom sending men to this hell-
hole. And pardoning them."
Mikhyel set his jaw against the retort that rose to his
lips. Deymorin, he told himself firmly. It was Deymorin's
anger, not his.
"If I were you, dunMheric, I'd remember this day. Re-
member this very moment. Remember what I know about
you. Remember I could have made your life a living hell
and didn't. Remember I kept these animals away from you,
and that I didn't press your brother for the fight that would
kill him with no questions asked. You owe me, dunMheric,
and you'll either pay that debt, or the worldand your
brotherwill know how you survived last night. Do you
understand me?"
He should say somethinghe was supposed to be so
cleverbut his mind was blank.
"Do you?"
"I'm not" His breath exploded as once again Ganfrion
leaned full against him.
Yet another inmate had entered the latrine, this time
with some rude comment about needing more time than a
woman, and Ganfrion's hand was again moving, never
minding the other inmate's presence.
Or, perhaps, because of it. The touch was almost clinical
in its examination of his unnaturally smooth flesh.
A grunt, of surpriseor perhaps, of confirmation. Either
was possible. But when those callused fingers surrounded
him, Mikhyel felt that inner wall that kept him separate
from Deymorin fracture.
"Do you hear, little man?" The words were a breath in
his ear.
He fought the wall furiously back into solidarity and
whispered: "I hear you, Ganfrion."
The hand squeezed. "And you owe me, word of a
Rhomandi."
"Damn y"
"Your word, Rhomandi."
"Iowe you."
"Good." With a final, almost tender, caress, Ganfrion
released him and walked away, nodding casually at the man
who'd settled indifferently on the stone seat.
Forcing his shaking knees to support him, Mikhyel
pushed himself free of the stained wall, stumbled to one of
the inlets, and held his wrists under the chilly stream, wait-
ing for his head to clear, disgusted at himself for letting
Ganfrion's tactics affect him.
It was a reasonable enough negotiation, if somewhat un-
orthodox in its delivery. Not a stupid man, Ganfrion. Re-
venge and a way out, all in one controlled act.
But it was over. The deal made. // Deymorin would con-
trol himself.
Always, if Deymorin would control himself.
When his breath had steadied to his satisfaction, he
checked and reinforced that inner wall for which he had
no rational explanation or description, secured his clothing,
and left the latrine.
~ 8 8
"I thought I told you not to fall in," Deymorin said,
trying to hide his relief at Mikhyel's reappearance.
Mikhyel stopped short, a startled look on his face.
Forcing a grin, Deymorin pointed at his brother's damp
boots, endeavoring not to notice the other stains on Mikhy-
el's clothing. "Miss the drain, did you?"
Mikhyel glanced down, biinked, then laughed and sank
into Nikki's pile of straw, his booted feet thrust out in front
of him. "Apparently. Looks as if you'd better come along
next time. Teach the baby to aim."
"That should be the cheapest entertainment I've had in
years." He regretted the words the moment he said them.
Trying too hard, just like Nikki. Trying not to invade his
brother's pride, and failing miserably. "Khyel, I'm sorry."
Eyes that had gone unfocused, flickered up to him.
"Why? Oh, that." A faint shake of the head. "You worry
too much, JD. Say what you like. I know what you mean."
Perhaps that was true. But there was a lifetime of words
said that shouldn't have been, and nothing could erase
those years, just as nothing could wipe from Deymorin's
mind the knowledge of who had disappeared toward the
latrine right after Mikhyel left.
And nothing could wipe from his mind the knowledge
that only Mikhyel's wishes and Mikhyel's blood-chilling
thoughts had kept him from joining the pissing party. He'd
been sickened by the forced inaction, and resented Mikhy-
el's passive acceptance of the situation that hampered any-
thing he might do to stop it.
Mikhyel's shadow-smile faded. He rubbed his arms as if
chilled, but made no move to join Deymorin. His hair was
loose again; he pulled the strands forward and separated it
into sections. "What do you suppose is happening to him?"
"Nikki?" Deymorin asked, and Mikhyel's head dipped.
"Do you really want to speculate?"
"I suppose not. It's just . . . I stopped feeling him when
he entered the Tower, and"
"The Tower? Rings, Khyel, just how much do you get
from us?"
"I" Shaking hands fouled the braid. Mikhyel cursed
softly and finger-combed it free to begin again. What had
begun as necessity was rapidly devolving to a nervous tic.
"I think this is the first time I've completely lost touch of
him since his wedding night. Before that"
"Before?" Deymorin repeated. "You mean, his birth-
day? When Anheliaa threw me out? That's the first time I
noticed anything. I didn't understand at the time, of course,
but in retrospect, that's what I think of as the real
beginning."
Mikhyel frowned. "There was that, yes. But I'm begin-
ning to think this ability has been with us a very long time.
What you said last night, about Nikki and the closet, has
had me wondering whether or not it's always been there.
Maybe we just never needed it enough."
"Or, at least, not since Mheric died. Is that what you're
saying?"
Mikhyel nodded, his eyes fixed on some spot just beyond
his boots. "When we were children and Mheric would come
after me, no matter where Nikki was, he'd end up in the
closet, right where I wanted him to be. I remember yelling
at him to go there, but it was all in my head. Mheric would
have killed me if I'd screamed. I'd wish Nikki there in the
closet, safe. And he always was. My consciousness of him
is clearer now, more constant, but I don't think it's entirely
new. Any of it."
"Your consciousness of him," Deymorin repeated. "And
of me?"
There was a long pause, containing Mikhyel's silent ex-
amination of his hands and the repair of a ragged nail.
"Who knows? We've been at odds for so long, have gone
to such great lengths to misunderstand each other, to think
the worst. For all I know, half the problem I had was be-
lieving one thing about you based on apparent facts and
knowing underneath, that I was wrong."
"Says the man who deals daily with politicians."
Gray eyes flickered up at him. "You were my brother,
not a Syndic."
"Point, Khyel."
"When we were youngperhaps, though I can't remem-
ber. The need wasn't there. Except"
"Except the time I reset the rings?" Deymorin followed
that train of thought, and Mikhyel nodded.
"Terror has been known to work miracles," Deymorin
said with a grin.
"True. But the Talent had to be there in order for you
to tap it. We snuck into the Tower together. / touched
them and disrupted their orbits, but I could never have
reset them." His eyes dropped. "The rings themselves
know, I've tried often enough since. As for the rest of what
we have experienced, I can barely recall what my mind was
like two months ago. Besides, how can we know what 'nor-
mal' is? I'd assumed, because the change was so obvious
following Nikki's wedding night, that that was the true be-
ginning. But after last night . . . I just don't know any
more."
Mikhyel occupied himself again with his fine, slippery
hair. Thinking he needed something to keep the end tied,
Deymorin pulled Mikhyel's stained cloak into his lap and
began plucking at the threads holding the decorative gold
braid in place.
Mikhyel's hands slowed, his head tipped, his brows puck-
ered. In someone else, Deymorin would interpret the look
as confusion.
"And now?" Deymorin asked. "How much do you get
from me these days?"
"I . . ." Mikhyel's gaze flickered and fell away. "Right
now? Not much. Other times . . . a great deal, Deymio.
Words, when we all seem to want it, but mostly, just . . .
things. Things I'd rather not know, things I've no right to
know. I try not to hear, but . . . sometimes I can't stop it.
Sometimes, I . . ."
Mikhyel's voice faded, and his expression grew puzzled,
watching Deymorin's hands.
Mikhyel got "things" from Deymorin that he'd rather
not know, but evidently not so mundane a thought as why
Deymorin was pulling the braid free, one stitch at a time.
Only emotionally charged things bridged spontaneously
between them, things a man would most want to keep pri-
vate. Perhaps the type of impressions he got from Mikhyel
on occasionor the flood he got from Nikki. A wave of
resentment flowed through him, a sense of violation.
The look Mikhyel cast across the room to him was
pained, uncertain, mirroring the fact that Mikhyel was, to
some  unknown  extent,  following  his thoughts,  his
reasoning.
"I didn't know1 didn't know it was so different for
you." It was all he could think of to say. "So much worse.'
"Worse?" Mikhyel shrugged. "Is it worse to know, or be
known? I can't honestly answer that."
Thoughts of Nikki, then, and Nikki's constant resentment
at being misunderstoodor understood too wellcame to
Deymorin, along with recollections of how Nikki's resent-
ments had colored and disrupted all their lives. He exam-
ined his thoughts and decided he wasn't ashamed of those
thoughts or of how he felt, and wasn't afraid for Mikhyel
to know.
And with that insight, he banished his own resentment
toward Mikhyel and Mikhyel's involuntary perception. Re-
sentment that would never, he sincerely hoped, return, al-
though he was realistic enough to know it would, from time
to time.
On the other hand, reserved, self-possessed Mikhyel
might well feel a need to conceal his truths, and particularly
his feelings.
"I don't get nearly as much from you," he said, feeling
obliged to voice that reassurance.
Mikhyel shrugged and slumped back against the wall
staring broodingly at his loosely laced fingers.
Deymorin picked another stitch free. "You said you lost
Nikki when, he went into the Tower?"
Mikhyel nodded, still brooding.
"Distance?"
Hesitation, then a slow shake of the head.
"Something in the door, do you think? Something about
the building itself? The fact it's right above the node,
maybe?"
Another unspoken negative. The strip of piping came
free.
"Well? Why, then? Have you any idea?"
A flickering glance. Embarrassment, clear and quickly
smothered. Mikhyel had an idea what was keeping him
from Nikki's mind, but Mikhyel wasn't saying, because
Mikhyel thought it would make him sound stupid.
And since that barrier was, for now, a point about which
they could do nothing, prove nothing, one way or another,
Deymorin was content to let the matter drop. He tossed
Mikhyel the strip of gold piping from the cloak, thinking
deliberately of Mikhyel's hair.
Mikhyel, without comment, caught the strip and secured
his braid.
Just as he'd planned when he began picking that braid
free. But Mikhyel's mind hadn't ascertained that simple
goal, until he'd deliberately cast the thought along with the
braid. And Mikhyel's certainty of Deymorin's thoughts had
seemed to waver the entire time he'd been working on that
purely functional task.
"You might make it easier on yourself, you know,"
Deymorin said.
"No, but I'm certain you'll tell me."
"You mean, you're not picking it up?"
"Deymorin, I try to leave your head alone, strange as
that lack of curiosity might seem. Mostly, I get images.
Feelingsemotions as well as touch. Opinions come
through as vague pros or cons1 assume on the topic under
discussion. Since I've a fair number of associations from
the past ten minutes, it's far easier to ask than to try to
figure it out."
"Interesting. Well, as I was saying"
"Told you."
"As I was saying, you'd make things much easier on
yourself if you'd try confiding once in a while."
"Confiding."
"The important parts of topics on which you don't want
us to know everything, and want us speculating even less.
You'd keep our curiosity quieter."
"I'm . . . out of the habit."
"Managed tolerably well last night."
Mikhyel's frown was dubious at best.
"You could start with what really happened just now,
between you and the ugly unfriend."
Mikhyel's frown deepened, his eyes stared off into dirt-
filled corners. Deymorin waited patiently.
It wasn't as if he had any pressing appointments.
"He knows, Deymio."
"Knows?"
"Who we are. He heard us talking last night."
"Careless of us."
"Not necessarily. He'd have recognized me eventually
anyway. Or someone would. Occupational hazard. Rule
number one: Don't get arrested in your own district."
"I'll commission you a plaque for your wall."
"I appreciate that."
"And?"
"And he's in here for attempted murder."
"Attempted?"
"Of you."
"Oh. I'm glad he only attempted."
"Quite. Anheliaa hired him."
"Another unsurprise."
"And he's keeping the locals off us."
"Out of the goodness of his heart, no doubt. Redemp-
tion, perhaps?"
"Favors. Currently unspecified, as I'm still rather limited
in value. And hethreatened blackmail."
"About last night?"
Mikhyel shrugged. Last night, but there was something
else: guilt, perhaps, but unspecified. A man didn't need the
underneath sense to know that. Concern, about what
Deymorin didn't know, and the unfriend did. Deymorin
pulled the cloak to his lap again, and began picking idly at
loose threads.
"I have only one question, Khyel," he said, and Mikhyel
looked at him, straightly but with a hint of fear underneath.
Uncertainty. Another thread came free. "How did you talk
them into it?"
A start. A tightening about the eyes. "You heard?" Mi-
khyel tapped his temple with one long finger, but Dey-
morin shrugged.
"No need. No man puts himself willingly between the
jaws of a stranger, man or woman, without some sort of
guarantee, brother. Must have been the fastest talk of
your career."
Mikhyel's mouth opened ever-so-slightly. His breath
caught in a little hiccup of a laugh. "You're amazing,
Deymorin."
He grinned. "One of these days, I'll remind you you
said that."
Laughter happened, reluctantly, at first, and gaining in-
tensity as the tension slipped from their minds, and those
internal pressures relaxed at last.
Mikhyel stopped first, and abruptly. And he sat there,
staring into emptiness. A freak ray of light made the green
rim around his gray eyes gleam.
{Nikki's awake.}
It was his own room that greeted Nikki when he opened
his eyes, and honest sunlight shining through the same win-
dows he'd awakened to most days of his life.
Clothing lay strewn about, same as always after an eve-
ning on the outer rings with Jerrik. While he didn't remem-
ber such an evening (which wasn't unusual), his head didn't
hurt (which was).
His guitar rested in its bedside stand, as it always had,
the little gray horses on the embroidered strap Anheliaa's
servant, Mirym, had given him for his seventeenth birthday
shimmered and danced in the sunlight as if they were alive.
The sheer bed curtains floated on a breeze; the windows
were open. The bath gurgled beyond the open door. His
sheets smelled of fresh rose petals, for all he did not.
Another, not particularly unusual, state of existence.
And he wondered, just for a moment, if it had all been
a dream: the prison. Mother, the battle, even his wedding.
Perhaps today was his seventeenth birthday, and he'd go
to breakfast, and Deymorin would have arrived from Dar-
haven as he'd promised, and they'd spend the day market-
grazing, and Deymorin would laugh at his taste in
But, no, there was the strap Mirym had made for him
for his birthday, and the stiffness in his shoulder from a
Mauritumin bullet.
"Nikki?" His name was a whispered hiss rising like steam
from the sunken bathing room. "Dammit, Nik, aren't you
awake yetT'
"C'mon in, Jerri," he answered on a jaw-cracking yawn,
and sat up, stretching joints that snapped and popped.
"Rings, what time is it?"
"Past midday and halfway to dinner," Jerrik dunDaleri's
voice answered, still in a whisper. "And keep your voice
down!"
"Hub? Jerri, get out here."
Jerrik appeared in the bath doorway, and eyed the suite's
entrance suspiciously. Bare feet, loose shirt belted over
loose hiller trousershe looked as if he were planning to
stay in all day. But his clothes were stained at knees and
elbows, and there was a smudge on his cheek.
"What'd you do?" Nikki asked. "Come through the
passage?"
"Four weeks since I've seen or heard from you. This
morning there're five guards at your door, and I've orders
to be ready to dress you at a moment's notice. Damn right
I came in the back, and I'll leave the same way, once I've
an answer or two out of you, you lazy bastard."
"Guards?" Nikki repeated, a bit dazed.
"Nik, what's wrong with you? I've been stuck in that
gods-be-damned room for four gods-be-damned weeks be-
cause you wouldn't take me gods-be-damned with you to
find your gods-be-damned brother. 'Watch Khyel,' you said.
But two days after you left, the hells above Rhomatum
rained lightning, the web went down, and Khyel took off
to Giephaetum. Now you're back. Alone. Acting the half-
wit"
"The web?" The Rhomatum Web didn't go down.
Couldn't now Khoratum was capped, wasn't that what An-
heliaa had always claimed?
"Dark as Outside here for three days. Rioters damn-
near"
"You said, Mikhyel left?" he asked, the most confusing
fact   in   the   confusing   flow   of   information.   "For
Giephaetum?"
"With Nethaalye dunErrif and her father. Not that I saw
him before he left. I was locked in my room."
"But..."
But four weeks ago, Mikhyel had appeared in the sky
over his head just before the Rhomatum Web had de-
stroyed the Mauritumin lightning machine in a battle the
sounds of which still echoed in Nikki's dreams.
Of course, he hadn't actually seen Mikhyel fall, he'd been
tied in the back of a wagon under a cloth, but he'd felt
himin the old, normal way, not the newland on top of
him. Before the world exploded around him.
"I tell you, Nik, it's been crazy-making. That new wife
of yours littered the place with her father's guardsmen. I
can't imagine where he was keeping them all. They told
me to stay put, and I didn't argue: stay low and keep quiet
sounded sensible to me, considering what was going on
elsewhere. Besides, I had those maps to copy, and since I
can get out of here any time I want"
"Maps?" he repeated, trying to follow Jerrik's account.
"Out?"
But a cold feeling was creeping into his gut. He remem-
bered thinking, just last night, that the Mikhyel in the Crypt
with Deymorin simply wasn't the same as the Mikhyel he'd
known all his life, but a changeling. He'd dismissed it as
impossible, but if his Mikhyel was actually in Giephaetum,
then the Crypt . . . Deymorin . . .
He raised a hand to a head strangely scattered.
"Wake up, Nik." Jerrik came into the room at last, a
look of disgust on his face, hooked a stocking from under
a chair with his bare toe, and flipped it up into his hand,
then began dealing similarly with other clothing strewn
about the room.
Trying to think past the cottony haze that passed for his
mind this morning, Nikki remembered leaving his brothers
in Sparingate, remembered coming into the Tower just be-
fore dawn, under guard, remembered being escorted to his
room where they left him alone at last. He remembered a
glass of wine, welcome to his chilled toes, and shedding his
clothes and falling into bed with his shirt still . . . half . . .
Wine. He stared at the drained and dropped goblet lying
beside his bed, and suspicion flared.
Drugged. Someone had drugged the gods-be-damned
wine!
He stared at Jerrik, wondering if he could have done it
a thought as horrifying in its way as the idea that that
person in the Crypt with Deymorin might not be Mikhyel.
Jerrik had been his best friend forever. He'd been counting
on Jerrik to help him get Deymorin and Mikhyel out. If
Jerrik was Anheliaa's now, too . . . or Lidye's . . . it was
Lidye in charge, now. Or Lidye's father.
He pulled off his half-buttoned shirt and tossed it at Jer-
rik, who added it to the pile.
"Well?" Jerrik asked, expectantly.
"Is the bath hot?" he asked, and Jerrik eyed him as if
he'd gone mad. Of course it was hot. He was in the Tower
now, not at Armayel. The baths in the Tower were always
hot, always circulating. As long as the web was up, and
rings, when hadn't it been?
Four weeks ago, a part of him answered.
He headed for the bathing room.
"Nikki"
"I want a bath. I can't think when I smell like a trap-
per's outhouse."
He grabbed Jerrik's stained sleeve as he passed. Jerrik
followed, still protesting, and Jerrik slapped Nikki's hand
away when, in wordless suggestion, he jerked Jerrik's shirt
free of its belt.
Nikki shrugged and made a flying dive into the pool.
When he surfaced, Jerrik gave an impatient hiss, pulled
the door closed and locked it. Leaving his clothes neatly
on the wall hooks, he slid into the swirling water.
"Nikki, I"
Nikki dove for Jerrik's heels and pulled him under, end-
ing the protest.
Jerrik kicked free and shoved upward. Nikki followed
and ducked him again, desperately seeking his old friend,
whose help he needed now, more than ever. But despera-
tion faded in a reunion full of wild attempts at mutual
drowning. Too large for simple soaking, too small for a
proper swim, the pool was sufficiently deep and wide to
momentarily drown all questions.
It was all too easy for Nikki to forget, while dodging a
faceful of water here, slipping a body tackle there, that his
brothers weren't likewise buoyantly occupied, but sitting in
a place he'd only heard of yesterday morning, a place
whose scent he sought, even now, to eliminate from his
nostrils.
Easy, except after the first excited tackle, his healing
shoulder began to ache. Easy, except that in the back of
one's mind, one remembered the guards and made the re-
union abnormally silent.
On that second, disturbing realization, Nikki took a wa-
tery blast full in the face. He caught Jerrik's wrist on the
rebound, forcing a silent truce.
Panting, they eyed each other across water rippling silver
in-the leylight, a light he hadn't experienced for weeks. A
light that was foreign-feeling, in a way it never had been
on other returns from the Outside.
But he was clear-headed now as he hadn't been before,
and plagued with the thought that someone had wanted to
guarantee he slept very late and woke with addled wits. He
needed to be certain, above all else, that Jerrik's hand
hadn't put that drugged wine beside his bed.
Jerrik was his dearest friend. He'd left Darhaven and
moved to Rhomatum four years ago just so he could be
with Nikki all the time. They'd shared the same tutors,
ogled the same women, dreamed the same dreams. . . .
Jerrik's brow tightened, his wrist turned in Nikki's hold
to return the grasp. After a moment's silence, Jerrik tugged
insistently, pulling Nikki back to the side of the pool, press-
ing him to sit on the underwater ledge where the pressur-
ized inflow pummeled his lower back.
Jerrik perched behind him on the tiled rim, and began
applying foaming oil, scraper, and sponge to his shoulders
in a ritual as old as their friendship.
Nikki sighed and let his head drop forward, pretending
for a moment more that it was a year ago, and he and
Jerrik were getting ready to go down to the market and
compare opinions of bright-eyed and willing young ladies,
whose willingness he'd never experienced, never so much
as tasted.
"I see your lady wife's little love marks are all healed,"
Jerrik commented. "Planning on renewing them tonight?"
But it wasn't a year ago. He was married, now, tied for-
ever to a flaxen-haired witch who ripped his shoulders with
her enameled talons when they embraced.
"Rings," he muttered, "I'd rather be a eunuch."
Jerrik's laugh held real compassion, and he was silent
after. The  sponge  slid  up  and over Nikki's back,  then
paused as Jerrik's other hand swiped Nikki's hair aside.
The pause grew overlong; the sponge slid free, over Nikki's
shoulder, and into the bath, splashing soapy water into
his eyes.
"What in the eighteen hells above Rhomatum have you
been doing to yourself?"
The half-healed hole in his shoulder. His respite from
reality was over.
"My brother used me for target practice," he said sarcas-
tically and twitched away from the pool edge to scoop up
the sponge bobbing toward the narrow outlet.
"Target practice," Jerrik repeated in a colorless voice.
"Wouldn't put it outside the realm of possibility."
Nikki snapped the sponge in his friend's general direc-
tion, a retaliation that missed wildly and sent the sponge
skidding behind a warming rack.
"Possible," Jerrik repeated, retrieving the miscast missile.
"But somehow, I doubt it."
"What do you think? That I shot myself?"
"Also possible. C'mon, Nik, tell."
"Tell what?"
"Everything! How you got that hole in your shoulder,
where Deymorin isyou did find him, didn't you? Why'd
you come in in the middle of the night? Why the hell didn't
you wake me up? Why are there guards at your door?
Dammit, Nik, I knew there'd be trouble the moment you
decided to leave me behind. You never did learn which
end of a pistol spits the bullet."
"What? Am I a child that I need you to attend me?"
"Tell me!"
And he decided, all in a moment, that if he couldn't trust
Jerri, he might as well give up all hope of helping his broth-
ers. Mikhyel had negotiated a single night. The price of the
second might be far too high: Deymorin would get himself
killed protecting Mikhyel from further "negotiations."
"All right." Nikki threw himself back down, sending
water over the edge, and pointed toward his shoulders with
a crooked thumb. "All right. Rings, where do I start?"
"Did you find Deymio?"
"Yes, but" That was hardly the beginning.
"Where is he?"
He glared around at Jerrik. "Do you want to know
what happened?"
"Of course"
"Then shut up! Deymorin didn't leave. Neither did Mi-
khyelat least, I don't think Mikhyel did. They were
thrown out. By Anheliaa . . ."
Here in the Tower, in the silver light of the ley, the
horror of that moment when he'd first seen Mikhyel lying
seared and broken on the ground faded somehow and the
full impact of Anheliaa's accomplishments penetrated. He
twisted to catch Jerrik's wrist and stared up at him.
"It's amazing, Jerri. We were halfway between here and
Darhaven, on the Boreton Turnout, and he just . . . ap-
peared out of the sky on a bolt of lightning! Seconds before,
he'd been in the Tower, then, boom, there he was, naked
as the day he was born! And Deymio went all the way to
Persitum Pass!"
Jerrik's eyes widened, suitably astounded.
"It's the ley, Jerri," Nikki said, his enthusiasm growing
in proportion to Jerrik's widening eyes. "It can do wonder-
ful things. Things we never dreamed'"
"Then it's true," Jerrik whispered, but his voice held
nothing of awe, only horror.
"What's true?"
"She can make people disappear, just like they say.
Nikki, are they alive? Where are they? You said Mikhyel
fell from the sky. Is he hurt?"
"Of course they're all right," Nikki snapped, embar-
rassed. "You think I'd be here if they weren't?"
"Nikki, I don't know why you're here!"
"Mikhyel was hurt. Badly. But the Tamshi healed him,
don't you see?"
"Tamshi?" Jerrik drew his legs slowly from the water,
and even more slowly, stood up, pulling free of Nikki's
light grasp.
"Oh, get back here, I haven't gone mad." Nikki went for
Jerrik's ankle instead, gripped it in his excitement at the
secrets he was finally able to share with an appreciative
audience. "They're real, Jerry, just like we always believed.
She appeared first as a filthy, disgusting rag-hag, and she
touched  Khyel  and  his  pain  disappeared,  and  then
Dancer"
"What dancer?"
"Not what dancer. Dancer, that's Mother's helper. They
healed Khyel, Jerri, with an oil that gleamed with every
color in the rainbow, even there in the shade of the trees.
He was burnedall over. He was dying, but they saved
him."
And now he was in prison, with maybe worse things than
death happening to him. Nikki's enthusiasm faded; he re-
leased Jerrik's ankle and sank back down.
"Nikki, who shot you?" Jerrik asked, and he answered
absently, his mind still with his brothers:
"The Mauritumin spies."
"Mauritum. And Tamshirin." Jerrik eased toward the
wall rack, took down a thick robe, and slipped it over his
shoulders. "Nikki, you wait here. I'm going for help"
Snapping back to the Tower, Nikki leaped free of the
water, made it to Jerrik before he reached the door. He
spun his friend around, held him by the shoulders, and
forced him to look him in the eyes.
"I told you, I'm not crazy! I'm not making up tales. Not
this time. Anheliaa's been trying to get rid of Deytnorin.
She's even hired assassins. Mauritumin assassins. Mauritum
knows we've no replacement for her in the Tower, so
they're making a move on Rhomatum. Deymorin didn't
just leave. Last fall, when he refused to accept her bride-
choice, Anheliaa got mad at him and sent him away. He
landed in a lake in Persitum Pass about a month ago. He
landed on Kiyrstin's head, not mine. Mikhyel landed on
me."
"Kiyrstin?"
"Garetti's wife."
"Garetti," Jerrik repeated flatly. "Deymorin landed in
Persitum on High Priest romMaurii's wife."
"She tried to kill himGaretti, not Deymiothen ran
away with Vandoshin romMaurii. He's the Mauritumin spy
that shot me. Now Deymorin's in stupid-love with her, and
if she weren't married to Garetti, she'd be my sister, which
I really don't want her to be, but I'd rather her than lose
Deymorin again."
"Nikki, you're making less and less sense."
"It doesn't matter. The important thing is, when I went
looking for Deymorin, the rings had shown us he was at
Darhaven, so I went there"
"You saw him. At Darhaven. In the Rhomatum rings."
Nikki nodded. "I told you, the ley does things we've
never imagined! By the time I got there, Deymorin was on
his way here. I ran afoul of romMaurii, and Deymorin
talked with Khyel, who told him where I'd gone, so Dey-
morin went back Outside to find me. But by that time,
romMaurii was making his move on the Tower. He had
this machine, you see, that tames lightning, and he was
going to bring it into Rhomatum and destroy the rings,
don't you see?"
"I damnwell do not. Tame lighting, Nikki? And you
claim to be sane? Forgive me, old friend, if I don't take
your word for it. I've heard your stories before, and this
time, it's not funny."
Jerrik flipped the lock and jerked at the door.
Nikki, terrified that his own past stories had destroyed
any credibility he might have had, just when he needed it
most, grabbed Jerri's arm and pulled him back, to hold him
against the wall.
"But you must believe me, Jerri, because Deymorin and
Mikhyel are in the Crypt and we've got to get them out."
The pebble landed in the ring just outside the center of the
meticulously constructed straw maze.
"Ha! Got you again, little brother!" Deymorin laughed
and shook his head. "Out of practice, fry."
"Call me that one more time," Mikhyel said under his
breath, "and the next shot goes down your throat."
Mikhyel edged slowly around the maze, discovering the
wild strategies of brazen youth as alien to him now as the
flex and release of muscle and bone required to toss the
pebble cradled in his palm.
"Which one, childT' Deymorin asked, in a voice that
grinned and goaded, but Mikhyel ignored him. He found
his angle, crouched, and flipped the pebble flat-side down,
then snapped it toward the maze. It struck Deymorin's peb-
ble into the fourth ring on the far side, and deflected itself
into the center.
He stood up, brushing his hands free of dust, and glanced
across the maze at his brother.
"You were saying?"
Deymorin's mouth opened, shut, and he frowned at the
maze, moved to Mikhyel's vantage, and grunted. "Luck."
Mikhyel tipped his head. "If you insist. Another?"
Deymorin grunted and began resetting the straws. The
game was Dancer in the Maze, a game that had kept the
two of them occupied for hours, some twenty years ago.
Deymorin had suggested it as a means to pass the time and
to take their minds off whatever was happening in the
Tower.
He'd heard nothing more from Nikki after that initial
hazed awareness, but that slight touch had been sufficient
to assure him Nikki was well and in his own room, and at
his ease. A simple reality that did much to ease his own
mind, at least for the time being, despite the fact that the
strange veil had immediately closed between them, shutting
Nikki off again.
True to Ganfrion's word, the inmates had left them
aloneother than the occasional heckling comment when
they began constructing the maze. Even those had stopped,
now, and from the occasional argument over rules that
echoed through the Crypt, others had been inspired to try
their own hands at the ancient child's game.
"Here." Deymorin grabbed his hand and dropped his
eighteen stones into his palm. "You go first this"
The door thudded open. Footsteps clattered down the
stairs.
"DunMheric!" The name echoed through the mazelike
vastness. Murmurs and rude laughter and ruder remarks
answered from the dark crannies.
Deymorin's mouth twitched, and he murmured, "Wonder
which dunMheric they want?"
Mikhyel just looked at him, then stepped free of their
drafty spot beneath the stairs. Regardless who they called,
if it was only one dunMheric they wanted, the other would
be left down here with no possibly anonymity left.
Deymorin's hand landed firmly on Mikhyel's shoulder.
(I want to hear you, fry.}
He understood then, and didn't flinch away. But he
thought of Ganfrion, and the need to keep a cool head,
and begged Deymorin not to get himself killed before they
could get him out.
(Don't worry about me,} was Deymorin's thought.
{Who's the one laid out cold the last time they were
here?}
Amusement. Confidence. Enough of both he longed to
grab his brother and shake sense into him.
{I shall endeavor to behave.)
{See that you do, Rhomandi.}
The guards had seen them, and moved to surround them.
They were all in Tower black and this time, Mikhyel recog-
nized them all. Anheliaa's men.
Fear flooded him, though he kept his face impassive. An-
heliaa was alive. Anheliaa wanted him. Wanted to warp his
mind and force him to her bidding. Perhaps even to make
him order Deymorin's death.
A wave of near hysteria washed through him as he recog-
nized his own thoughts echoing Nikki's panic, when they'd
come after him. He fought the fear down, forced rational
thinking to the surface.
{Just yell, brat,} Deymorin's thought came through on
a surge of confidence. {We stopped her before. We'll do
it again.}
"DunMheric?" asked the guard in the lead.
"Yes," he and Deymorin said, as one.
The leader, Hodan, looked momentarily taken aback,
then: "Deymorin Rhomandi dunMheric, former Princeps
of Rhomatum?"
The panic in the link this time was Deymorin's. Dey-
morin had been certain they'd come for Mikhyel. Deymorin
had been prepared to stay here alone; he wasn't ready to
leave Mikhyel in a similar state.
{Hypocrite,} Mikhyel sent down Deymorin's touch, and
Deymorin sent back an image of himself, in a circle of men,
on his knees before Ganfrion.
{I can't leave you here, Khy!}
He sent back the same image, from ground level, and
laced it with details of the encounter in the latrineand
his own indifference.
The guard took Deymorin by the elbow and pulled him
around, jerking his hand from Mikhyel's shoulder.
"Secure him." Came the order.
"Dammit, no'." Deymorin said and resisted the guards'
attempts to force his hands behind his back. "I'll not go
through the streets bound like a common criminal!"
{Temper, brother.} Mikhyel touched his arm to be certain

he heard. {Don't be a fool.}

{And if Ganfrion decides to favor Anheliaa?}
{He won't.)
(I never took you for a fool, Mikhyel.l

{Just behave yourself and get me out of here as soon as

you can.}
"Deymorin!"
Kiyrstin's voice, from above them.
"Kiyrsti?" Deymorin answered and threw his head back,
searching for the door. "Kiyrstin, are you all right?"
"Fine, JD. Just quit giving these fellows trouble and get
your rear up here, will you?"
{Smart lady.}
{Damn right. But, Khyel, if they're taking her as well)
Mikhyel gave Deymorin a shove toward the foot of the
stairway, getting him out of any possible physical reach.
That might cut his thoughts off from Deymorm, but Dey-
morin, despite his valiant efforts to the contrary, continued
to radiate concern along with those damnable images.
Deymorin should never have seen that. He had and
would continue to put far too great an import upon it.
Worry too much, waste too much energy.
Yet as he watched Deymorin mount those stairs, watched
him greet Kiyrstin much as he'd parted from her, for all
his arms were secured behind his back, Mikhyel felt his
calm waver.
They knew, now, who he was. Every man he'd consigned
to this pit. And accidental death happened so easily here.
Deymorin looked down at him one last time and he
forced himself to nod confidently.
The door closed.
And a presence behind him whispered, "And then there
was one."
~    8    <gi
"Dee-nah-ah ees served," Jerrik intoned and bowed low.
As he straightened, he made a face at the closed door and
the pompous servant who was likely well on his way down
the hall by now.
"Well, let's see what he brought." Nikki sighed and
pushed himself out of his chair and pulled the top off the
tailor's box the servant had thrust into Jerri's hands.
Diaphanous fabric filled the box. Blues and greens . . .
dressmaker's flowers and ivy twined among the folds. Nikki
met Jerri's eyes, and pulled the creation gingerly from the
box.
A card fell as he shook the folds free. He dropped the
strange garment back in the box and picked the card up.
sMttt6i~ Afaecint- fw. tMtijAt. Mt~ iMuiwul.
He stared at the script. Lidye's writing, or so he thought.
"What do you think?" Jerrik asked. He'd tossed the box
aside and was holding the mostly transparent marvel up
against his body. "Wonder what you wear under it?"
Their eyes met again., It required no brotherly link for
him to guess Jerrik's lewd thoughts. As one, they burst out
laughing. It was a welcome release for the tension that had
built inside them both.
"So," Jerrik asked when he'd caught his breath. "You
going to change?"
"I . . . think not."
"So, what do we do with it?"
Another look. Another burst of laughter, and Nikki
grabbed the atrocity from Jerrik, ran to the pool and flung
it into the water. They stood side by side while the garment
bobbed, swirled and dipped with the movement of the
water, they watched as it reached the outlet and disap-
peared, soon to become one with the ley.
Like all sewage.
A moment of silence, then Jerrik said quietly, "Time to
go, Nik."
He nodded, and followed Jerrik out into the bedroom.
He eased his arms into the dinner jacket Jerrik held for
him, then extended his arms while Jerrik eased the tailored
seams into place. He shook out the lace at his wrists, then
stood passively while Jerrik tugged and pressed the folds
of his cravat into place.
As it had turned out, they'd had all afternoon, he and
Jerrik, to talk. The long hours had let him explainin sane
detailto Jerrik all that had happened since he'd left in
search of Deymorin, and he thought, perhaps, Jerrik actu-
ally believed him now, if only for Deymorin's and Mikhy-
el's sakes.
In the end, however, for all their wishes to the contrary,
they'd come up with nothing, no plan that had the least
hope of getting Deymorin and Mikhyel free. But then,
Deymorin's plan would do no better. Mikhyel's Raulind
had been confined to his rooms, same as Jerrik.
Finally, Jerrik pronounced him ready.
"Jerri, I"
"Nikki, I"
They laughed, and Nikki motioned for Jerrik to go first.
Eyes fastened on his bare toes, Jerrik said, "I'm sorry, Nik.
I should never have, well . . ."
"Doubted me?" Nikki finished for him, and Jerrik shifted
uncomfortably. "It's my own damn fault, Jerri. I've been
fabricating  lies  all  my  life,  trying  to  make  ordinary
things . . . not. Ordinary, I mean. I'm just glad"
"Yeah, Nik. So'm 1." Jerrik held out his hand, and Nikki
clasped it tightly. "Good luck, old man."
Nikki nodded, and headed for the door.
"Nikki?"
He turned. And intercepted a slightly scared, slightly
worried look that vanished into Jerrik's old, confident grin.
"Don't stay out too late."
Dinner was to be an intimate affair in the family dining
hall, at a small table, one only large enough for a party
of... oh... twenty. Silver, gold, and crystal glittered in
the flickering light of real candles; nuts, fresh fruits, and
vegetables from Outside hothouses had been cut and ar-
ranged to mimic exotic flowers; wine bubbled down a
carved-ice waterfall . . .
All for two people.
Bouquets of roses graced every nook, and as if their scent
wasn't enough, a fine mist of perfume puffed periodically
from aerators cast to look like the Tamshirin of children's
books. In fact, the entire room was draped and dressed to
look like those paintings.
Fanciful renderings that fell far short of the real thing.
"I'll wait in the Blue Salon," Nikki informed the ser-
vants, and turned on his heel, ordering winecorkedto
be sent to him there.
The Blue Salon was decorated in burgundies and pinks,
with hints of pale yellow, a phenomenon no one had ever
successfully explained to him. Color notwithstanding, it was
comfortable, it was convenient to the dining room, and by
its very hypocrisy eminently appropriate.
The wine bottle arrived with a second for when that ran
out. Nikki drank and waited, and paced and waited, and
sat and stared into the cold hearthwaiting.
There'd been no summons, not from Anheliaa, not from
Lidye. Just that announcement and delivery of the costume.
Having seen the folly awaiting him in the dining hall, he
wondered whether he'd been intended as guest or the
main course.
Lidye's father's men had said Lidye was in charge here,
but they hadn't actually said Anheliaa was dead. Even Jer-
rik had been unable to enlighten him. Jerrik had been held
a virtual prisoner for the past month. He'd been questioned
several times by Brolucci, captain of Anheliaa's Tower
guard, and Sironi, Lidye's father's sworn man, both of
whom appeared primarily interested in the Outsider army
Deymorin was supposedly amassing.
All indications were, Lidyeand Anheliaa, if she was
still alivehad no concept of the true scope of the prob-
lems facing Rhomatum. If he could, somehow, turn this
dinner to his advantage, use this opportunity to explain ex-
actly  what  had  happened,  to  convince  whoever  came
through that door that they were allies, not enemies, to
explain to them all those things Mikhyel had said they
needed
"Nikaenor?"
It was a stranger's voice, from far way in space and time,
almost as if it didn't belong to his memories at all, but
some other Nikaenor's.
"Nikki?"
Closer, and with the brush of fabric over carpet. A pale
lavender flounce puffed into his side vision, preceding a
feathery touch to his arm. "Please, look at me, Nikki."
Vaguely familiar, now, the voice was soft, but firm, im-
ploring without whining. Not the little girl's voice that had
at first fascinated him, then driven him mad with boredom.
Neither was it the harshly angry voice that had ordered
him  out  of the  bedroom following their wedding
night . . . breeding.
It was a woman's voice. Low. Cultured. A bit shaken
around the edges. Fear? Of rejection? His? Why should
she care? Why should it matter?
He let his gaze drift from the fire that wasn't there and
around to the woman's face that gazed up at him. Again,
he was struck by the feeling that this was not the same
woman he'd known. She had too much . . . substance,
somehow.
"Lidye," he said, statement of fact, not an address, and
her brow puckered.
As if, one was tempted to laugh, he'd hurt her feelings.
"Have I estranged you so thoroughly, then?" Her eyes
dropped. "I can't say as I blame you, my gentle husband."
Which total assumption of guilt dangerously undermined
his carefully realized determination and indignation.
"Please, Nikki, delay judgment, if you can."
So, she pleaded, as Mikhyel would put it. Not guilty. He
did laugh, then, bitterly, his anger salvaged. And he asked,
without preamble, "Why were we arrested?"
A sharp intake of breath, a flash of pale eyes that disap-
peared quickly beneath darkened lashes and delicately
tinted lids.
"Precaution, Nikki," she answered. "After your brother,
Deymorin, was here, threatening to bring that Mauritumin
machine into the tower and destroy the rings, Anheliaa was
filled with concern. I knew Deymorin had arrived with that
Mauritumin woman. I knew that Mikhyel had taken his
side in the matter and angered Anheliaa. I needed to know
if you were party to the Mauritumin threat, as Deymorin
was."
She paused: an opening, he supposed, for him to defend
his brothers. But she knew betteror should. Deymorin
had told him Lidye had been in the room when Deymorin
had confronted Anheliaa. She knew that Deymorin had
never mentioned the machine, that the root of that fear
was Anheliaa's paranoia, not Deymorin's threat.
"I asked them to arrest everyone answering your descrip-
tion," she continued at last. "I had to, Nikki. I had to know
when you entered the City. There's been such chaos. And
I must say, Nikki, I was very concerned, when Captain Sir-
oni said Deymorin claimed to be the Rhomandi. That was
the only reason you were arrested. Sironi believed he rec-
ognized you, but he didn't know Deymorin. And when the
man with you claimed to be the Rhomandi, he was
confused."
"Confused."
"Deymorin should have known that you were now the
Rhomandi. When Sironi told me, his description of Dey-
morin certainly matched my own experience, and I was
afraid that Deymorin had bullied you. Had forced you to
abdicate the title."
"That was foolish of you."
"Was it? I don't know your brother, Nikaenor. I only
know you, and your sweet and amicable nature, and I
wanted you free of his influence. Free to call me a fool to
my face, or to ask for freedom from his domination, if that
was your wish. I'm sorry if I've done badly."
"Sweet and amicable. Such an opinion you have of me,
madam."
"But you are, Nikki. As well as intelligent and reason-
able. It speaks well of your brother that you maintain such
loyalty to him, but I have yet to see that side of him that
inspires that loyalty in you. I trust I shall have the chance."
"Is that why you had us put in the Crypt? So you
could . . . observe that side of Deymorin?"
"Crypt? What crypt? I thought you were in Sparingate?"
For the first time, there was a hint of prevarication to her
voice. Nikki raised his chin, and her false face wilted.
"Nikki, I didn't know. I still don't know. But when Sironi
described your situation . . . I had you brought from there
as soon as I could, Nikki. As soon as I knew."
He said nothing. He waited for her to mention the obvi-
ous (to him) omission within that statement.
"Brolucci has been in charge. It was he that suggested
the arrests be made upon entryto give us time. He or-
dered your disposition, and told me only when your arrests
had been confirmed. Another error in judgment, I grant
you, but I've had such pressure . . ." Her mouth quivered,
then firmed. "No, I won't make excuses. But I had you
brought here, as soon as I knew, Nikki, please believe
that."
So, she wasn't going to repair the omission. "My brothers
are still there." He pointed out.
"No longer, Nikki. Deymorin and the Mauritumin
woman will be joining us for dinner." Nikki didn't bother
to point out the table had been set for two. "I had you
brought first because I wanted a chance to speak alone with
you. But then I was in the Tower all daythe storm, as
I'm sure you knowand so I finally just sent for them.
They're in your brother's room now, but"
"And Mikhyel? Will he be joining us as well?"
"Mikhyel?" She tilted her head at him, puzzled. Or so it
appeared; he no longer trusted her expressions.
"Has he returned from Giephaetum, my lady wife?"
"Oh." She turned her backhiding that false face. "Um,
no. Not yet."
So, even with him, she sought to maintain the lie that
had been spread throughout the house. But why? They'd
sent letters to the Tower from Armayel. Mikhyel had writ-
ten those letters; Anheliaa had answered. Anheliaa had
asked them to return to Rhomatum. And Lidye had known
they were coming.
"When will he returnfrom Giephaetum?"
"Nikki, I1 don't know how - . ." She faced him again,
and her delicate features were twisted with uncertainty.
"I'm sorry, Nikki. I lied, as you, in your subtle way, accuse.
But I don't know how . . . You see, Nikki, I very much
fear your brother Mikhyel is dead."
"Dead?" His head went blank. Then filled with images
of the Crypt and that scar-faced inmate and all the things
that he'd feared had happened since he left. He groped
blindly for his chair.
"Nikki, I'm so sorry . . ."
Her hand touched his shoulder. He flinched away.
"You said." His voice failed him. He fought it angrily
back, thinking his brother would be alive, but for this
woman. "You said Brolucci ordered us into the Crypt. Bro-
lucci is the captain of Anheliaa's guard. The men who ar-
rested us wore your father's colors, madam. The men
standing at my bedroom door are not Tower men."
"I had to use those whom I could trust, Nikki. Surely
you see that?"
"You could trust. You've been in the Tower. You've had
Deymorin and Kiyrstin released. And what of Anheliaa,
my lady wife? Where is Anheliaa?"
"That's the problem, Nikki. That's been the problem."
She sank gracefully into a chair. "Anheliaa has been . . .
unavailable . . . since . . . that day."
"Unavailable," he repeated while his mind tripped over
the verified facts, to the conclusion: "Dead?"
"No, thank the rings. At least, not yet. But that's why
I had to concede some decisions to Brolucci. Anheliaa is
comatose, since the day of the Collapse. She's been con-
fined to the Tower. I believe only her instincts have the
rings spinning at all."
Another fast mental sort. "What about the letters we
received at Armayel? What about our arrest papers? Who
signed them?"
She bit her lip and stared down at her hands for a mo-
ment. Then, without a word, she went to a desk near the
window, pulled a sheaf of papers from a drawer, and
handed them to him wordlessly.
He stared at the top sheet. Anheliaa's name, her almost-
signature repeated over and over.
"Your doing?"
She nodded.
"So we add forgery to your other parlor accomplish-
ments."
She lifted her chin, offered no apology. And perhaps, in
all fairness, she'd had no real choice.
Among the pages, one of Mikhyel's letters, written from
Armayel. The page blurred, and damp spot appeared in the
middle of the letter, followed by a second. Nikki swiped a
hand across his eyes and asked, feeling a darker hatred
than anything he'd ever felt in his life:
"What happened?"
".To Mikhyel?"
"Who killed him? Was it that Ganfrion? Whoever it was,
I want him!"
"What do you mean, who killed him?" Lidye stared at
him. "The rings"
"I left him last night in the Crypt, madam, with Deym-
orin and a number of very unpleasant housemates. I know
Deymorm didn't kill him. I want to know who did!"
"In the . . ." She held her hand to her forehead, her face
losing what little color it had. "No. I don't believe you.
He's dead. He couldn't have come in with you."
"Why couldn't he?"
"Sironi said"
"I don't give a damn what Sironi said! He talked to Mik-
hyel first!"
"No . . . Nikki, I . . . Sironi said it was you and Deymorin.
That you'd brought another man in with you who claimed
to be Mikhyel, but it wasn't. He said it wasn't!"
"Then Sironi's a damned liar!" He drew a deep breath,
seeking calm. "If you didn't know Mikhyel was in the
Crypt, then why did you tell me he was dead?"
"I1 saw him disappear, Nikki." She sank to the floor
near his chair, one hand resting on the armrest. "And then
the rings . . . the lightning . . ." She buried her face in her
hands. "It . . . it was . . . horrendous. Nothing caught in
thatwhatever it wascould have survived, don't you see?
When the letters came, I was certain Deymorin must have
written them. To make me, I mean, Anheliaa, believe Mi-
khyel was alive. I mean . . . I was doing that regarding
Anheliaa, wasn't I? If / was doing it for good reasons,
surely - - ." Her voice broke on a sob. "Oh, Nikki, I'm
so mortified."
Despite his better sense, he rested his hand on her
pale hair. And through that touch, almost like sometimes
happened with his brothers, he knew the truth of her
horror,  the  depth  of  the  embarrassment  she  now
suffered.
And he began to wonder if perhaps he had been too
hasty. Whatever animosity had existed between them, the
past month had obviously wrought significant changes in
them both.
Her head came up and, still without meeting his eyes, she
tipped her cheek into his palm. "When the storms began, I
fell to the floor, hid, I'm ashamed to say. It seemed hours
before it was quiet again. I lifted my head to darkness.
Utter, terrible darkness. I thought for a moment I was
blind. But I was in a bed, my bed, in my room, not the
ringchamber, and Brolucci arrived, with candles, and took
me to the Tower. I saw . . . I saw .."
She shuddered and buried her head again, and he pulled
his hand back. "I discovered later that I had been uncon-
scious for three days. Anheliaa was laid out in the Tower,
her physician adamant about leaving her there. Somehow,
I'll never know how, I got the rings up and reset. It was
as if I were in a trance. Perhaps I was. Perhaps Anheliaa,
even in her unconscious state, knew the rings must be
set and took me over to accomplish it. It" Her voice
caught. "It wouldn't be the first time she did that. Once
the rings were back in motion, she seemed better. She
still  hasn't  wakened,  but  the  rings  seem  to  have  given
her strength."
He felt an insidious attraction toward this woman. Her
story made sense. And he didn't want to hate her. She
was his wife. Rhomatum's future depended on her. Mikhyel
had said
Mikhyel! He shook his head, wondering where his sense
had gone.
"Then Mikhyel isn't dead!" he exclaimed. "You thought
he'd been killed by the rings. But he wasn't. He was in the
Crypt. He's still in the Crypt. I want him out, madam.
Now!"
"But . . ." She turned tear-stained eyes to him. Her
mouth was trembling. She reached her hand for his, and
again, that light-headed  attraction fuzzed his thinking.
"Mikhyel knows . . . so much. He's so . . ."
"Now," he repeated.
"I1 will, Nikki. I'll get him out, I promise you. Just as
soon as I'm sure it's safe. Please, Nikki, understand. So
much depends on my judgment. I must be cautious."
He fought her allure. He couldn't afford to trust her.
Couldn't give in to this charming woman, so different from
the wife he'd willingly abandoned to what he'd believed at
the time to be her fate-by-choice.
And yet, he couldn't quite bring himself to pull his hand
from hers either.
"The power of the rings is uncertain," she said, winding
their fingers together, pressing his hand to her cheek. "Sim-
ple light is sometimes difficult. I'm ashamed to admit, I
have grown ridiculously fearful. I want candles or oil lamps
about me at all times. I fear the dark, Nikki. I fear the
dark terribly."
"What's wrong? Why doesn't the energy return? Is it the
Khoratum line?"
"Khoratum? What makes you think it's the Khoratum
line?"
"Something Mikhyel said. And the power umbrella is
back to the old wall."
"Mikhyel? Well, I don't know. As long as Anheliaa is
alive and in that chamber, I can't truly take the rings over
and seek the cause of the problem. I only hope thatwhen
the time comes, I can trace the problem down."
"Why shouldn't you?"
"I1 no longer trust the rings." Her hand tightened to
the point of pain, as her fingernails dug into his flesh.
"That's a terrible thing for a ringmaster to admit, Nikki,
and that's what I very much fear I am soon to be. Anheliaa
is  so  weak.  She  doesn't wake.  I  need your help,  as  my
husband, and as Princeps of Rhomatum. I need your sup-
port. And your brothers'. Mikhyel'sbless the rings he's
still aliveperhaps his most of all. The civic leaders, trades-
men, councillors, syndics, they're all demanding answers.
Compensation. I don't know what all. I don't know the
laws of Rhomatum, Nikki, only the laws of the ley. And
we don't have the power. I don't know what happened,
but it's not there, and all their wanting it won't make it
be there."
Her words made just enough sense to trouble a thought-
ful man, a man who desired most of all to be fair, to under-
stand all sides.
"Why not ask your father?"
"Father? Why would I ask his advice?"
"Those are his men. Sironi most certainly is."
"I don't know who to ask, Nikki," she whispered, "I
don't know who will take advantage of my ignorance. Fa-
therperhaps I distrust him most of allbut he warned
me against Mikhyel. He said I should be glad Mikhyel is
dead. And in that much, he's right. I can't have Mikhyel
against me. Not now."
"And I say, madam, your father is wrong. Legally, mor-
ally, and practically. You do need Mikhyel. And Mikhyel
is not against you, not as long as you are not against Rho-
matum. Mikhyel is not Rhomatum's enemy."
She bit her lip and frowned. "On your word you'll help
me with him, I'll send for him immediately."
"Help you? How?"
"Talk to him. Explain to him. Support . . . me?"
Her eyes flickered up to meet his. Worried, but calm.
This sudden change in the woman who was legally his wife
puzzled him. If not for the words, he'd have a difficult time
believing it was the same woman.
"Why did you act as you did?" he asked, out of that
thought.
"Which?" she responded without the least hesitation.
"The fool, or the termagant?"
"Uh, b-both," he stammered, startled that she'd made
the connection, more so by her candid response.
"The fool . . . that was Anheliaa's idea. She insisted you
were obsessed with Kharishia, and that that performance
would entrance you."
"Obsessed with who?"
"Kharishia.  Darius'  last wife. The"  Her carefully
shaded lip rose in a slight, most unladylike sneer. "flutter-
headed imbiber of ocarshi and other perception-affecting
substances."
"Kharishia?" The soft syllables floated across his palate
like a fine wine. "Was that her name?"
"How beautifully you say it, Nikki," she whispered, and
her perfume flooded his head.
He biinked. "How do you know?" he asked. "Her name
isn't recorded anywhere."
"I know many things about her, Nikaenor my dear," she
said softly. "Most of all, that fluttering was not at all her
style. It was Anheliaa's notion of her, or perhaps what An-
heliaa thought you expected."
"How do you know?"
"Anheliaa told me."
"Not that," he said impatiently. "How do you know
about . . . about Kharishia?"
"You mean, you didn't realize her sister was my re-
mote ancestor?"
"Three hundred years remote."
"But Family nonetheless, Nikki, and I've a great interest
in the history of my family." Another shift, this time to a
shy, almost hopeful smile. "We could discuss herand that
historyat length, my dear, once this crisis is over. If
you'd like . . ."
"I'd" Like very much, he nearly said. But a wise man
didn't commit, not when his dearest interests were being
used to sway him. That was what Mikhyel always told him.
"And the other?"
"You mean our disastrous wedding night? I'm so very
sorry about that, dear, sweet Nikki. Did I hurt you terri-
bly?" She wrung her hands, as if washing them under a
stream of water. Her eyes dropped, and as if startled, she
clasped her hands together to stop them. "I . . . hate to
admit it, because it shows such weakness on my part, but
it was Anheliaa.  She  was  determined  to  have  that child,
and I had no defense against her." She rose and turned
her back to him. "You know how she is. You've firsthand
knowledge of her incentives."
That much was true. He, Deymorin, Mikhyelthey'd all
faced Anheliaa's notions of persuasion.
"She was acting through me, Nikki. I could not stand
against her. And she hates men. She hates their physical
power, and their obsessive sexuality. She" Even without
seeing her face, he could hear her humiliation. "She never
in her life . . . knew a man."
"What man in his right mind would have her?"
Her back stiffened, and her head tilted, looking at him,
though her face remained shadowed. "Quite." She turned
then, and it was compassion he saw. "I don't think any of
us can truly imagine what she lives through every day of
her life. The pain. The impotence, in the natural sense of
the word. She's had power of a sort no one, man or woman,
has ever known, but the world, the natural world, has been
closed to her since she was a child. Perhaps she wanted to
experience . . . well, I presume. She did want the child of
Darius' and Kharishia's line, and was determined nothing
should prevent its conception."
"And was it worth it? Are you with child? My child?"
She nodded. "Without question, Nikki. If her vision
holds true, I will bear the ringmaster of the ages."
"So she wanted a child." Nikki stared past her to the
cold fireplace, remembering those final days with Anheliaa.
"And she wanted to punish me. I had defied her. She
wasn't about to have me enjoy my end of the bargain. Is
that what you're saying?"
"Poor Nikki. Yes, I very much fear so." Her eyes flick-
ered and fell. "It wasn't exactly pleasurable for me either."
And raised again, soft, blue, imploring. "Might we try
again? I won't say begin. There will never be a first time
together, but . . . might we not still find . . . something?
Friendship, at the very least?"
He stared at her, wondering if it was the wine making
his head soft, or if he was, in fact, seeing the real Lidye
for the first time. He'd much rather be married to this calm,
elegant woman, who understood what they'd both lost that
night, than any of the other options she'd presented him
over the past months.
But still . . .
"Why was I drugged?"
"Last night?"
He nodded.
"To sleep, Nikki. I told you, I needed time. But I wanted
you safe, as well."
Reasonable. He didn't like it, but reasonable.
"How is it you're able to leave the Tower at all?"
"Anheliaa, even in the state she is, seems able to steady
the rings. In fact, there is little to do but wait in case her
control falters."
"Where is Nethaalye? Can she help?"
"Gone, Nikki. Her father took her home after Mikhyel
disappeared and the web collapsed. He feared war among
the nodes. Feared being caught away from home and in
I'm dismayed to say he felt this, however unfounded
enemy hands."
"Mirym? Where is she?"
"With Anheliaa, of course. There are the monitors
who've always aided Anheliaa. Please, don't judge me
harshly. I must rest sometime. Don't ask more of me. I've
had so little . . ."
Her voice was shaking too much to say more.
"I didn't mean that, Lidye. Yes, in the name of Darius,
send for Mikhyel. Rings, what have I been thinking? Gpt
him out of there now. I'll talk to himconvince him. And
Deymorin"
{Is right here, fry.}
He jumped, and whirled to face the door, where a foot-
man was announcing Deymorin dunMheric and Kiyrstine
romGaretti. He met Lidye's eyes, thought he saw an im-
ploring flicker...
And went at his wife's side to greet his brother.
"What do you mean, he wasn't there?" Deymorin de-
manded. "Where else would he be?"
"We conducted a thorough search. Lord dunMheric,
and"
"The name's Rhomandi, Captain Sironi gorTanm. Just
Rhomandi. And we're going back there and find him."
"I told you, sir, we conducted"
"Obviously not thorough enough!" Deymorin thrust him-
self to his feet, and headed for the door. "Wait for me in
the foyer."
Sironi glanced past him toward Nikki's wife, then moved
to block the door.
Deymorin stopped. Whirled. "Well, madam?"
Lidye had risen as well. Trays of appetizers, as pristine
as they'd been when the servants delivered them three
hours ago, sat in the center of the salon. She reached now
for a cube of cheese. "By all means, m'lord, if you feel
your efforts will be more successfulgo. Captain, please
wait downstairs." She bit delicately. Chewed slowly. And
when Sironi had gone: "However, while one hates to sug-
gest the possibility, if a thorough search was made"
"Then I suggest you do not make the suggestion, madam.
I suggest you pray intently to whatever gods you believe
in that your high-handed assumptions have not resulted in
the death of a Rhomandi. Kiyrstin?"
She had risen and was already moving to his side. "Do
you want me to come with you?"
He shook his head. "Just to his room. I want to get him
a cloak, some clean clothes."
"Deymorin?" Nikki called across the room. "Should I"
(Stay here!} Deymorin shouted the thought, wanting
Nikki to hear, and Nikki's face blanched. Deymorin tried
again, more gently. {Keep an eye on Lidye.}
Nikki nodded. Deymorin reached for the door, found
himself intercepted a second time by Lidye's father's
guards. Openly in uniform, here in the Tower.
Deymorin glared across the room at Lidye. "I go where
I please in my own house, Lidye romNikaenor."
"For your own safety, Deymorin dunMheric. And that
of the web. They will not hinder your movement, I assure
you."
Before he could answer, Nikki said, quietly, but firmly,
"If they do, Lidye, there will be no hope for reconciliation.
You will lose all Rhomandi support."
Lidye's expression hardened, and she swirled to face
Nikki, but the fry, to do him credit, didn't flinch.
"Deymorin," Nikki continued, his eyes still locked on
her. "I'll send a message to Jerri. He's a good back-man."
"That's hardly necessary," Lidye said impatiently.
"Perhaps not necessary. But reassuring."
"You insult me!"
"On the contrary, I give you the opportunity to demon-
strate your good faith."
A momentary pause, then, with a faint smile, Lidye said,
"Ah, Nikaenor, the rings chose more wisely, even, than we
supposed. Of course. Call your man."
Nikki said, "Go on, Deymorin. Jerri will meet you at the
front door."
Deymorin sent Nikki his silent approval as he caught
Kiyrstin's hand and left the salon. Jerri or no Jerri, he had
to move quickly. Three hours since Lidye had sent Sironi
to fetch Mikhyel from Sparingate. Nearing eight since he'd
left his brother alone in a prison filled with men well aware,
now, that Mikhyel dunMheric was in their midst.
With Kiyrstin on his heels, he headed for Mikhyel's
room. "Stay outside!" He snarled at the guards, when they
reached the door to Mikhyel's room, and the uniforms
didn't argue, but took up smart positions to either side of
the door. Silent. Efficient. If they weren't dogging his heels,
he'd be impressed.
The door swung open before his hand touched the latch.
"Raulind!" The sight of Mikhyel's personal servant
brought vast relief. "Thank the gods you're here." He
stepped inside, .drew Kiyrstin in beside him, and closed
the door.
Raulind's thin face was twisted with worry. "M'lord
Mikhyel?"
"Did Oshram's boy get through?" Deymorin asked
softly, and Raulind nodded.
"I sent a message to Judge Kharmiini," Raulind said.
"But the routing is necessarily circuitous, and by the time
I received an answer, word had come that you were in the
Tower. I waited, assuming Master Khyel had taken Mistress
Lidye immediately into conference. But then, Jerri said . . .
m'lord Dee, where is he?"
"Still there."
Raulind's thin face turned pale. "I feared as much. But
Jerri said they were going after him."
"Sironi claims they couldn't find him."
. "You're going back yourself to search?"
He nodded. "I need a cloak. Clothingsomething that
goes well with dirt."
"Thank you, m'lord Dee, but there's no need to jest. My
wits are back in order." Raulind turned to Kiyrstin. "And
is this your brave Mauritumin woman?"
Kiyrstin chuckled. "That's the nicest introduction I've
ever had. Mikhyel's told me all about you, Raulind. He
holds you in great esteem."
"Thank you, m'lady. He spoke with great admiration of
you, before he . . . left." Raulind dipped his head and
moved toward the far closet.
Deymorin took Kiyrstin's hands in his. "Kiyrstin, I've got
to try to find him, but"
"Might not come back, is that what you're saying,
Rags?"
"All depends on why he's missing. Tarim placed Sironi
under Brolucci's orders, according to Lidye. Brolucci is An-
heliaa's, has been for years. There's just no way of knowing
how deep the infection runs."
"Will you confront him before you go?"
"What good could it do now, other than bruise my
knuckles?"
"Excuse me, m'lord Dee?"
"Yes, Raul?"
"House-word is, his ring is spinning off-orbit."
"Meaning, he's losing influence fast?"
"Yes, m'lord Dee."
"Meaning, I should save my knuckles?"
"Yes, m'lord Dee. Was he in breeches, sir?"
Deymorin biinked. Realized Raulind's revised "he" was
Mikhyel, and nodded.
"Ah." Was Raulind's cryptic response, and he turned
back to the closet.
"So," Kiyrstin said, in a matter-of-fact tone, "how long
do I give you?"
Forever, was the quip that rose to Deymorin's tongue,
but never escaped. He was all too aware, at the moment,
of just how much he'd begun to take their future together
for granted.
"Take that look off your face, Rhomandi," she said
softly. "We don't walk a safe path. We haven't since we
met."
"Is it so easy for you?"
"Easy? To watch you go out that door, not knowing if
you'll come back? Not at all. And it never will be. But
neither will I waste time and energy worrying about some-
thing over which I have no control." She took his face
between her hands. "I love you, JD. I have loved you. I
look forward to loving you for the rest of my lifeor yours.
Short or long, that time has been well spent."
She kissed him lingeringly, then let him go with a brisk
pat on the cheek. " 'Sides, Deymio-luvie, I don't intend f
stick around if the locals go bad. I'll ditch these fancies,
swipe another pair o' Khyel's breeches from under ol' Rau-
lind's nose, and hit the road. Meet you in the woods. Find
us a lake or twowot ye say, luvie?"
He laughed because she expected it.
"Good plan. Except I'd cultivate Raulind's good will. Ac-
cording to Khyel, he's more dangerous than he looks."
"Ah."
"Stay here with him," Deymorin said seriously. "Tell
himhell, tell him everything you think he should know.
Trust his judgment, is the best I can advise.Raulind?"
The valet looked up from the small bag he was packing.
"Staying here is best, m'lady. There are routes from the
Tower of which Mistress Lidye's men are quite ignorant. I
have sent messages to Master Khyel's allies on the Hill.
Should necessity dictate, we will find at least temporary
refuge with them."
"I knew I could count on you, Raul," Deymorin replied.
Raulind held out the valise and a cloak. "I'd prefer my
efforts be wasted, m'lord Dee. Tell him his bath is waiting."
"I'll do that. Kiyrsti?"
She stopped him with her lips.
It was dark in the Crypt, long past the final lamp turn-
down, and Deymorin ordered the lights left down. No
sense, he pointed out to Sironi, in alerting those who might
have hidden Mikhyel the first time.
{Khyel?) Deymorin sent out into that blackness. {For the
love of Darius, brother, answer me!)
He was there, Deymorin could sense that much, and
alive. Relieved, Deymorin paused at the foot of the stairs,
closed his eyes and listened to that inner voice. He was
vaguely aware that inmates had risen, and were closing in
through the dark, but Sironi was there, and Jerrik, with
others of Tarim's guard.
In that darkness behind his eyelids: peace, warmth, the
quiet of near sleep he'd learned to associate with Mikhyel
at his most accessible. Too awake for dreams, too far into
sleep for that wall he erected about his conscious self.
And Mikhyel's mind was quiet as it had been only on
the best nights at Armayel.
There were vague sensations Deymorin's cognizant mind
readily identified: a stout arm for a pillow, a second lying
heavy along his side, and the warmth along his back was a
large body.
Deymorin controlled the anger that flared, and traced
those sensations, clear as a signal fire in the night, to their
source. For all instinct demanded he hurry, cold prudence
made him commit false probes into one dark warren after
another. Sironi had claimed a thorough search had failed
to locate Mikhyel; Deymorin's walking straight to wherever
Mikhyel lay with that human pillow would raise far too
many undesirable questions.
Besides, this way (he shot a deliberate wake-up call to
that gradually stirring mind) Mikhyel would have time to
prepare.
(Deymorin? Back here?} Returned to him, along with a
surge of concern.
For him. The dolt. Deymorin caught that mental thread
and sent back:
{Come to take you home, fry.)
Relief, then, and a sense of movement, vivid impressions
that translated, moments later, to a shadowy figure at the
edges of their flickering circle of light.
Two shadowy figures.
Deymorin froze, fists clenched. Mikhyel moved toward
them, Ganfrion, an arrogantly-tilted head taller, at his back.
For a moment, Deymorin saw nothing except that dark,
scarred face, the challenge issued -in Ganfrion's every move.
But for all Deymorin longed to plant a fist right in the
middle of that arrogance, he couldn't. Ganfrion was a pris-
oner, without recourse; Deymorin had arrived here with
substantial backing.
Which wouldn't stop him from beginning immediate legal
inquiries into the past of one Ganfrion of Sparingate Crypt.
Mikhyel stumbled, and thoughts of equity faltered as
Ganfrion's blunt-fingered  hands steadied  his brother's
strides. Bare-footed strides. Mikhyel was filthy, his face
bruised, and a swelling around one eye threatened to turn
purple by morning. And his clothing
"Where's your coat?" he asked, by way of opening.
Mikhyel stopped.
"It's good to see you, too, Rhomandi," Mikhyel said in
a voice as flat as that underneath sense. "And I'm fine,
thank you for asking. How's the weather?"
The smallest man in the circle of light, his face as smooth
as a twelve-year-old's, no coat, bare feet, his shirt in
tatters . . . and he still managed to look down his nose at
all of them.
Deymorin stifled a shout of relieved laughter. The Barris-
ter was alive, healthy in all the truly important ways. Gan-
frion might have had him in these past hours. Every man
down here might have, but they hadn't defeated him. Not
by any means.
He could get Mikhyel safely to the Tower, and see to
these scum later.

You'll do nothing, Deymorin.)
We'll see)
Nothing.'}
Are you all right, Khy?}

Silence.
"Fancy tailor," Deymorm said, aloud, and stared point-
edly at the standard prison-issue gray that hung from Mik-
hyel's waist, let his eyes drift to the bare feet below.
"Changing the Barrister's image?"
Mikhyel's mouth twitched, along with an eyebrow. "Con-
sidering the size of the exchange, I don't envy the new
owner's feet."
"Subtle as always, eh. Barrister?"
"Deymorin . . . " Mikhyel shook his head, then swept his
hair back from his forehead. "Just . . . get me out of here?"
Underneath, Mikhyel was exhausted, and relieved, but
little else, other than a sense that if Deymorin was here
with Jerrikand joking, then all that comprised his world
couldn't be collapsing.
"Sure, fry," he said quietly. He shook out the cloak he
carried and flung it around Mikhyel's shoulders, setting
Ganfrion back a step with a warning scowl.
"Thank you," Mikhyel said, drawing the cloak securely
into place.
"Got a whole rig for you up in Oshram's office."
"I don't" Through his touch on Mikhyel's shoulders,
Deymorin received a flashing desire just to be home, in his
own bath, followed by a sense of Raulind's spider-fingered
touch on his sore back.
{That good, is he?} Deymorin asked silently.
{Rings . . .} At least, he thought that was the essence of
Mikhyel's mental sigh.
{Be careful. I'll steal him from you.)
{You can't afford him, brother.}
"So, do you want to just go home?" Deymorin asked,
his head beginning to throb with that silent effort.
Temptation. That came through clearly, but he knew his
meticulous brother, knew Mikhyel would want to make a
dignified entry into the Tower, and so wasn't the least sur-
prised when Mikhyel finally shook his head.
At the top of the staircase, Mikhyel paused and looked
down, a slow, guarded scan of the blackness below. That
scan paused when it reached Ganfrion, still in reach of the
torches. Other shadows, barely visible, were closing in
around the big prisoner.
Perhaps he wouldn't have to worry about legal retaliation
after all.
Mikhyel's brow tightened, and Deymorin was ashamed
of the thought.
But Mikhyel only said, as he turned and stepped out of
the Crypt, "I hope to hell Raul remembered a hair clip."
~    ~    <gt
If Raulind ever failed him, Mikhyel would know for cer-
tain the universe was coming to an end. A hair clip, indeed,
toiletriesincluding a razoreven a pair of comfortable
house boots: everything required to restore himself to
basic respectability.
"Obviously" he waved the razor toward Deymorin,
then dropped it back in the bag, "you haven't told him
everything."
"Nothing, Khyel. I'll leave that to you to explain."
"Oh, thank you. I can't even explain it to myself. Some-
times, I touch my chin and could swear the damned thing
was back."
"Like a man who's lost a leg," Deymorin said.
Mikhyel frowned at the shirt he lifted free of the valise,
reminded unwillingly of the brother who had almost lost a
leg once, thanks to his younger brother's stupidity. "The
man who lost his leg should resent such a comparison."
"Oh, stuff it. Barrister. / wasn't thinking of that night. I
only meant I've heard that such men still feel their missing
limb, years after they lost it. Their mind expects it to be
there, the doctors say. Your mind expects the beard to
be there."
"I think that your argument lacks" Mikhyel vision
faded. The shirt slipped from fingers gone suddenly numb.
He sat down hard on a nearby chair.
"Khyel?" Deymorin was at his side. "Are you all right?"
Hell, no, he wanted to shout, but there was no reason,
nothing to be gained by a show of temper and frustration.
He was tired, that was all, and waked out of a sleep as
quiet and sound as he'd had in weeks. As had happened
with Nikki, his sense of Deymorin had disappeared once
Deymorin passed into Rhomandi House. For all the uncer-
tainty of his situation, despite the fact that his immediate
fate had rested in the hands of a single inmate, who had
paid handsomely for the honor, he'd been more relaxed at
that moment when Deymorin's call had waked him than
he'd been since Boreton.
Perhaps longer.
Now, he was back to guarding every thought in case
Deymorin picked it up, to wasting valuable energy trying
(by means of dubious efficacy) to keep Deymorin from
picking up those thoughts and impressions, and wondering
which nonessential bit of seepage was going to set off his
brother's reactive nature next.
Be open, Deymorin had advised him. Tell me, so I won't
speculate. Tell Deymorin what had happened after he left,
and Deymorin would blow everything out of proportion
and overreact. He knew his brother. In that, Deymorin
hadn't changed. In that, Deymorin never would change.
Deymorin had picked up the shirt. He slipped it over
Mikhyel's shoulders and buttoned it when Mikhyel's hands
failed to achieve that basic coordination. Mikhyel managed
his own trousers, but let Deymorin braid, twist, and fasten
his hair.
As if he were a child, Mikhyel thought sourly, and slid
his arms into the black coat Deymorin held for him. But
for all the effort it took, for all the frustration of needing
Deymorin's help, once his transformation was complete, he
left the warden's office in far greater spirits than he'd en-
tered  it,  able  to  face  the  Shatumin  guards  without
embarrassment.
Except, he thought, as he preceded Deymorin into the
waiting carriage, and while Sironi and Jerrik settled in be-
side Deymorin and himself, he hadn't been embarrassed.
Relieved, yes. But embarrassed . . . Sironi had left him
in the Crypt to suffer indignities, perhaps death. Perhaps
that choice had been Sironi's own decision, perhaps based
on the orders of Tarim or Tarim's daughter; perhaps, as
Deymorin suggested there in Oshram's office, he'd been
working on Brolucci's orders.
Whatever prompted leaving Mikhyel dunMheric in the
Crypt, there was something to be said for the image of
Mikhyel dunMheric standing before them all, unbroken,
while confirming, by his physical appearance, the filth and
degradation to which they believed they'd consigned him.
In fact, he'd rather looked forward to that little piece of
melodramatic grandstanding. The image of his triumphant
entry into the Tower had sustained him more than once in
the past few hours. Instead, Deymorin had provided every-
thing necessary to hide his reality from the world
Deymorin, who could look at him now and not see those
inmate-gray trousers, the bare feet. Who could avoid, now,
seeing Ganfrion's shadow looming behind him.
Deymorin's embarrassment was at issue, not Mikhyel's.
Deymorin's guilt for not having gotten Mikhyel out with
him. Deymorin, who had yet to learn that sometimes, a
man simply had to work within the system life provided,
not according to some personal, esoteric structure of
"right" and "wrong."
Deymorin had done nothing for him because there had
been nothing Deymorin could do. Deymorin had had no
choice. There could be no guilt where there was no option.
Perhaps someday Deymorin would learn that sometimes
there was no fair answer.
And perhaps some day . . . horses would have wings.
The streets were quiet. Dark. Only the occasional indoor
lamp and the light from distant Tower Hill relieved the
black of night. A man who had always found comfort in
the dark, might welcome those shadows, but a man whose
duty it was to keep those streets lighted could not. He
could only wonder at the fear that lack of light must be
generating, in the leyside dwellings. Could only wonder
what it had been like the night of the Boreton Firestorm,
the first night of utter darkness in living memory for most
of those in the city of Rhomatam.
Within the old wall, there would have been gas lamps,
the backup for the leythium streetlamps in the years before
the capping of Khoratum. Here, in the Khoratum expan-
sion, such provision had never be~n necessary. Since Khor-
atum had been capped, the power had never wavered.
Until now.
Fortunately for the City's coffers, the anticipated popula-
tion shift toward the new Khoratum ring had never oc-
curred. Speculators had jumped in early, buying the land
at exorbitant prices, only to find themselves either stuck
with large chunks of unusable land, or faced with the ex-
pense and difficulty of long-term development and a slow
recuperation of their investment, or selling at a substan-
tial loss.
By the time most of those overeager speculators had fi-
nally faced market reality, the initial city-wide interest had
faded. Over the past years, buildings had gone up, but
slowly. Population had shifted from the inner city. But
slowly.
Which meant fewer Rhomatumins than might have been
to compensate now for losses due to the collapse. Or at
least, fewer to compensate for the extended lack of pow-
er.   If the reports they'd received were accurateand cer-
tainly Lidye's account to Nikki of three days with the rings
down would support such accountsthe continued prob-
lems of the outer ring were only the beginning of the City's
fiscal problems.
They arrived at the inner gate, and were passed through
without comment.
Ordinarily, livestock would not be allowed into Rhoma-
tum; obviously, these were not ordinary times. The carriage
itself must have been confiscated from one of the internode
transport services. He made a mental note to find out which
one and make certain they were properly compensated.
It was quiet within the coach. It was even quiet within
his head. Deymorin, sitting opposite him, had conveyed ev-
erything of substance that he had learned from Nikki dur-
ing those moments of privacy in Oshram's office. He put
the space between them now deliberately, though whether
Mikhyel knew that from Deymorin's mind or personal as-
sessment of his brother's character became increasingly
indecipherable.
A realization he wasn't certain he appreciated.
But for now, Deymorin's mind was at ease. He had re-
laxed in the cushioned seat, rocking easily with the motion
of the carriage, his eyes at half-mast and staring out the
window. He had about him a sense that his concerns, his
immediate, personal concerns, were over, at least for the
time being. A sense that anything else could wait until
tomorrow.
Or such was the interpretation Mikhyel's own mind put
on the peace that ebbed and flowed within the carriage.
Within the old wall, the familiar silver of leylight ended
the darkness. But it was dim. And the lights on the cross-
leys were barely brighter than a full moon. There was
something about the appearance of the light that suggested
it was deliberate, that the bulbs had been purposely misa-
lignedperhaps to limit the drain on the power umbrella
while still reassuring the citizenry that all was under control
within the Tower.
Perhaps to disguise the fact that everything was not
under control within the Tower.
By that light, he began to take painful note of the dam-
age the City had taken. Boarded windows, fire-gutted
buildings . . . that appeared to be the worst. Fire was not
a common problem within Rhomatum. Heat came from the
ley. There was no need for open flames. Ever. But the ley
had deserted the city. The citizens must have tried to
compensate....
Oh, his poor, foolish Rhomatumin, who hadn't, in all
their lives, had the need to keep a fire stoked.
He felt a quiver, deep in his gut, and his throat tightened.
"Stop the coach," he said, and when Sironi began to
argue: "I said, stop the damned coach"'
{Khye . . .} Deymorin started awake.
Mikhyel slammed the handle on the door, and had it half
open before the vehicle rocked to a halt.
Deymorin followed him out. Sironi did. He whirled on
them both.
"Follow me," he said to Sironi, "and you'd better be
gone from Rhomatum in the morning."
He turned on his heel and headed toward one of those
gutted buildings. Sironi began to follow. Mikhyel's hand
clenched: echo of Deymorin's hand on Sironi's arm. And
Deymorin's voice came, half-heard through the link, advis-
ing Sironi just how foolish it would be to challenge what
was obviously a rapidly shifting power structure.
Within his mind, Deymorin's deafening shout reassured
him Sironi had seen reason, and then Deymorin pulled his
mind back. Mikhyel acknowledged the message, and at the
same time reached a mental hand to stop Deymorin's re-
treat, extending to him that hold that would reassure him
as to Mikhyel's well-being.
How long he walked that street, he couldn't say. What
thoughts passed through his mind, what notes his subcon-
scious took, were equally opaque to him. He only knew
that, of all the changes in his life, this devastation of Rho-
matum was the most unthinkable.
Eventually, he came aware of Deymorin's hand, warm
on his shoulder, of concrete, cold beneath his buttocks, and
a pile of charred wood and ashes that had once been home
to a dozen families.
"Come back, Khyel. We can't rebuild it tonight."
He let Deymorin pull him to his feet and draw him back
to the carriage. This time, he sat beside Deymorin, and
under cover of the touch that seemed to make their silent
communication so much easier, he began quizzing Dey-
morin regarding Outside resources, everything from places
to put those displaced by fire and damage, to lumber and
nails.
For rebuilding.
If not tonight, then tomorrow.
"And then, we were brought here," Kiyrstin said, bringing
the tale of the past months to a close. "Deymorin has been,
well, frantic."
"He is concerned, no doubt, about leaving Master Khyel
alone with the inmates," Raulind commented in his quiet
voice, and Kiyrstin nodded.
"Evidently Mikhyel had already had at least one round
with them. Deymorin has avoided specifics, for his own
sake, I believe, as well as deference to Mikhyel's privacy."
"But you can supply the unsaid words." Statement, not
a question. Raulind had judged herand accuratelyfrom
the handful of details she'd given regarding her own past.
Kiyrstin nodded.
"And I can't say as I contest Deymorin's concern. The
longer he's there alone, the more chance there is that some-
thing irreparable will happen to him."
"Master Khyel can take care of himself, m'lady Kiyrstin,"
Raulind said. "He is quite amazingly strong."
"Certainly his mind is. If they can be talked to reason,
he will."
"And his body. Don't be misled by what you see, m'lady.
He has as least twice now, by what you said, cheated
death."
"Twice?" Taking Deymorin at his word, Kiyrstin had
told Raulind everything, from her own past, to her meeting
with Deymorin, to the Boreton Firestorm and the brothers'
strange new abilities.
Raulind rose to his feet and paced the room slowly, con-
templatively. Finally, he turned to her. His thin face was
drawn, the skin around his eyes puckered.
"By what you've said, my master has spoken quite freely
with you these past weeks."
Kiyrstin nodded, for all it wasn't a question.
"I can believe that. You have that about you that draws
a man toward trust, m'lady."
"Thank you, Raulind. I think I know when to keep a
secret, if that's what you mean."
"I'm not certain I meant it as a compliment, m'lady."
An easy smile came to her. "Honest man."
"Yes, m'lady."
"You're saying that I've a talent that might be abused."
"And my master is in much need, at times, of
understanding."
"Of being understood, you mean."
"That as well. But he needs, at times, to talk in order to
understand the world as others see it. He hasn't a good . . .
template upon which to build his internal sanctuary."
"And you have provided that template over the years."
"As best I could."
"And you fear my influence."
"Fear. No, not at all. My master is his own man. He
reveals his secrets knowing the dangers, and having bal-
anced those dangers against the benefits. But in choosing
my personal path, in choosing those whom I will trust, I
must understand his reasoning and balance that against my
own judgment."
Kiyrstin shook her head. "I begin to see where Mikhyel
comes from."
"I take that as a compliment, m'lady."
"It was intended as such. How did you come to be
with him?"
"He hasn't told you?"
"He said you were one of the Brothers who tended him
at Barsitum, after his father died. He said he never under-
stood why you left the Order to accompany him to Rhoma-
tum. He said he didn't know how he would survive
without you."
"He would, I have no doubt. I am nonetheless pleased
to know my importance to him." A pause, then: "When I
first met Master Khyel, he  was hanging to life by sheer
will alone."
"From the injuries his father inflicted?"
"Injuries. I suppose that's what one must call them."
Raulind nodded. "Has Master Khyel told you about
Mheric?"
Mheric: as Mikhyel never referred to Mheric as his fa-
ther, neither did Raulind. She wondered who had learned
the trick from whom.
"Honestly, Raulind? Only the barest bones of the situa-
tion. I know Mheric was not much of a father. I knew he
took his frustration with life out on his son. I suspect a fair
amount more, but I can't say that Mikhyel revealed it to
me. At least, not intentionally."
A slight smile broke the solemnity of his thin face. "I
understand. And I know now why he trusted you. On his
thirteenth birthday, he refused to go riding with his father
and the crowd of men his father had gathered to witness
his second son's . . . emerging manhood. There was one
man in particular, whose horse Mikhyel was ordered to
share."
"Share?"
"Mikhyel was to ride ahead of him. In the same saddle.
It wasn't the first time."
"Sweet Maurii," Kiyrstin whispered.
"I see you understand my young master's dilemma. He
refused. Mheric tried to force him, and lost control more
thoroughly than usual. He left my mangled master in a
closet while he went out and rode with his friends. Mheric
did not come back from that ride. By the time they found
my young master, he was very nearly dead. He should not
have survived the drive to Barsitum. But he did survive,
and in the course of the next few months the pools worked
the greatest miracle I'd ever seen."
"The pool, and his own will to live," Kiyrstin said, and
Raulind nodded.
"The two work together. What you tell me about this
newest ability only confirms that which I suspected from
the first time I held his head above the leythium. There are
those for whom the Barsitumin pools will perform their
magic, and those for whom they will not. when Mikhyel
floated in them, they . . . came alive. I don't know how
else to describe it."
"Don't try," Kiyrstin said. "I'll take your word for it."
Raulind nodded. "He told me things in those months,
sometimes out of delirium, sometimes just because he
needed to talk to someone. After he recovered, I could not
stay in Barsitum.  In his desperate innocence, he had
granted me keys to his soul that no human being should
hold for another. But having those keys, I could not, in
good conscience, leave him to face that to which I knew
he would return."
"But Mheric was dead."
"Mheric was. Anheliaa was still very much alive." Rau-
lind paused, seeming to listen. A smile stretched his face.
"They're here."
~ d Q
The door of Rhomandi House, a massive structure of
beveled glass surrounding the web within circles of the
Rhomandi crest, swung open. Even to Mikhyel's light-sensi-
tive eyes, the foyer seemed dim: conservation within the
Tower itself. He hadn't realized that was possible.
Deymorin went in first, and Deymorin's presence van-
ished. His mind reveled in that giddy freedom for a mo-
mentbefore his own foot crossed the threshold, and
Deymorin's thoughts, and Nikki's, sent him reeling back
out.
"Khyel?"
He gathered himself together, and made a second at-
tempt on the doorway, prepared, this time, for the
onslaught.
"Whew," Deymorin said, and within Mikhyel's mind, a
ragged stone wall appeared. Deymorin's attempt, he finally
realized, to set a barrier between them.
"Thanks," he murmured.
"Mikhyel! Thank the rings you're all right!" Nikki came
bounding down the stairs. He grasped the hand Mikhyel
extended and pulled him into a quick embrace, radiating
relief, guilt, dismay, horror, and a myriad of other emo-
tions, all of it roiling in the images of what Nikki thought
had been happening to him in the prison.
"Rings," Mikhyel muttered, and pushed Nikki away. The
mental assault continued. He struck out, blindly, and with
a mental shout: {It's all right. Nothing happened. Calm
down.}
When his vision cleared, Nikki was standing well out of
arm's reach, one hand raised to his mouth, exuding pain
now and anger. Betrayal.
Mikhyel felt that throb in his own lip, and knew he'd
struck Nikki in his attempts to stop that stream of impres-
sions. And damn it, he had succeeded in that goal, and his
little brother could just keep his sore lip!
But for all his rational mind tried to stop that flow of
sensation from Nikki to himself, it couldn't prevail against
habits of a lifetime. In the end, Mikhyel accepted that
minor pain, and simultaneously sent reassurance to Nikki,
along with explanations.
Nikki's hand dropped, the anger eased, and Mikhyel's
lip hurt.
His awareness of his brothers increased with each passing
moment. Proximity to the node, he supposed. The com-
monest folk knew that the closer you came to a node the
greater the effects of the ley.
The very air within the Tower seemed different from
what he remembered. Alive, somehow. The reflective
gleam of leylight off metal or polished wood sparked with
hints of color, and Mikhyel wondered whether that effect
was visible to everyone and he'd simply never noticed, or
just another manifestation of whatever metamorphosis had
occurred within himself and his brothers.
Or perhaps it was just his own exhaustion acting on eyes
too accustomed to the dark.
"Where's Lidye?" he asked Nikki.
"In the Tower," Nikki answered. "She asked if we would
wait for her in the salon. She hopes to make amends,
Khyel."
"She couldn't wait until morning?" Deymorin asked.
"In the morning, I'll have a clear head, Deymorin," Mi-
khyel answered for Nikki. "Much better to make explana-
tions to the sleep-deprived."
"It's not like that, Mikhyel," Nikki protested. "She's
not."
"I'll take your word for it."
Nevertheless, he accompanied his brothers to the Blue
Salon, where he found himself ensconced in a wing chair,
with a glass of red wine close at hand, while Deymorin left
to get Kiyrstin, and Nikki went to the Tower to get Lidye.
He wet his lips with the wine, set it down again, finding
the taste not at all to his liking tonight. As the opulence
surrounding him was not. Opulence he'd grown up with.
Opulence that was, somehow, excessive. Opulence that
could disappear in an instant as easily as that cross-ley
apartment.
And if it did, Mikhyel dunMheric and all his dependents
could simply move somewhere else. Where had those indi-
viduals found refuge? Or had they all died in the inferno
that gutted their home?
He closed his eyes, vaguely aware of his brothers' direc-
tion, as he was vaguely conscious of their minds. Deymorin
had gone to Mikhyel's private suite, where Kiyrstin had
been waiting with Raulind. Likely trading secrets. Not that
it mattered.  Within  the next weeks, his  whole  life would
probably appear in The Gazette. Once secrets began to
emerge, nothing would stop them. Wasn't that what Anhel-
iaa had always stressed to him?
Still, he'd do his best to beat the odds. His life, his past,
was his own. Not Deymorin's, not Raulind's, certainly not
the average Rhomatumin citizen's.
As his brothers faded, a different pressure built in his
mind. A darkness deeper than the Crypt after turndown
oozed behind his eyelids. Exhaustion, he thought, coercing
sleep on him, and he forced his eyes open, then wondered
if it was exhaustion that made the room's shadows seep
with that same black malignancy.
He rose to his feet and began to pace, striving to stay
awake. There were no papers in the room. No magazines.
Plates of food. Wine. But nothing to occupy his mind, noth-
ing to catch him up on the events of the past weeks.
And still the shadows moved inward.
Logic said it was impossible, that the light from the
lamps, however subdued, hadn't changed since he entered
the room. Logic demanded he challenge that perception for
the mental aberration it had to be.
He reached toward the shadow
8 8 8
Deymorin stepped through the door, cried out, and col-
lapsed as if hamstrung.
"Deymio!" Kiyrstin called out, and was at his side only
a stride behind Raulind.
Deymorin stared through them. "Khyel," he whispered,
then shouted, "Khyel!" And he was on his feet, racing
down the hallway.
Kiyrstin exchanged a startled glance with Raulind, then
lifted her skirts and chased after him, Raulind at her heels.
Down the hall, down the wide spiral staircase
"Dammit, Khyel, snap out of it!" Deymorin's voice
reached them first. Kiyrstin rounded the curve, and saw him
struggling with Mikhyel before the door to the Tower lift.
"She lied!" Mikhyel's face was dark with anger. "Anhel-
iaa's not only awake, she's in the Tower and damned
active."
Kiyrstin stopped, still several steps above the brothers.
Raulind stopped beside her, a worried, pained expression
on his face.
"Rings, Khyel, how do you know?" Deymorin was ask-
ing, and his hands were on Mikhyel's shoulders, struggling
to prevent his much smaller brother from calling the lift.
"Are you, blind?" Mikhyel shouted, and held out his
hand. "Look at it! There. And there. And there!" He
pointed to seemingly random spots about the room, then
shook that hand in front of Deymorin. "Don't you feel
her?"
"Oh, my poor Khy," Raulind whispered, and the agony
in his voice, Kiyrstin knew after the past two hours, was
not contrived.
"Khyel, I see noth" Deymorin said, and broke off as
Mikhyel caught his hand. His eyes widened, tracing the
path Mikhyel had indicated.
"Rings. All right, Khyel, all right." He shook Mikhyel
lightly,  and  Mikhyel  relaxed  visibly  as  silent  messages
passed between the two of them.
A quick intake of breath beside her indicated Raulind
had registered that silent shift of attitude, and recognized
in it the truth of what she'd told him regarding the broth-
ers' new ability.
Kiyrstin took the final steps, judging it time to disrupt
their silent tete-a-tete.
"Everything all right?" she asked.
Deymorin biinked at her, then dropped his hands from
Mikhyel's shoulders. Mikhyel looked past her to Raulind,
and the tension drained from his face.
"Welcome home. Master Khyel," Raulind said easily.
And Mikhyel answered in a similar tone, "Thank you,
Raul. It's good to be home."
"Been under some strain, sir?"
"A bit."
"Better after a good night's sleep."
"Undoubtedly. But I must see my aunt first."
"As you will, sir. I'll go make the bath ready."
"Thank you, Raul. I'll be there shortly."
"And will you be wanting a rubdown, sir?"
"About a week without stopping, Raul."
"I understand, sir. Afraid my hands won't last that long.
Shall I call in reinforcements?"
Mikhyel laughed. "No, Raul. I'll be lucky if I don't fall
asleep and drown. Your hands will have ample time to
recuperate."
"Very good, sir. I'll be upstairs."
"I" Mikhyel's face sobered, and his eyes again drifted
toward his hand, then flickered back to Raulind. "I won't
be long," he finished firmly.
Raulind nodded and left.
"You're going up to see Anheliaa?" Kiyrstin asked, and
Deymorin nodded. "Would I learn anything if I ask why?"
Deymorin shook his head.
"Then I won't bother."
"Good."
"But I will go with you."
"Shepherdess, I don't think"
With a hiss of venting steam, the lift arrived with Nikki
and Lidye aboard.
"Mikhyel!" Lidye exclaimed, and she stepped free before
the grill had fully opened, hand extended.
His face stone blank, Mikhyel reached to meet it.
Lidye fell back, eyes wide and startledand focused on
Mikhyel's hand.
"Lidye, what's wrong?" Nikki asked, still half-inside
the lift.
Deymorin brushed past Lidye, and pushed Nikki back
inside. "We're all going to go see Aunt Anheliaa, Nikki."
"What? Deymorin, why? I just came from there. She's
nine-tenths dead."
"Then she can't do anything, can she?" Deymorin said,
and followed Nikki into the lift.
Mikhyel followed; Lidye shied back from him, keeping
even her dress from contact with him.
Mikhyel stepped into the lift
And cried out. He swayed. Deymorin grabbed for him,
Nikki did, and Mikhyel's arms shot out, flailing wildly even
as his feet staggered without rational direction.
The next instant he collapsed into a twisted heap on the
floor, his eyes wide open and staring, his limbs twitching.
8 8 ~
That which had been Mikhyel dunMheric stared out
through that which had been his eyes and saw shapes,
blurred images without meaning. His ears collected equally
meaningless noises.
He felt nothing.
His arms were no longer his own. His legs were not. Not
even his heart beat for itself, and for its own reasons, but
because Deymorin's beat. And because Nikki's heart had
not stopped.
Deymorin. Nikki. Names. As Mikhyel was a Name. His
name.
Mikhyel held on to that one truth, as the images tilled
and swayed. His arms twitched, his legs did. He was walk-
ing, carrying a body that babbled meaningless words and
writhed uncontrollably.
No, not him. Someone Else was carrying the body.
Deymorin, was the name supplied, for one or the other.
And still he carried the awkward bundle upward.
Stairs. Endless stairs. And the bundle twitched, thrashed
about, and sent him to his knees. He thudded down two
steps, and held the bundle close, protecting its head.
And he said something to it, though he didn't know what,
and he sent his mind into the whirling maelstrom of the
bundle's mind, and he stilled those turbulent waters. He
embraced them with godlike scope, contained them.
Contained. Protected those waters from brothers and
black malignancy alike.
And slowly, as the malignancy retreated, feeling returned
to his limbs.
His name was Mikhyel. He lay draped across Deymorin's
lap on the staircase halfway between the first and second
floors of Rhomandi House.
"Very good," Deymorin said, and he realized he'd spo-
ken aloud. "And two plus two equals?"
"Ask me in the morning." He groaned and pulled him-
self upright and onto the stair beside Deymorin. "What
happened?"
"I'd assumed you could tell me."
Kiyrstin was on the step beneath them. Otherwise, the
staircase was empty. "Where's Nikki?" he asked, then real-
ized he should have known.
"He's gone with Lidye up to the Tower."
He didn't feel Deymorin, except in the old, normal way.
He touched Deymorin's hand, and wondered, if somehow,
some crisis point had been reached and
"Sorry, brother," Deymorin said, and his voice was
strained. "It's not gone. I . . ."
He understood, then, what the images meant. He looked
at his hand, free, now, of the black stain, though the shad-
ows still crept in the corners. Deymorin's doing, that free-
dom of his mind from Anheliaaand everything else. And
Deymorin was turning green beneath his tan from the
effort.
"Let it go, Deymorin."
"Khyel, you don't understand. You'll"
"Be fine. I'm ready for her now."
Deymorin held out his hand. After a moment, Mikhyel
took it. Only then, when he had that solid contact, did
Deymorin begin to ease his hold on Mikhyel's mind.
It felt as if Deymorin took down a wall, stone by stone. A
wall around Mikhyel. Not stacked stones, but solid granite
between himself and the rest of that underneath world.
At one point, Mikhyel felt Anheliaa surge, that presence
that sought to consume him, and the wall was back. An-
other drop, another surge, and Deymorin's anger swelled,
violent red that flared between Mikhyel and Anheliaa, and
the blackness curled in on itself with a near-palpable
scream.
This time, when the wall came down, it was only Dey-
morin's mind waiting to touch him.
Thyerri closed the door and shot the bolt behind the last
customer. With a heavy sigh, he collapsed into the nearest
chair and buried his head in his arms, ready to fall asleep
right then and there.
"Thy?" Sakhithe's voice roused him. "You all right?"
He nodded, the barest movement of his head, since any-
thing more made the room spin. "Tired."
She moved behind him and began to rub his shoulders
and neck. "Shouldn't have come out."
"Couldn't sleep. You needed the help."
"Can't deny that. Thank you."
"My" He yawned widely, and let his head fall again.
"pleasure."
"Is that what you call it?" She chuckled, and continued
rubbing. Thyerri's neck relaxed, and his head began to sway
with the motion of her hands.
"So, this is our young warrior, eh?" Zeiin's voice jarred
him awake.
The barkeeper fell into a neighboring chair and swept a
towel across his face. The towel left a damp sheen in its
wake. Zeiin wiped his hands next, then tossed the towel
into the middle of the round table.
"Sakhi said she talked to you about what happened,"
Zeiin said.
Thyerri shrugged, embarrassed.
"She said you might want it not to happen again."
The bar towel remained in the center of the table. Thy-
erri laid a claim and buried his head in a pillow formed of
its cool damp folds. He was ready to sleep, not at all con-
cerned about tomorrow.
"Thyerri, behave!" Sakhithe grabbed a fistful of his hair
and hauled his head up.
"Sakhi, I'm not a fighter!" Thyerri groaned in protest,
and tried unsuccessfully to pull free.
"No sane man is, boy," Zelin said, and his voice was
cold. He stood up. "Never mind, Sakhi. Let him go."
She released his hair and Thyerri's head fell, nearly to
the table, he was that tired. But she didn't seem to notice.
She just left him there, and walked with Zelin toward the
back door.
"Sakhi?" he called to her, but she didn't stop. He stum-
bled to his feet and followed her. "Please, Sakhi, wait."
She spun about, but Zelin kept walking. "Why? What do
you want me to say? It's all right, Thyerri? It won't happen
again, Thyerri? Well, it will happen. Again and again and
again."
"Not . . . not if I don't ever dance again."
It was as if he twisted a knife in his own gut. It was
defeat. But his dance had caused the fight. Had roused
passions and anger. If he didn't dance, it wouldn't happen.
And he would die.
"Do you think it was just the dance? Wake up, Thyerri.
You're not in the Tower any longer. There's no way to
stop it. Not out here."
She was frightening him. He was tired and sore and he
couldn't think straight.
"Sakhi, what did I do?" His voice shamed him, quivering
like a child's. He tried to steady it. "Why are you so
angry?"
Her shoulders sagged. "I'm not angry. Thy. I'm fright-
ened. For you. I had no idea you were so . . . so helpless."
"I'm not." The very idea was revolting. "I'm not a
fighter, but"
"Helpless," she repeated firmly. "Vulnerable. I didn't
know, Thyerri. I'd never seen you dance before. And . . .
your dance is dangerous, Thyerri."
"I know. I made them crazy. That's why"
"Not to others, Thyerri, to yourself. You're too open.
Everything that is Thyerri is laid out for them to know
and to destroy. And they will, Thyerri. They'll try to de-
stroy it, because they can't have it. And what they'll do . . .
it's worse than death, Thyerri."
"They? Sakhi, you're confusing me."
She bit her lip, looked away, her face growing red.
"What? Sakhi, tell me!"
Taking his hand, she led him back to the table. "Thyerri,
I realize now, you aren't like the rest of us."
"But I am, Sakhi." He slumped back in his chair. Draw-
ing his braid forward, he jerked the tie loose and finger-
combed the strands free. Long hair was a dancer's pride,
its whipping tail as much a part of the radical dance as the
dancer's well-trained body. "I know, I never cut it, but I
don't really figure I'll ever get another chance at the rings.
It's just . . ."
"A dream? That's the difference. Thy. I don't even
dream of dancing the rings any moreexcept for the night-
mares. I never want to dance that way again. None of us
do. At least, not those who survive. This" She ran a hand
through her own cropped hair. "is not castration, Thyerri,
but freedom. For me, Rakshi's touch would be a curse, not
a blessing." She reached out and freed his hand from his
hair to hold it. "What happened last night, Thyerri, that
was a bonus. For me, it is truly enough. But it's not the
rings. It's not the maze. It's not . . . it's not reaching out
to Rakshi and having him hold you in his hand."
He just stared at her, resisting the ache inside.
"Thyerri, it's still there for you. You could no more stop
dancingwhether on the rings or down the streetthan
you can stop breathing. That does something to certain
people, people like that dunKarlon man"
"That? That what, Sakhi?"
"The way you move. The exaltation of life. The challenge
you send to some people, just by being. It seems like some
people just have to possess that. Or destroy it. I don't know
how to explain it. But I've seen it happen. And that's why
you must let Zeiin help you. I don't want to lose you."
He chewed his lip, wondering how all this revelation had
come about, when all he'd really wanted was to fall asleep.
"I1 didn't say no, Sakhi."
"Does that mean. . . ?"
He shrugged. "I said I wasn't a fighter. I didn't say I
wasn't willing to learn."
Her face lit, she squeezed his hand, and ran out the door
in search of Zeiin.
He didn't remember her return.
Interlude

A glimmer in the web. A child, frightened. Mother fed it,
felt herself drawn along the delicate strand of perception,
and realized a moment's disorientation as she recognized a
special child. A part longed to extend arms to hold it, to
make it not frightened. But she'd done that before, a part
of her reminded, and lost the child altogether.
Another glimmer, reaching to her without awareness.
Mother traced that glimmer to its source: the valley, near
the progenitor. Very near.
Strange, that she should hear it, with her drastically cur-
tailed awareness.
She opened her awareness further, expending more en-
ergy than was necessarily wise, in her weakened state. But
curiosity had always outweighed wisdom, at least, since
she'd discovered curiosity, and a mystery existed only to
be solved.
As Mother brushed the glimmer with a mental feather,
she recognized the glimmer for the new node, that strange
conglomerate that had first appeared in the pattern a
human  generation  ago,  and  then  flared  into  its
majority . . . sometime.
Recently.
A node that tasted, vaguely, of the past.
Not too long agosome three hundred or so seasonal
cycles, a part of her supplieda human from beyond the
land's edge had  invaded  Sucks-pond-water's sphere of
awareness and had taken control of Sucks-pond-water's
source. Mother had never imagined such a thing was possi-
ble, though she'd subsequently learned of other sources
similarly human-confined, blasphemous as the notion was.
Initially, she'd been amused: the old miser chained, his
growth contained, halted. And in the following years, as
Mother's siblings' sources were similarly confined. Mother
grew more than amused. Mother grew ecstatic, deliriously,
orgasmically fulfilled as more earthly essence than she'd
imagined could exist in all the world flooded to her source:
essence to strengthen her web, for her to grow, for her
offspring to grow and bud sources of their own.
Her consciousness had likewise expanded.
Following connections through source after source,
Mother had learned the shape of the world web. She'd
sensed others like herself, distant kin, but with a paltry
sense of self, and even less curiosity for their world. It was
a trail that inevitably brought her back to her own world-
cave.
And from her humans, she learned what had occurred to
Sucks-pond-water, and she'd learned to fear. She'd rapidly
deduced it was only a matter of time before the valley
humans came to her mountain to contain her source. Cap-
ping her node, they called it.
Ugly sounds for an ugly deed.
Just as ugly was the destruction of her humans. The in-
vaders brought new ways, ways that made outcasts of her
chosen ones, her darling dancers, and drove many of them
away, across the mountains and into the inadequate care
of her torpid kin.
Mother had put all her energy then into strengthening
her node, determined to match Sucks-pond-water's poten-
tial. Only then could she break free of her progenitor. Only
then could she keep the humans from capping her node.
The ley shimmered, disgust and dismay rippling in uncer-
tain hues about her.
She'd failed. Her final buds had been mere suggestions,
runners tracing through the mountain's stone, barely begin-
ning to crystallize on their far ends when the creature that
controlled the progenitor in the valley had come to Moth-
er's mountain. Together with its ringmaster horde, those
humans who controlled Mother's vacuous siblings, the crea-
ture had forced Mother to capitulate, had forced the energ-
ies flowing through her into directions of its choosing.
Temporarily.
Had reduced Mother's world awareness to the narrow
confines of the immediate web, blinding her to the universe.
Temporarily.
Put a human fool in charge of her.
Temporarily.
For Mother had learned to plan. Mother had set a pat-
tern in motion twenty human years ago that would see
fruition.
Someday.
Mother had time. Humans thought in terms of seasonal
cycles. Mother in terms of worldly cycles, and twenty years
was nothing, less than nothing.
Except where it concerned those humans Mother had
taken to her bosom. Those children Mother had nourished
for their own sakes and her own purposes. For them, for
their lives and the love she bore them. Mother might find
herself moved to act, even past exhaustion's lethargy.
Exhaustion. That was the most boring aspect of her cur-
rent situation.
For one accustomed to walking the surface, for one ac-
customed to basking in the adulation of her humans, it was
a lonely time. All of Mother's children had deserted her,
following their paths to wherever fate and the ley had cho-
sen, forgetting their Mother, uncaring that she grew thin,
that her glow faded.
She had given all she had to protect her humans, to set
them on the path of enlightened understanding of the cos-
mos, and now she must rest, rejuvenate in the radiant pools
beneath her mountain peak,
Without one single chicken to ease the gurgle in her
belly.
It had been three days since he'd been pulled from the
Crypt and brought in secrecy to Rhomandi House. Three
days, and he'd already been subpoenaed, resubpoenaed,
and served with a contempt fine for failure to appear before
the Rhomatum Council Conduct Committee.
Another, similar procedure was in progress for the
syndicate.
Mikhyel set the contempt papers back on the tray, and
reached for the glass of chilled fruit juice.
"Why wasn't I told?"
Another stroke of the brush through his hair, and Rau-
lind answered:
"You were sleeping."
Difficult to argue with facts. Toast. And butter. Then:
"Where are my brothers?"
He'd long since grown accustomed to the fact that Rau-
lind always seemed to know such things.
"Master Nikaenor has gone to the stables, sir. Master
Deymorin has taken the lady Kiyrstin to the market. It
appears she requires, ah, things to prepare for her part in
today's inquiry."
"Her part?"
"It appears that she has been summoned to appear as
well."
The image of Kiyrstine romGaretti standing before the
council in his breeches and his shirt, with her red hair flying
wildly about her head flashed through his mind, and sud-
denly breakfast lost all appeal. Mikhyel pushed the tray
aside and sat upright in the grooming chair, pulling his hair
free of Raulind's fingers.
"Sir!" Raulind admonished.
"I'm sorry." He set a contrite hand to his valet's shoulder
as he passed, a concession to an old friend's feelings that
nearly gave Raulind a far more onerous task than re-
working his braid.
When his stomach had ceased turning itself inside out,
Raulind was beside him with a cool cloth and supporting
hands. And when he was back on the grooming couch, with
that cool cloth on his forehead, and a heated bathsheet
draped over the rest of him, Raulind disappeared. Off to
his own quarters, Mikhyel supposed, to brew the stomach-
settling concoction the secret of which only Raulind knew.
He had explained everything to Raulind, in those rare
few hours that he'd surfaced from the depths of exhausted
sleep.  Nikki's  wedding,  Anheliaa,  and  the  Boreton
Firestorm . . . he'd explained everything he could remem-
ber. Raulind had accepted his story with typical serenity,
up to and including his implausible mental link with his
brothers, not because Raulind was a gullible fool, but be-
cause Raulind had never, in all their years together, ques-
tioned Mikhyel's veracity.
But then, Mikhyel would never consider lying to Raulind.
Raulind's matter-of-fact attitude, coupled with his steam-
ing potion of stimulating herbs, helped Mikhyel settle his
nerves and his stomach enough, at least, to sample the
breakfast Raulind had personally supervised, and to hold
it down while Raulind worked his hair loose, combed, and
rebraided it.
And all the while, the summons lurked on the table be-
side him. The Council would want answers. They'd want to
know where he'd been and what had happened to the web,
and how soon it would be fully functional.
And he had no answers for them. Neither did Lidye.
According to Deymorin, Lidye had not been able to probe
the web, because Anheliaa was still in control.
Or so she'd told Deymorin three days ago.
"Has there been any change?" he asked.
Raulind, who had been able to follow his thoughts for
years, even without brotherly links answered, "Your aunt
has not yet roused from her coma. Your brother Deymorin
was lamenting the fact this morning. He said he wished she
would make up her mind and either wake up and tell them
what was wrong with the web, or die."
He was almost tempted to ask how Raulind had come
to have that particular piece of information, but he held
his tongue. The servants' information web was too valuable
to tamper with.
But Deymorin was right. Even comatose, Anheliaa would
have located the force that was destroying her web. If she
were, indeed, comatose.
Despite Deymorin's efforts to protect his sleep, night-
mares of that malignancy seeping from the shadows to en-
gulf his hand had haunted his subconscious mind. Ever
since that moment three days ago, when Deymorin's anger
had flared against the encroaching shadow and shriveled it
into  nothingness,  Mikhyel  had  questioned  his  own
perceptions.
Deymorin had gone on to the Tower that night, after
leaving him in Raulind's hands. Deymorin had seen Anheli-
aa's comatose body, and had shared that image with Mik-
hyel by that means Mikhyel couldn't disbelieve.
And yet . . .
"I'm going to visit the Tower," Mikhyel announced,
when the pin that held his hair had been secured.
"Do you think that wise, sir?" Raulind asked, as he was
inclined  to do when  Mikhyel  contemplated  something
stupid.
"At the moment, Raul, my brothers are nothing more
than mist in my mind. I think, if it is ever to be safe, now
is the time to see her for myself."
"And seeing Anheliaa for yourself is, of course, of para-
mount importance."
He met Raul's eyes in the mirror.
"Yes, Raul, it is."
"Very good, sir. I'll lay out your clothes."
There were guards outside his door. Guards dressed in
Fericci green and gold.
Raulind had explained, and Deymorin had confirmed
that the guards were precautionary only. That they were
Lidye's means of monitoring their activities until she was
assured of their common goals.
Which sounded to him like amazing good sense from
someone he'd thought lacking in the most basic instincts.
He wondered if it were her idea . . . or Tarim's.
But then, for all they were Tarim's men, Tarim himself
was housed elsewhere on the Hill. As Sironi was. And
Lidye was the woman who, rather than openly declare An-
heliaa incapacitated and herself in charge, had had the un-
common sense to pretend to be Anheliaa, as a stop-gap,
solidarity measure.
For all Nikki had sought to excuse his wife's subterfuge
to him, Mikhyel could appreciate the motives for the decep-
tion, particularly considering the fact she'd readily admitted
her counterfeit to Nikki at the first challenge.
Understanding did not, however, mean he considered the
present situation acceptable. He would not be a prisoner
within his homeor anywhere within his City, for that
matter.
At the Tower lift, Lidye's green and golds stepped aside
and Anheliaa's guard, in somber black and with far more
ominous expression, replaced them at his back.
Over the years, he'd occasionally wondered if Anheliaa
had purposefully chosen guards who were a head taller
than he. He'd further wondered, if it was a conscious
choice, if she'd thought to intimidate him, or to teach him
not to care.
One never knew. Not with Anheliaa.
Inside the lift, Anheliaa's presence surrounded him like
the folds of a too-heavy cloak. While it wasn't the black
malignancy of three days ago, her ambition and purpose
filled the air like the heavy perfume she favored.
Likely Raulind was correct, and he was a fool to come
here. But sometimes a man had to be a fool, if he was
going to live with himself. He was awake now, and clear-
headed, and as he would not live surrounded by Lidye's
guards, neither would he live in terror of what dwelt
overhead.
The lift reached the top floor, the ringchamber itself, and
the guard beside the controls brought it to a smooth halt.
The grillwork slid back, and he stepped out into the
chamber.
Anheliaa lay still as death on a linen-draped bier. Light
from the Tower's beveled-glass windows cast bands of un-
natural color across the unnatural color of her withered,
painted features. Flickering shadows from the rotating rings
that dominated the room added an equally unnatural sense
of movement to her massive form.
She was grotesque.
Mikhyel wondered why, in all the years of forced associa-
tion he'd never realized that simple fact. Perhaps, in fair-
ness to his own perceptions, he was only nowas an adult
and seeing her for the first time with her autocratic person-
ality laid lowable to acknowledge that which he'd al-
ways known.
He stood beside her, knowing better than to touch, feel-
ing no inclination to do so. That it was the rings keeping
her alive was beyond doubt. Anheliaa neither ate nor
drank, yet her physical status had remained unchanged ever
since Lidye had reset the rings.
Twice before, following the capping of Khoratum and
again only a few weeks ago, Anheliaa had used the rings
to regenerate a nearly destroyed body. Mikhyel hadn't seen
her those other times, but Anheliaa's own physician, Di-
orak, insisted the same process was in operation this time.
And yet, her comatose state had never lasted so long, the
draw on the ley had never been so great, and even Diorak
was beginning to lose hope of her recovery.
Hope. He supposed the possibility existed that someone
other than Diorak hoped she would survive. Likely Bro-
lucci, captain of Anheliaa's guard, hoped she would. If he
did not, he was a fool.
Deymorin had met with Brolucci to challenge their incar-
ceration. The captain insisted he had been operating under
a standing order from Anheliaa, and as long as Anheliaa
lived, Brolucci was immune to investigation and prosecu-
tion. Once Anheliaa died, unless Lidye took him as her
captain, his immunity ended.
And Lidye assured them all she had no interest in keep-
ing Brolucci in any sense.
If Mikhyel were the captain, he'd be sincerely hopeful of
Anheliaa's recovery.
HimselfMikhyel dunMheric would believe Anheliaa's
damnable existence was over when he set her adrift in the
Rhomandi hypogeum, and not a moment sooner.
Perhaps not even then.
A hand touched his arm for attention. Its partner held a
mug of fresh tea before him. He accepted the tea and for
the first time met the gaze of Anheliaa's wraithlike personal
servant. Mirym pressed his handsilently, as she did every-
thing without wordsthen returned to her needlework
stand on the far side of Anheliaa's bed.
Mikhyel cradled the tea in both hands, hardly knowing
where to look. His eyes caught Mirym's and she smiled
easily, as if it were just one more morning visit to Anhel-
iaa's ringchamber.
They'd seen one another often enough since Mirym came
to live and work in Rhomandi House almost three years
ago. He'd come to the ringchamber every morning, and
every morning, she'd be at Anheliaa's side. Silent. Atten-
tive. But their relationship now was far different than it
had been the last time Mikhyel had paid his regular morn-
ing visit.
While Mikhyel's memories of the days surrounding the
firestorm were hazy, the handful of hours surrounding
Nikki's wedding were ruthlessly clear, and those memories
involved this young woman in ways necessarily awkward to
them both now.
When the rings had chosen Lidye dunTarim of Shatum
Node as the appropriate spouse for Nikki, Anheliaa
claimed they'd chosen, not their new master, but a stopgap,
that Lidye was primarily an incubator for the next true
master. Anheliaa had refused to leave the web in the hands
of a second-rank spinner, and with typical Rhomandi arro-
gance, she had refused to believe that anyone outside the
Rhomandi line could be anything but second rank.
But Nikki had set the price of his marriage high: the
rings' help in locating Deymorin, and leave to depart from
Rhomatum the day following his marriage to find and res-
cue his brother. A quest from which, Anheliaa would have
been forced to acknowledge the possibility, Nikki might
never have returneda circumstance that would have put
her Darian child's inception at some risk.
That night, when Nikki's passion for his new bride
proved less than adequate, Anheliaa had stepped in with
her mind-bending rings to resolve the biological deficit. Her
efforts had proven rather more effective than even she had
supposed. Through Nikki's erstwhile tentative connection
with his brothers, Anheliaa had driven them all into a
breeding madness. Nikki and Lidye, by agreement, Deym-
orin and Kiyrstin, who had been nearly to that point al-
ready, himself and . . . Mirym, whose only crime had been
attending his sickbed at the wrong moment.
Mirym's reproachless presence recalled that night with
brutal clarity. Nikki's cry of protest ringing in his mind, the
sense of easing into Nikki's skin as he would into a too-
hot bath. There'd been a startled moment as he realized
the sheer unadulterated power of his younger brother's
body, the vigor, and the intoxicating rush of energy the like
of which he'd never before experienced.
And the utterly foreign sensation of a body primed and
ready for sex.
Sensations that had surged anew as Nikki looked out
through his eyes and saw sweet, gentle Mirym . . . framed
by Mikhyel's black-edged sheets.
And then
Mikhyel frowned, disgusted, and gulped tea that burned
his mouth with satisfying real pain. He did not envy his
brother his new wife. What he had seen in Lidye's face that
night had been all too reminiscent of Anheliaa at her worst.
And when Anheliaa was finally gone from his life, he
wanted her gone . . . forever.
To his knowledge, Mirym had revealed nothing to any-
one about that night. Certainly she hadn't made the allega-
tions against him the situation would justify. She seemed
to be inclined to forget his behavior that night.
But for all the ease she radiated in his presence now, he
couldn't forget. Whatever outside force had prompted his
actions, those actions had been beyond all bounds of pro-
priety and human decency, and he couldn't shake the feel-
ing that he should have been capable of stopping himself.
Worst of all, he couldn't throw off the sense that he'd
been a performer for the grotesque lump lying silent as
death before him. He'd seen the images Anheliaa had been
able to pull up on the central viewing sphere of the Rhoma-
tum Rings; he didn't appreciate being included in her reper-
toire of dupes.
And he had to wonder what was going on within her
mind now, as her body lay immobile. Did she even need
the viewing sphere? Or could she send her mind out along
the lines? Could she see the weaknesses? Could she look
into his bedroom, or Deymorin's or some poor Councillor
who had dared deny her proper homage?
He clenched his hands on the mug and sipped again,
schooling the bitterness and the anger.
Difficult to say what he'd hoped to find, here in the
Tower. Perhaps a replaying of the night of his arrival, end-
ing, perhaps, with Anheliaa's melodramatic death, and an
end to the suspense. Or perhaps he'd hoped she would
rouse while he stood here beside her, to return his world,
at least in that sense, to what it had been all his life.
Pure logic advised it would be best if she rallied long
enough and well enough to make a smooth generational
transition within the Tower. But such a transition would
never take place. Anheliaa would never admit she was
dying, for all she'd bemoaned her lack of an heir daily for
the past twenty years. Anheliaa would never make those
final adjustments, never reveal those final secrets to the
person who could then replace her.
Even so, a part of him wished, desperately, that she
would rouse enough at least to explain what was happening
in the web. Was it the Khoratum line alone? Was the node
itself failing? Was it Khoratum at all? The web was suffer-
ing, depleted and unreliable, and the Council wanted ans
{Don't . . . worry . . .}
A vague awareness: a light touch on his arm.
(... all . . . right . . .}
{She's dying!} He answered reflexively, then jolted back
to the present. A present where his brothers were far away,
the faintest shadow in his mind. Here in the Tower, there
were only the guards . . . and Anheliaa's supposedly mute
servant.
Mirym was at his side again, her hand on his arm. He
stepped away from her, confused, uncertain whether that
voice in his head had been real or imagined. Mirym pur-
sued him, reached again, this time for his bare hand, lacing
their fingers, palm to palm.
{You . . . hear . . . don't you?}
He hesitated, sensing unknown hazard in any admission
to a skill he'd never imagined a month ago, and with which
this young woman seemed uncomfortably familiar.
{Some.}
Amusement came through, and a hint of condescension.
{Thought so. I'll think more slowly. Better?)
He didn't answer, aware of the guards staring at them;
guards who might report to Lidye the strange behavior of
Mikhyel dunMheric with Anheliaa's servant. Wondering on
a different score if Nikki still coveted tender feelings for
Mirym, and whether Lidye might not use the guards' re-
ports to rouse Nikki against him.
And confounding it all, the memory of this young woman
lying warm and pleasant in his arms, in the aftermath of
Nikki's wedding.
More silent amusement, that contrasted sharply with an
outward appearance that now involved trembling lips, and
incipient tears. It was a contradiction which endorsed his
own limited experience with women in general, but which
jarred, somehow, with his experience of this woman in
particular.
{Can't you see I'm in terrible need of comfort, you silly
man?)
Without conscious thought, he wrapped his arm around
her shoulders and murmured encouraging words to her.
{Better.} A touch of surprise, and an image of himself: a
proud, distant man, seated in this chamber, facing Anhe-
liaa's atrocities with cool detachment.
Not the sort a woman would naturally turn to, he
supposed.
{How little you know of women, Mikhyel dunMheric.
Remember, I knew her as well. Of course, she's dying. But
the rings will not go down with her. Lidye, the monitors
below, I1
Her thought-words garbled. Conveniently so, he thought,
behind what he hoped was an equally effective mental
shield.
{You?} He pressed the issue. {Can you control the
rings, Mirym?}
{I make no such claims, but I'm not indifferent to what
occurs within this chamber. I know that at the moment
Anheliaa is drawing heavily on the ley, attempting a resur-
rection. It's a battle she's losing. Soon, she'll be gone and
the web will be free to rejuvenate itself rather than Anhe-
liaa dunMoren.}
Then perhaps they should take Anheliaa out of here. If
Mirym was correct
{Safest to leave her for now. In her desperation, she
might destroy the rings, possibly even the source itself. Let
her linger as she can. She will go. Time is on our side.}
He found her response to thoughts he had believed se-
cure disturbing, and he wondered how much else she was
picking up.
Silent laughter told him nothing.
Time is on our side. . . . But how long did they really
have? The Syndicate was angry, restless. Dissolution
threatened.
{Time,) her thought responded. {We are obsessed with it,
aren't we? A day, a year, a decade . . . those are moments
in the life of the ley. It could take time, a long time, for
the web to rejuvenate. We must be patient.}
Source? Rejuvenate?
The Syndicate's mood was suddenly far from his mind as
out of this formerly silent woman's mind came a seemingly
vast knowledge, confidently expressed in terms he'd never
heard, not from Anheliaa, not from the experts who studied
the ley and its patterns and behavior.
{How do you know?} he sent the question deliberately,
along with his own view of her: small, pale-haired servant
to Anheliaa, always with her needlework, ever silent. In all,
the very model of a relation to one of the house servants
come to Rhomandi House to better her situation, perhaps
to find a husband among the other well-paid servants.
{Husband?} Indignation and an image so overwhelmingly
powerful, so beautiful, so enthralling, that for a moment,
the ringchamber vanished altogether from his senses. Ley-
thium crystal: draped in shimmering, shifting curtains, hang-
ing in immense, incandescent chandeliers; pools of liquid
leythium, more viscous than water, oozing, bubbling, grow-
ing and shifting into towering organic shapes.
And color. In places, soft, subtle shades of white, in oth-
ers, a brilliance so pure, there was no human term, no
earthly paradigm to describe it. The image faded, leaving
him with eyes tearing for want of blinking.
Beyond that tear-distortion, Mirym was staring at him.
{What need / of a husband?}
And with such an imagination, perhaps
{Imagination? How dare you, Mikhyel dunMheric? I
know because I've seen them!} She jerked away.
But how could he believe her? How could she know
things no one else - - .
Unless Anheliaa knew. Unless Anheliaa, with some hid-
den agenda had gone wherever that care was, and taken
Mirym with her.
There were dangerous gaps in his knowledge of this
young woman, who had so quietly infiltrated his home. An-
heliaa had brought her in as she had all the other Tower
servants before her. He'd believed her enforced silence was
part of Anheliaa's satisfaction with her. Now, he had to
wonder what other uses Anheliaa had had for her.
Nikki and Mirym. The haze dissipated from certain areas
of his memory, and he recalled watching them once and
marveling at Nikki's ability to interpret the mute girl's hand
gestures. That memory in turn led him to wonder if Nikki's
entrancement with Mirym was, in part, her ability tOv com-
municate this way.
And on the heels of those memories came details of an-
other night in the Tower. A night he'd awakened, filled
with nightmares, to be given a draughta potent sleeping
potionfrom this girl's hands. When next he'd awakened,
it  had  been  for  the  sole  purpose  of  being  dragged,  still
groggy from that drug, to Anheliaa's ringchamber for
questioning.
And from therehis mind veered away from the light-
ning and the flame.
{I did what I had to do,} came her silent answer, with
the force to carry it between them without benefit of touch.
{For my own safety, and that of my family. My node. My
source.}
He held out his left hand, and when she returned hers

to it, covered it with his right and asked, {Who are you?}

Mirym.}
Where are you from? What node?}
Does it matter?}
Ye\

1.. x    I

Suddenly, a hand clutched his wrist. A hand that was not
Mirym's. Enameled nails, filed to talons, cut deep. A life-
time of training kept him from flinching, kept his eyes di-
rected at Mirym even as he felt the blood seep along the
palm of his hand.
{Say you love me, boy!}
It was a familiar hiss that echoed in his mind, though
Anheliaa had never before spoken to him thus. He closed
his eyes on a world that tended to swim.
{Say it!} The thorny grip tightened, and his view of the
chamber  shifted,  taking  in  himself,  Mirym,  and
Anheliaa . . . as if the image came from the rings.

I . . . love you. Aunt Liaa.)
And I'll miss you. Aunt Liaa.}
The web!) he battled his thoughts into coherency, recall-
ing the upcoming meeting, the desperate need to know:
{Anheliaa, what's wrong with it? Show)
{Say it!}
The thought drove into his mind with the strength to
stagger him. He forced his eyes open, insisted they see the
room as he did, not as Anheliaa did. His jaw ached around
clenched teeth. He wanted to damn her to the eighteen,
lightning-blasted hells above Rhomatum, wanted to put his
hands around her neck and squeeze what life remained into
whatever void of hereafter she endorsed, and take his
chances with the future.
Laughter in his mind, shrill and mocking. But desperate
as well. Pleading. It was an old demand, one she'd first
pressed upon him almost fourteen years ago, when he'd
been brought to her following Mheric's death. Anheliaa
needed to be remembered, not in records and in history
books, but in living minds. Anheliaa wanted to be certain
that even when she was gone, she'd control him.
Mirym's eyes gleamed across at him, deep with under-
standing, but without pity. / did what I had to do . . .
And he knew then he dared not give way to that dark
fury seething within him. That, as he had in the past, for
the sake of Rhomatum and the life and responsibilities that
were his by accident of birth, he must bend.
{I'll . . . miss you, Aunt Liaa.)
Triumph flared, then dissolved into indifference.
{Anheliaa! The web...(
The talons released his wrist, and Anheliaa's hand
dropped the short distance to her side, as motionless as
before. Humiliated, cheated, fighting to hide his revulsion,
he stepped away, avoiding the guards' looks, avoiding
Mirym's.
But as the lift carried him downward, a lingering image,
a scent of roses in the morning sun permeated his being.
Roses with a gentle hint of raspberries. And a touch, clean
and honest, surrounded his congealing wrist and took away
the sting.
"Inhale," Zeiin ordered. And Thyerri drew a deep breath.
"I said inhale, not sniff!"
A sharp blow between his shoulders made Thyerri gasp.
"Better. Now hold it."
Fingers probed his ribs, gut, and back, seeking reaction,
seeking weakness, but the aches were gone.
Mostly.
Thyerri flinched as those strong fingers dug deeper.
But he didn't exhale.
And Zeiin laughed.
"You'll do, lad," the old man said and told him he could
breathe now, if he wanted, and Thyerri did want.
Badly.
While he gasped after breath, Zeiin asked about legs,
arms, head, and any other residual aches, but there was
nothing Thyerri would even consider mentioning.
Zeiin gave a brief nod, then jerked his head toward
Bharlori's back door, where the afternoon sun's slanting
rays warmed the wooden steps.
When they'd settled, Zeiin turned to him and asked,
"Well, boy, what is it you want?"
"Want? I . . . don't know. I don't want to get pounded
into the ground again."
"Do you simply want to escape?"
He shrugged, uncertain. Put that way, it sounded
cowardly.
"To stop your attackers?"
He nodded emphatically.
"To punish your attackers?"
He chewed his lip. He didn't really want to hurt anyone.
"Kill?"
"No!"
Even the thought revolted him.
Zeiin stared at him, eyes narrowed, then jerked his head
in a quick nod and pushed himself to his feet.
"Stand up," he commanded. "And face me."
Standing opposite him, Zeiin was, Thyerri realized,
shorter than he expected: of a size with Thyerri, but broad.
The sort of body that challenged the perceptive line be-
tween dangerous and merely immovable.
Neither was he as old as Thyerri once assumed. Silver-
gray hair and lined face notwithstanding, he moved with
the grace and lightness of foot of a man in his prime.
Zeiin lunged toward him; Thyerri dodged, startled.
A sudden whirl, and a foot flew outward from Zeiin's
body like a bucket on a rope.
Thyerri leaped backward.
Another pause. Then he commanded, "Face me, boy,
and shadow my moves."
It was like a dance exercise. Don't think. Follow. Let the
body sense the shifts of weight, the follow-through that
must occur. A sweep of the arm, fall back. Lunge forward,
ease left. Rock heel to ball to toeand thrust. Toes catch
the weight, ankle absorbs the momentum. And thrust again.
Side, side, forward, fall back. Turn and thrust, turn and
hop . . . and turn and turn and turn and drop.
Thyerri, crouched on the ground panting, laughed.
Zeiin, three turns back, frowned.
Possibly, he shouldn't have added his embellishments.
Zeiin pointed at the ground in front of him. Feeling the
heat rise in his face, Thyerri shuffled silently back and stood
facing the older man.
"This time," Zeiin said, "countermove."
The patterns changed, and changed again, growing faster,
more complex. Shadow again, and counter. Shadow.
Counter.
And Zeiin's frown never eased. Finally Zeiin barked,
"Enough!" and dropped to the step, red-faced and
sweating.
Thyerri stood, panting, hands braced on his knees. The
moment his breathing eased, he began stretching, light
moves, to keep his muscles from stiffening.
And all the while, Zeiin simply watched him. Until
"Give me your hand, boy," Zeiin commanded.
Thyerri hesitated, then shrugged and obeyed. Zeiin
turned his hand over, examining the calluses, the tiny, white
scars that were his only visible legacy, constant reminders
of the dance rings' honed edges.
"You were a dancer."
Thyerri shrugged.
Zeiin set their hands palm to palm. Like the rest of him,
Zeiin's hand was short and broad. Thyerri's was slender,
with long, supple fingers.
Zeiin stood, and gripped Thyerri's chin, holding his face
for a closer examination.
"Raise your arms to the side," he said, in a tone not to
be questioned, and he extended his strange examination to
Thyerri's torso, running his hands down ribs, waist and hips.
Abruptly he said, "That will be all for today."
"But"
"I must think on what I've seen!" Zeiin said sharply.
"Not all students can be trained alike, ex-dancer of Khora-
tum. You move differently. Strangely. I must think how to
direct that strange motion. Now leave me to think!"
Different. Strange.
Thunder rumbled to the west, and Thyerri glanced
toward distant, darkening skies, wondering what he was
going to tell Sakhithe when she asked how the lesson went.
Another rumble, a flash of distant lightning, a pause, and
another rumble.
Because she would ask, as surely as they would have rain
before nightfall.
d 8 9
Lightning flashed to the north and west. There'd be an-
other storm before the day was out. But Lidye insisted
the storms were diminishing in both ferocity and number,
evidence, Mikhyel dunMheric sincerely hoped, that the web
was growing more stable, if not stronger.
Outside the window of the Rhomandi floater-coach, the
buildings of Tower Hill passed in antique splendor. Marble
statuary, stately columns, rose gardens, and fountains . . .
it  was  a  splendor  for  which  Mikhyel  dunMheric  had  an
insatiable appetite.
Over the years, Anheliaa had reminded him daily that
his family owed the City nothing, that Rhomatum would
not exist without Darius and his descendants, and as long
as the rings kept spinning, the Rhomandi had fulfilled their
side of the eternal bargain.
She had reminded him, but she'd never convinced him.
A Rhomandi had led the exodus out of Mauritum three
hundred years ago. Those believers and their descendants
had looked to a Rhomandi ever since for leadership.
Mikhyel had learned, long before his life with Anheliaa,
the true value of Darius' modern descendants, and had de-
cided that neither his father's cavalier ways nor his aunt's
ruthless attitudes would be his own. His duty, his life, did
belong to the City and the web.
And he was content with that arrangement.
He had no wife, no children, and had never felt the lack.
He'd been engaged as a child to Nethaalye dunErrif of
Giephaetum Node. While he'd had no objection to the
match, neither had he felt compelled to pursue it, as any
normal man might. And now, Nethaalye had retreated to
Giephaetum with her father, and would, he fully expected,
declare their engagement off.
And his only reaction to that realization was a vague
regret for the loss of her friendship. At times he wondered
if he was unnatural in some way, and then he wondered, if
he were normal, like Deymorin or Nikki, who would fill
out the City's paperwork?
Another flash of lightning. The floater-coach simultane-
ously lurched and swayed. Coincidence, not cause and ef-
fect. He knew from previous experience that the track was
flawed at that point, a less-than-perfect connection he'd re-
ported to City maintenance almost two months ago.
Normally, such routine maintenance would have been re-
paired within a week. Of course, when that section worked
free and sent a floater careening out of control about the
Hill, someone might no longer consider it a minor problem.
Priorities. Within the next handful of days, all Rhoma-
tum's priorities would have to be reexamined, as would
those of all the Node Cities. Mikhyel wondered how many
of those now in power would survive the upcoming
changes, changes that must come if any of them were to
survive.
His single greatest obstacle to everything he needed to
accomplish was, as it had always been, Anheliaa. Anheliaa
and whatever private deals she might have made over the
years to secure private as well as Syndicate support for
her obsessions.
The most recent of those contracts and the one of most
personal note, was Nikki's marriage contract. Mikhyel had
wondered, as he'd structured that contract according to An-
heliaa's specifications, why his aunt had bothered choosing
women from other nodes for her nephews' spouses. After
declaring the marriage would solidify faltering Syndicate
relations, she'd turned about and insisted on including the
precise clauses guaranteed to demean the gesture.
By that contract, Lidye could never negate the contract,
and any offspring were exclusively Rhomandi. Lidye's fam-
ilyand Shatumrelinquished any claim to the children,
and to their inheritance.
Which agreement had made Mikhyel wonder, with the
future of the Syndicate on the line, what Anheliaa might
have promised Shatum in private in order to secure those
clauses, and to wonder what might be the unwritten subtext
in a marriage contract made, not with Lidye, not with Li-
dye's father, but with the entire Shatumin Guild Alliance.
In the days leading up to Nikki's wedding, Mikhyel had
looked for evidence of such agreements, but even as he
searched drawers and archives alike for notes or secret con-
tracts, he'd known the effort wasted. He'd known Anheliaa
to sign such agreements, if signing was the price of her
desire, but Anheliaa would never keep a copy.
If Anheliaa decided not to honor her side of a bargain,
she would require the other party to come to her to collect
the debt. Few had ever had the courage to face her again,
let alone challenge her. But once she was gone, once a
weaker master ruled in Rhomatum Tower, those past
agreements might rise to haunt them all.
Mikhyel had become all too familiar with Anheliaa's tac-
tics over the years. Since Mheric had died, Mikhyel had
spent every morning and two full days out of every week
at Anheliaa's side, first as her companion, and then, when
he'd grown past childhood, as her lawyer and adviser.
In adult retrospect, he recognized his presence in the
Tower as one more ploy in the game of a master manipula-
tor. By impressing on him from childhood the fruitlessness
of opposing her, she'd endeavored to create the perfect
tool, her voice in all matters outside Rhomandi House. As
an adult, Mikhyel could resent that control of his mind and
body, but as a Rhomandi, he could understand the urgency
Anheliaa had felt to create such a tool.
Because Anheliaa was trapped inside the Tower, partially
by choice, but physically as well. Some ringmasters con-
trolled the rings without personal repercussion; Anheliaa
was not one of those lucky individuals. She'd entered the
Tower for the first time as a child, and by the time she had
taken control of the Tower at seventeen, the rings had al-
ready begun to take a massive toll on her health.
By the time she'd capped Khoratum, her arthritis-riddled
body had had to be carried all the way to the mountain
node, and the capping itself had completed the crippling of
her body.
Confined to mobility chairs and Rhomandi House, An-
heliaa had desperately needed someone to present and
push through her Tower-enhancing policies. And since, in
Anheliaa's philosophy, the sole purpose of the Rhomandi
Family was the enhancement of the Rhomatum Rings,
she'd undoubtedly felt fully justified in all her actions.
As he had matured, Mikhyel had supplied that voice. His
presence, and his logic had given her plans a legitimacy
they otherwise lacked. And if any Councillor or Syndic or
influential citizen had argued with him, balked, she'd have
that opposition brought to her ringchamber for reasoning.
Rather as she'd had criminals brought to her.
And criminal and Councillor alike had been given simi-
lar options.
Her only witness to all these confrontations had been
Mikhyel. He'd been there, he eventually realized, to act as
judge and jury. His had been the authority to deem her
acts justified. He'd never revealed what he'd seen, not to
Deymorin, or anyone else, but he had argued with Anhel-
iaa over the ethics of her "necessary experimentation".
Somehow, she'd invariably swayed his thinking.
He could see that dynamic now, with a perspective of
time and distance and following whole days where his life
was not dictated by Anheliaa dunMoren. And after a
month of mental intervention on the part of his brothers'
desires, he wondered whether his acquiescence to Anhel-
iaa's demands might also have been part of her "experi-
mentation," wondered whether any opinion he'd ever taken
from the Tower had been his alone.
And yet even in the coldest of blood, he could under-
stand her. He could comprehend the necessity governing
everything Anheliaa had done throughout her long tenure
as Rhomatum Ringmaster, including Nikki's marriage to a
woman several years his senior.
The Rhomatum Web, completed at such great personal
sacrifice on her part, was Anheliaa's legacy, the only child
she'd ever have. Every project she had supported, every
experiment she had made had been to enhance that legacy.
Blackmail, physical threats, briberyeven Nikki's wedding
night abominationsuch tactics had simply been expedient
means for protecting and nurturing that leythium-coated
child.
Her child. As Rhomatum was his.
"Nearly there, sir." The pedaler's announcement came
through the speaking tube.
Mikhyel acknowledged, then leaned forward to catch his
first glimpse of the Pharmonelli Building,  eager for the
comfort of its stark, familiar walls, for the smell of ink that
sometimes filtered up from the presses in the basement lev-
els and mixed with the rose bouquets, the stronger scent
of the stimulating pacciimi brew that kept busy clerks
awake into the early hours of the morning. . . .
Ink, roses, pacciimi . . . perhaps it was just the scent of
power that set Pharmonelli apart: those who had it, those
who wanted it, and those who believed it resided beneath
every rosebush. Pharmonelli housed the elite of both Syndi-
cate and Council. Deals and decisions were made here.
The anchor caught and the coach touched down
smoothly into a docking berth.
He was home.
"Oh, come. Rags. Big fellow like you can do better than
that."
Deymorin cursed under his breath, set his feet, and
pulled. Hard. The strings snapped and Deymorin stumbled
backward to come up against a dressing table.
Kiyrstin turned, disgust on her face.
"Oops," he said as he held up the two ends. "Sorry. I
guess we should have accepted Lidye's offer of her lady's
maid. Shall I send a message?"
"Only for another set of corset strings. You insisted you
could manage, and you're going to manage." She slid into
a chair before the mirrored dressing table and began study-
ing the array of cosmetics they'd found in the market that
morning. "Unless, of course, you want me to send a mes-
sage to Madame Tirise."
"We got the girl out of Sparingate and settled her debts.
Do I have to invite her to dinner as well?"
She shrugged and picked up the largest jar. "Seems to
me she'd liven things up around here."
"I think we can leave Mistress Beauvina right where she
is," Deymorin said firmly.
"If you say so, luwie," Kiyrstin sighed heavily and began
applying blue-green slime to her face.
Which meant he should probably start checking in the
corners for Beauvina.
Deymorin pulled the bell cord to summon a footman,
then leaned on the back of her chair and propped his chin
on her head to stare at her increasingly blue-green image.
"Charming."
He reached over her shoulder and stuck a cautious finger
in the jar, raised the slime to his nose, and sniffed. Green
eyes glared at his reflection.
A light chime announced a servant's arrival. Deymorin
stuck the finger in his mouth and licked off the slime.
"Yum," he whispered and bit her earthen dodged for
the door.
The wide-eyed junior footman listened solemnly to
Deymorin's request, straining all the while to catch a
glimpse within the room. Deymorin made him repeat the
message twice before he shooed the youngster on his way.
He supposed he should have insisted Kiyrstin use the
room Lidye had had prepared for her instead of allowing
her to take up residence in his suite, but Kiyrstin had been
adamant. She hadn't risked Rhomatum only to be shut up
and forgotten.
Besides (she'd argued) hadn't he promised her they were
going to set the two greatest cities in the world to gossip-
ing? How could they possibly manage that if they were
sleeping in separate rooms?
So here she was and, truth to tell, here Deymorin wanted
her to be, even if it meant he had to tie her damned corset
strings and watch her perform arcane rituals man was not
meant to witness.
He leaned again on the back of her chair, watching those
rituals with a morbid fascination.
"What's it do?" he asked, when she'd sat, blue-faced and
silent, for several minutes.
"Fades the freckles, so the man claimed."
"No!" He grabbed a cloth and began scrubbing at the
slime.
She slapped his hand away and snatched the cloth.
"Take it off!" he cried indignantly, "I've an intimate ac-
quaintance with each and every one of those specks!"
She laughed and dabbed at the slime. "Don't worry, it
won't work. This stuff never does." She slid a finger over
the exposed flesh. "It just prepares the skin."
Prepares it for what, he wondered, and frowned at the
growing spot, pretending to count the freckles as they ap-
peared. When an entire cheek had been reexposed, he
leaned over and tested the skin's preparation with his lips.
"Mrnmm . . ." She hummed, twisting to meet his kiss
Leaving a slime trail across his face. He protested and
grabbed a towel to rub it off, then splashed lemon-water
into a glass and retreated to the bathing room to expecto-
rate in private.
When he returned, she was back at her ritual.
At this rate, to use the entire array of pots and sticks
and brushes would consume the balance of the afternoon
and well into evening. But he trusted Kiyrstin to know what
she was doing. She knew the schedule. Besides, the private
Rhomandi House floater-coach was outside, waiting to take
them to this Conduct Committee meeting.
"How did the widows take the news?" she asked, and
he paused halfway across the room.
"How did you know?"
"Magic, Rags."
He forced a smile, and clasped the hand she stretched
toward him.
"I'd have gone with you, if you'd asked, Deymio."
"I know you would have, but it was my duty."
"Actually, it was Nikki's. They were his men. They died
while under his command."
"They were lost on my behalf. Shepherdess. I offered."
"He should have insisted. He should at least have been
with you."
"Perhaps. But I can't blame Nikki. He's been distracted."
"By his wife."
"Even more reason to forgive. She's not at all what he
feared, and she's entranced him with her talk of Darius'
wife and Tamshirin. You know how he feels about the
Tamshi. He'd love to be out in the mountains right now
searching for that Tamshi creature that saved Mikhyel."
"We can't always have what we want."
"I know that. So does Nikki. But it's hard to see it that
way when one's lifelong fantasies are involved."
"Your brother lives in a fantasy world. Someday, Big
Brother Deymorin, reality is going to rise up and bite him
on the ass."
"It already has."
"Not hard enough!"
He frowned. "He did go with me. At least to see Ben's
widow."
"How noble of him. Ben died saving his hide."
"And Nikki expressed his sorrow and gratitude very
eloquently."
"I should hope so. He's a poet, or so he claims."
"Kiyrstin!"
"And how much of that eloquence did he really mean?"
"Every word."
She turned back to the mirror, refusing to meet his eyes.
"Lie to me, Deymorin. Just don't lie to yourself."
"I'm not. He was sorry. Is. He liked Ben a great deal."
Kiyrstin met and held his eyes in the mirror, and it was
Deymorin who turned away. He couldn't expect Kiyrstin
to understand Nikki to the depth he did, not even if he
explained all that had happened in those hours in prison.
He'd pressed Nikki's self-confidence too much then. He
couldn't press on this issue. At least for now. For every-
one's sake.
Arms slipped around his waist, and her head rested be-
tween his shoulder blades. "I'm sure he did, Deymorin.
And I like Nikki, for all he's convinced otherwise. But
you're protecting him from the consequences of his deci-
sions, and that's not good. More than that, it's not fair to
Nikki. He did nothing wrong. His decisions weren't fool-
hardy or wrong. But bad things happened. He needs to
face that. Accept it as one of the unhappy consequences of
leading men into unknown circumstances."
He turned in the circle of her arms, and brushed her
cheek with his thumb. She'd finished removing the blue-
green slime and the skin was marvelously smooth and
supple.
"You're protecting him, Deymorin, from growing into
the man he can be."
"Is that you talking?" he asked. "Or Mikhyel?"
"Does it matter where the truth comes from?"
He chuckled, and pushed her back into her chair. "Keep
going, woman. We're running out of time."
She patted his hand as it rested on her shoulder, and
turned to the next pot.
More slime, this time one that matched her lightly
tanned, befreckled, skin. It was as if she were preparing for
a stage performance.
He supposed, in a sense, she was.
"Why is it," he asked, "that you're the one facing those
old fools and I'm the one whose knees are shaking?"
"Obviously, it's your proximity to my distracting self that
has your knees in jeopardy. I find this quite familiar. We
had our own old fools in Mauritum, you know. Only ours
were all men." She picked up a tiny sponge and smoothed
an irregular patch of color. "Besides, your brother has the
hard job."
"I wish I'd had a chance to talk with him before he left
for his office. Last night, he could barely sit upright."
"Raul says he's fine, just catching up on a lifetime of too
little sleep. Raul is quite pleased. Besides, Mikhyel's no
fool. He wouldn't have gone this morning if he wasn't
prepared."
He picked bits of hair off her shoulders, and brushed
his fingers across the bare skin. "You like him, don't you,
Shepherdess?"
"Raulind?" Her reflected eyes glittered at him. "Of
course."
"Kiyrstin..."
"Why do you ask? Worried? Shouldn't be. I already
turned down his offer to be second to Nethaalye."
"What?"
She chuckled. "Seriously? How can I not? Don't you?"
He didn't answer. She twisted in her chair to face him.
"Deymorin?"
"I don't know how I feel. Except worried. He's . . . not
the man he used to be."
"Are any of you? Sweet Maurii, JD, after what you've
been through"
"You don't understand. In all due respect, you can't
understand."
"Because I don't hear his thoughts the way you do?"
"Because you're a woman."
"I see."
Fraught with innuendo, those two words. But she didn't
know . . . couldn't.
"Tell me, JD, has this anything to do with the Crypt?"
He shrugged, avoiding her eyes.
"Come, man, talk to me. Ever since you brought Mikhyel
out, something's been festering. What happened down
there?"
"I don't know."
"Then why"
"I don't know!"
"You were there, weren't you?"
'Wo, dammit!" He caught himself shouting and repeated,
in a quieter voice, "No. Dammit." He moved a chair to
her side and sat down. "The first time . . . I could under-
stand that. Not easily, but it made practical sense. He was
preserving the deception. And from the inmates' continued
interest, he evidently played his part quite satisfactorily."
"Does that bother you? I could replace Beauvina in a
heartbeat, Deymorin."
"Beauvina? Kiyrstin, my love, you could replace Tirise."
It was a moment before he realized the expected laughter
hadn't come.
"And that doesn't bother you?" she asked finally.
"Not particularly."
"So it's all right for your mistress to be a whore, but not
your brother."
"I didn't say that."
"No?"
"No!" He rubbed a hand across his eyes, trying to sort
his thoughts. "It's not what he did. It's that . . . he was
able. Where did he learn? How?"
"Same way I did?" Indignation crept into her voice.
"No, Shepherdess." He reached for her hand, and lifted
it to his lips. "I'm sorry for what Garetti did to you. I look
forward to the day when I can express to him exactly my
feelings on that topic, but . . . it's not the same. Somehow.
You're . . . still alive."
"And Khyel's not."
"He should have been outraged. Bitter. Angry. Violated.
Horrified. Anything but indifferent."
"Sometimes indifference is easier."
"Not for a man!"
She drew her hand away and frowned.
"I'm sorry, Kiyrstin. I didn't mean"
"Didn't you?"
"No. Dammit, listen to me. You've never hidden your
past, not from me, not from yourself. Whatever happened,
you came out of it healthy. Normal. Able to hate Garetti
for what he did, and able to enjoy lifeand love. Khyel . . .
For a man to endure . . . that from another man and come
away content"
"You said nothing about content."
"I said, the first time I could understand. Even the next
morning, when one of the inmates cornered him in the
latrine and roughed him up a bit. That's . . . that's prison
politics. It might make me inclined to kill Ganfrion, but I
can understand, painful as it is, why Mikyhel felt compelled
not to start anything. It was later . . ."
"When you went back after him."
He nodded. "I felt him the minute I entered the Crypt.
He was . . . with Ganfrion."
"And this Ganfrion is still alive?"
He grunted. "Whatever had happened was over, more's
the pity. I wish I'd had the excuse. But Mikhyel was on the
edge of sleep, and that slime was wrapped around him." A
cold chill passed through him at the memory. "I felt his
arm under my head, the other wrapped around me and his
body pressed up hard against my back . . . And I was
relaxed. Content. For the first time in years."
"You felt."
He biinked the memory aside. "I mean, Khyel, of course.
I called to him, inside. Woke him up and got him out in
the open where we could find him."
"And where Sironi wouldn't see what you felt."
He shrugged. "When Mikhyel appeared, he was a mass
of dirt and cuts and bruises. For all I could tell, considering
the circumstances, his exhaustion and his determined with-
drawal from my thoughts, he had been . . . serviced by
every would-be stud horse in that hell-hole. How could he
be indifferent, let alone content?"
"Perhaps . . ." She picked up a brush and eased escaped
powder into a pile on the table. "Perhaps he was just re-
lieved that whatever happened was over, and he was still
alive."
"Then why in the eighteen hells above Rhomatum wasn't
he glad to see me?"
"What makes you think he wasn't?"
"I don't think. I know. He . . ." Deymorin clenched his
fists. "He resented my being there."
"That can't be right, Deymorin. You're misreading"
"Hell if I am. I know when I'm not wanted."
"Have you asked him?"
"Damned if I will. I saved his ass when he wanted to die
a month ago, and I'll save it again, if I have to, whether
he wants to live or not."
"Maybe it didn't need saving this time. Maybe he'd set-
tled the situation himself, and was glad for a respite."
"Respite. From me."
"You can be a bit . . . overwhelming at times, JD."
Deymorin turned that over in his mind, and recalled: "He
says I coddle him."
"Possibly. You unquestionably hover."
"Can you blame me? Most of what's wrong with him is
because I wasn't there!"
"Is that what this is all about? Guilt? For your absence
years ago?"
"No!"
"Why did you want to see him this morning?"
"To make sure he was all right, obviously."
"Not to discuss the meeting. Maybe possible strategies
and tactics?"
"Of course not. Mikhyel knows . . ." He clamped his jaw
on the rest. "Rings. Point made. Shepherdess. Watching the
wrong hand, aren't I?"
"Possibly. Can you handle another question?"
"What now?"
"You said, most of what's wrong with him. What do you
think is wrong with Mikhyel?"
The sheer number of responses that swelled in answer
surprised him, but one thought seemed to summarize the
rest. "He should expect more out of life. Personally."
"Perhaps. Certainly he deserves more. I know that.
You do."
"But does he?" Deymorin finished for her. "That's the
question, isn't it?" He stared at her subtly transforming
image as she brushed colored powders on her cheeks. And
he thought of how much she'd added to his life and how
lost he'd be without her, now he'd found her, and said, out
of those thoughts, "I wonder whether perhaps we should
send for Nethaalye. If we can just get her down here, let
them be together, perhaps she'll still be interested."
"Why?"
"She's Mikhyel's fiancee. Beyond that, they're friends.
It's   got   to   bother   him   that   she   left   under   such
circumstances."
"Get him a woman and everything will be all right?"
"I didn't say that."
"Does it occur to you that sex might not be the answer?"
"It couldn't hurt!"
"Unless he's not interested. Then, you just create more
pressure on him to perform to your expectations."
"Of course he's interested."
"That's why they're still engaged rather than married."
"She's his friend. She's bright and clever. She shares his
interest in politics."
"If she's such a paragon, why did you turn her down?"
"I didn't. I objected to being engaged before I was'ten."
"I see. And Mikhyel didn't."
"Mikhyel never objected . . . to . . ."
"Anything?"
"Rings."
"He's twenty-seven, Deymorin. Why hasn't he married
her yet? Why hasn't he three or four children of his own
running about?"
He said nothing.
"Perhaps, he's just not interested in a quiet, gentle
woman, Deymorin."
"He's not like that! He's just confused!"
"Like what? What are you talking about? Afraid he pre-
fers men? What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing! I just wish it were that simple. I do know
that when he's thought of Nethaalye in the past month, the
underneath has been calm. Secure. Surely that's good.
Calm, normal . . - someone kind and gentle. Someone who
cares about him. What more could a man want?"
"That's what scares you, isn't it? That maybe he's not
interested in someone who cares about him?"
"Scared? No. Concerned for Mikhyel, yes. Concerned for
the mental stability of the man who holds more keys to the
City secrets than anyone I know . . . damned right."
Her mouth opened as if to answer, then snapped shut.
She frowned into one of the pots. Then: "You have, my
dear Rag'n'Bones, a point."
Upon which history-making concession, the bell chimed,
and Deymorin had to leave her to retrieve the corset
strings. This time, when he returned, the mirror reflected a
one-eyed raccoon.
"Good god," he said, and took a step back.
The tip of her tongue made a rude appearance then dis-
appeared, before she attacked her other eye, matching its
decor to the other. She ended the procedure with a polish
on her lips.
"Well," she asked, when she'd finished, and she pursed
her lips at him. It was, he had to admit, an unusual and
very attractive effect. Not the painted mask Anheliaa
sported, not the unabashedly alluring look of the ladies of
Peplondi Street, or the faint touches of color Lidye favored.
But the color, the definition, added a subtle power to her
already strong features.
"This is how the ladies look in Mauritum these days,
is it?"
"Men, too, Rags."
"Oh?" He leaned forward to gaze fondly down her cleav-
age. "Really?"
She tapped his nose to back him away, and stood up to
face him. "Really." And she kissed him soundly, then
leaned back in his arms and smoothed a finger across his
lips. "There." And tilted slightly so he could see into the
mirror. "What do you think?"
The sight that greeted him was worse than the one-
eyed raccoon.
"I think I'm not going to Mauritum any time soon," he
answered, and used the rag to scrub his lips free of the
pink polish, relieved when it came off almost as readily,
though not as pleasantly, as it had gone on. "Strings, Rags,"
she said and pointed to her back. He began working the
broken strings free, taking his time. The dress waiting on
the form was of Kiyrstin's own ordering.
The design was, so she said, in Rhomatumin fashion, but
with suggestions of Mauritum. Just enough, so she'd said,
to remind them of who they were talking to.
"Do you realize," he said, picking at a knot, "that I've
never seen you in a proper dress?"
"Depends on your definition of proper, doesn't it?"
"I suppose" He frowned at the knot. "Hold still."
He took a good hold and jerked; she hissed and punched
him in the arm.
"Got it," he said smugly, and held up the broken piece.
"There were other ways!"
"Such as?"
Her face went blank. She leaned forward and picked up
a manicure knife.
He held up a warding hand. "I concede. Next time I'll
ask."
"Clever lad." She tapped his nose with the carved han-
dle, then pointed to her back again. "I suppose, if I truly
wanted to make an impression on the Committee, I should
wear that . . . creation you so generously loaned me the
last time."
"It certainly made an impression on Anheliaachicken
feathers and all."
"Lidye, too. She looks at me like some sort of perverted
form of life every time I enter a room."
"And you? What do you think of Lidye?"
"I think it's high time you asked."
He poked her between the laces. She squealed, and
stepped backwardplacing her shoe's narrow heel squarely
on his unshod toes.
She threw him a look over her shoulder. "Oops."
"Well?"
"I think that my first impression of Lidye was possibly
as warped as hers of me. I don't trust the differences, but
a smart person could impersonate the Lidye I first met.
That first Lidye could not impersonate the new one. A
smart person won't stand in the way of logic. Right now,
logic is on your side. Fair enough?"
"Fair enough." He began again on her laces. One-
handed. With the other, he traced the curve of her back,
the clearly defined muscles so unlike any other woman of
his acquaintance. "On the other hand," he said, as he
hooked the final section of ragged corset string and pulled
it slowly free, "what kind of guarantee does this paint job
come with?"
She turned into the circle of his arms.
"I've never thought to ask."
Words could not describe the chaos within his once-
orderly office.
Mikhyel set his jaw against pointless expletivespoint-
less because there was no one within hearing distance
then closed and relocked the door on the mounds of
unopened mail, rifled papers, and ransacked files.
He should have expected something of the sort from the
moment he entered the eerily quiet outer office, where six
clerks and two secretaries normally sat at their desks,
busily, and generally quite chattily, handling the mountain
of paperwork his amorphously defined position regularly
generated.
The mountain now occupying his theoretically private,
theoretically locked office.
Counting his anticipated moments of solitude in familiar
surroundings as quite irretrievable, Mikhyel headed down-
stairs to the personnel office to see what had become of
his staff.
He didn't recognize the manager, nor she, him, at least
by sight, but that wasn't surprising. Most of his staff had
been with him for years, those who had not had been rec-
ommended to him by those who had. Several people might
well have occupied this particular office since he'd last
crossed its threshold.
"They've  all  been  reassigned.  Representative  dun-
Mheric," the manager said, as she sent an aide off to pull
the file packets. When the aide returned, the manager
spread the pages out across the counter. "As you see."
His entire staffexcept Petworin and Kheroli, his oldest,
most trusted assistantshad been reassigned to other se-
nior officials within the building. Face neutral, he asked,
"Whose order released them from my service?"
Her brow tightened, her expression became suspicious in
addition to defensive. "Yours, sir, I assure you."
"I assure you, it was not."
She returned to her desk and brought back a single page,
ordering the termination of all his assistants, stamped with
the Rhomandi seal, signed with (he had to admit) an
authentic-appearing signature (his own).
An upward glance discovered the woman's attention not
on his face, not on the files, but on his hands as they turned
the pages. More specifically on his wrists where the lace
had fallen back, revealing the discreet bandages Raulind
had placed on them following his session in Anheliaa's
ring chamber.
He flipped the letter to the top of the stack, shook the
lace cuffs back over the bandages, and abruptly left the
office.
Damn the old woman, anyway. It had been years since
she'd dared mark him with those lacquered talons. She'd
shaken him, as had no doubt been her semiconscious intent,
forced issues and roused emotions belonging to the past in
order to disrupt his present.
He headed for Councillor dunTaraway's office, the nearest
office housing one of his former staff. The bored-looking indi-
vidual who answered the bell summons stared at him with
a blank expression of nonrecognition, and insisted Paulis
dunPaulis, the erstwhile junior clerk he'd traced here, was
busy and not to be interrupted.
But Paulis himself emerged, dusty and disheveled, from
the depths of a storage closet, shouting, "Miord Mikhy"
The rest of his name was lost in open-mouthed confusion.
A step closer, a narrow-eyed squint, and a flurry after a
handkerchief and dust-covered glasses preceded a more
cautious, "It is you, sir, isn't it?"
"I certainly hope so," Mikhyel answered.
"They told me you were" Paulis glanced around the
room, crossed to an overstacked desk, and freed hat and
coat from the wall-mounted peg beside it. "I'm taking a
break," he announced to the room at large, and in an un-
dertone, as he paused beside Mikhyel with his back to the
room, "Best we not talk here, sir."
Mikhyel nodded to those throughout the roomwho
were staring not at him, but at the no-longer tored-looking
individual who had opened the doorthen preceded Paulis
out the door.
"You are back, sir? For good?" was Paulis' hopeful
query as he closed the door.
"I certainly hope so," Mikhyel repeated.
"They said you were gone, that your younger brother
was to be Princeps, and that you'd gone off to Giephaetum
with your intended. Iwe allwere afraid you were dead.
But I see that you aren't, and praise Darius' good name
for that, but what now, sir? You aren't dead. You're here,
not in Giephaetum. Do you want me back? Is that why
you're here? Please, sir, say you do."
Mikhyel held up a hand to slow the eager onslaught,
nodded his head in the direction of the staircase, and began
walking in that direction.
"I can't promise you anything," he began, once they
were safely in his office. "Not yet. I've a meeting with the
Conduct Committee in" he glanced at the clock spinning
in the center of the office, realizing in some shock "less
than two hours. I was hoping there'd be something useful
memos from Councillors, requestsin my office, but as you
can see . . ."
The stacks on the desk drew both their eyes.
"If you're willing to help me out, I'll make certain your
salary's paid, out of my own pocket if need be, and you'll
have my sincere gratitude, but I honestly don't know, at
this time, how long that position will last, or what the rami-
fications of your leaving dunTaraway's offices so abruptly
will be."
Paulis didn't answer immediately, a fact Mikhyel ac-
cepted with mixed emotions. It was the barest of explana-
tions, coming from a man returned from the dead, certainly
nothing to inspire confidence and loyalty. But further expla-
nation would, of necessity, have to wait, if he ever gave it.
"I have," Paulis said, at last and slowly, "only one ques-
tion, sir. May I"
"Ask."
"Have they cause?"
"None," Mikhyel answered.
"Then I'll stay with you, sir," was the immediate answer,
"if you'll have me."
"Thank you," Mikhyel said, relieved and unexpectedly
moved by the young man's loyalty. "I promise you, when
and if I'm free to explain the events of the past month, you
will be among the first to know."
"I'd like to know, but it'll not weigh on my mind. You've
never lied to usand I promise you, sir, we'd knowand
if you say your conduct's been legal and ethical, well, I say,
those who will be questioning it have a lot more to account
for than ever you have, and I'd be willing to stand in court
and remind them, if it would help."
Simply said. Quite pragmatically stated. And the thought
sent chills down a prudent man's spine.
"Thank you . . . no. If we can just sort this mess, that
will be more than sufficient help."
They hauled an extra table into his office and began a
rough sort of the mountain. As they worked, Mikhyel
asked, keeping his voice casual, "Why did you think I
was dead?"
"When they showed up to give us the papers"
"They? Who told you to leave?"
"Not certain, sir. But Personnel said they had the right."
"Were they liveried?"
"Gold and green, sir. No badge."
Lidye's men. Mikhyel grunted. "Go on."
"They told meusyou were gone for a week or so,
but that you were replacing us all, and we couldn't stay in
the officenot even without pay, which we all wanted to
do. We none of us believed you'd do it like that."
"It?"
"Give us the sack. You'd face us personally. Tell us why.
I thought . . . I was sure you were dead, and they just
weren't saying. I thought the old witch" Paulis' lips tight-
ened, smothering what sounded distinctly like a curse, and
he ducked after escaping papers.
"Indiscreet, to say the least," Mikhyel filled in smoothly.
"Yes, sir," was the mumbled reply that rose from under
the table.
"Not, I would think, a remark you would make if my
unexpected appearance hadn't startled you deeply."
"No1 mean, yes. Sir. I think. Sir."
Mikhyel controlled an inclination to chuckle.
"Relax, Paulis. Time's running out. It's impossible to
judge what might be useful for me to know. My word, I'll
not hold anything you say against you in any way."
That only got a grunt.
"I'm honored, actually, to think that I've roused such
loyalty in my staff. Or perhaps, it was only to escape the
dusty closet that you came so eagerly to my side."
Which got a shy, bespectacled glance. "Actually, sir, it
was that desk. Everything they had to think what to do
with, landed on my desk. I'd have gone underground to
tend the growth chambers rather than face that desk one
more day."
"Oh," Mikhyel said, borrowing Nikki's most mournful
tone.
Paulis' eyes went wide. "Sir! I was jok"
Mikhyel laughed, and after a startled moment, the young
clerk joined him. It was a new and different feeling, and
Mikhyel was tempted to allow the relaxed formality to ex-
tend beyond the proposed hour. They were much of an
age, and there'd been few enough individuals in his life he
could call friend.
Tempted, but not foolish enough to act upon that temp-
tation. A man who had control over another man's liveli-
hood, owed it to the employee and himself to retain a
mutually respectful distance, especially when other liveli-
hoods might one day depend upon his ability to trust or
discharge that same man.
He'd learned that particularly difficult lesson when he'd
first escaped the Tower to his own offices here. At thirteen,
there'd been many individuals, at all levels of employment,
ready to take advantage of him and his childish innocence.
Fortunately for Mikhyel dunMheric and his City, Mikhyel
dunMheric's childish trust had first been given to Raulind
of Barsitum.
And Raulind's caution ruled him still.
"You could start," Mikhyel prodded gently, "by telling
me what happened the day the web went down."
A rather blank look came into those bespectacled eyes.
"You weren't in that morning." The words came slowly, as
if Paulis was  trying  to  piece  broken memories  together.
"You'd left early the day beforetaken ill, they said, dur-
ing the Appropriations Committee meeting."
Mikhyel nodded, acknowledgment of the statement with-
out commitment. Deymorin had arrived during that meet-
ing. And Nikki had been shot . . . in far-off Darhaven. It
had been the first time they realized just how invasive their
new gift could be. Staggering from Nikki's shock and pain,
he might well have appeared ill.
"The next day, 1... we all... came in earlyin case
you needed help, you know."
Thinking he'd be in early, to make up for time lost the
previous day. Hoping, he supposed, to make a good impres-
sion on him.
"Unnecessary diligence, I trust you realize," Mikhyel
said.
"Perhaps, sir, but what with your older brother being
gone, and you having to go Outside all the time, and still
do the work here, well, we were getting worried for you,
sir, and that's the truth of it."
"That was . . . thoughtful of you all," he said, which
was all he could think of to say, embarrassed without quite
knowing why.
"Yes, sir. Well, when you didn't show that morning, and
we didn't hear, we were that certain you'd truly collapsed
this time, and we were worried"
"About your positions here. I wish I could assure you
otherwise, but"
"Sir!" the clerk protested.
"I understand, Paulis," Mikhyel assured him.
"Sir, we were worried about you."
Mikhyel biinked twice and slowly, and finally, when no
words came to him, handed Paulis a stack of papers.
"The Khendolhari project," he said, and Paulis nodded,
adding the stack to one on the table behind him.
"About the Collapse?" Mikhyel prompted, guiding the
clerk away from his personal well-being.
"Sometime soon after lunch, someone . . ." Paulis
paused, squinting into the unfocused middle-ground, then
shook his head. "I can't honestly recall who, sir, came to
the door and yelled at us to come see. He said the sky was
disappearing above the Tower. We went to look, and sure
enough, it was glowing all purple and green with flashes of
blue. Bright flashes. Like stars. We thought"
Paulis paused, removed his spectacles, and rubbed his
eyes, hard.
"We thought, Darius save us from our ignorance, we
thought, sir, that the lady Anheliaa, was doing some kind
of fancy show for the wedding visitors. We just watched and
watched, and laughed, and applauded. And then it began to
turn. Faster and faster and . . ."
He shuddered, and replaced his spectacles. "And then,
it just reached downthis whirling pool of purple and blue
and green reached down and touched the Tower, then
arced across the sky and disappeared. The people all
aroundand I, sir. I'm ashamed to admit, was no excep-
tioncheered and laughed and wondered what she'd do
next"
"I'd have done so myself, Paulis," Mikhyel said, to dispel
any time-wasting self-incriminations, and Paulis nodded.
"Thank you, sir. But then, the lights went out, and the
cheering stopped. Silent as death, it was. The air had
stopped circulating . . . I never realized until that moment
how noisy the fans are. And then . . . then the lightning
began...."
Mikhyel could only imagine how that must have felt to
life-long Rhomatumin. The skies above Rhomatum had
never, in living memory, contained lightning. The Towers
existed to keep the lightning from the node.
"It wasit was so strange, sir. There were no clouds,
just the sky pulsing deeper and deeper blue, then purple,
then black, and all the while, the lightning had flared and
flared, aiming at the Tower. Or" Paulis paused, folder
hanging forgotten from one hand. "Or maybe, thinking on
it,  sir,  the  lightning started  at  the Tower  and went  up  to
the cloud. I couldn't say, sir."
Mikhyel hid a smile. At times, his staff were better at
lawyerly precision than he was.
Everyone had panicked except, Paulis declared, himself
and his fellow staffers. Mikhyel could be proud of all his
assistants, the clerk insisted. They'd comported themselves
with dignity, retreating to their offices, and locking the
doors against the growing insanity of individuals torn be-
tween the possible safety of the building, and a need to be
with their families.
His staff, bachelors all, had simply hunkered down in the
windowless room, and talked to one another in the dark-
ness, discussing the projects they were involved with, the
girls they were seeing . . . anything to avoid thinking about
what might be happening on the far side of the door.
Eventually, the thunder had diedhow long that was,
Paulis seemed completely uncertain. An hour, a day, or two
days, the clerk insisted, would all be the same. It had
seemed forever until the thunder stopped. Kheroli, the se-
nior secretary, had used his key to Mikhyel's office, and
they'd opened the door to the first light they'd seen since
the storm began.
The pen Paulis was using to mark the file he'd just col-
lated, clattered  to the floor.  Mikhyel  turned from the
drawer he was straightening, and found the clerk staring
blankly at the tall windows.
"Paulis?" he called softly, and the clerk jerked. Biinked.
And exclaimed aloud as he began blotting at the ink-spattered
desk. "Paulis," Mikhyel repeated, "What's wrong? What
happened here in the office?"
"Not here, sir," the clerk said, and lifted his chin toward
the window. "Out there. The citizens, from downhill to the
wallthey stormed Tower Hill. They came running from
all over, screaming, pounding on the doors, demanding . . .
I don't know. Answers? Reassurance?" He gave a shud-
dering shrug. "They . . . people were mad, that was all, and
nothing anyone said seemed to make any difference. Some
of those downhill opened their doors . . . before they
knew..."
Paulis' voice trailed off again, and his face grew pained.
"What then?" Mikhyel asked, keeping his voice coldly
neutral.
"We only heard what happened. People died, sir. That's
all. It was ugly and barbaric, from what the reports said.
Not just the scandal sheets, legitimate news as well. It was
awful, sir. Just..."
"I'll check the reports, Paulis. What about you? Is your
family safe? Your parents? Your sisters?"
"Yes, sir, thank you. They were at home, and they stayed
there. The streets finally quieted. For a while, it seemed
like everywhere you looked there were armed guards of
one kind or another. Colors I've never seen beforecame
in with the guests for your brother's wedding, so they say.
But I think we were lucky they were here. When I went
home the first time . . . rings, sir, there were flowers and
broken glass and broken statues all over. Next day, we
came back determined to have your office spif-spaf for
youonly to discover 'our talents were no longer
needed.' Ah, here, sir, I think this might be useful. . . ."
He handed Mikhyel a memo out of Councillor dun-
Yardo's office demanding an immediate priority be given
to the city hospitalswhich just happened to lie right be-
yond his district, which meant his constituents would also
have priority power. A second memo, from dunBarkhIi of
Potter's Square detailing the loss in inventory and sales due
to the power outage.
By the time the first sort was completed, they had a stack
of similar memos and sealed document folders.
Mikhyel gathered the stack into a document case, and
picked his boat up from the back of his chair. "That should
give you enough to work on until I get back. That's pro-
vided, of course, they release me before next week. In the
meantime" He stretched out his hand and Paulis met it,
wrist to wrist. "Thank youfor everything."
"Nothing the others wouldn't have done, sir, in my place.
May I contact them? Let them know you're back?"
He released the clerk's hand and slipped the case strap
over his shoulder. "Let's wait, shall we? At least . . ." He
left the rest unsaid, and Paulis nodded.
"Good luck, sir."
Mikhyel pulled the keys to the office from his belt.
"Just . . . lock up before you leave, will you?"
With something just short of reverence, Paulis received
the ring Mikhyel tossed toward him. It was tacit promotion
to a level of trust men ten years Paulis' senior rarely
achieved, and never a second-level clerk from a minor Fam-
ily of the outer ring.
And Paulis' voice, when he answered, trembled at the
corners. "You can count on me, sir."
"Naturally," Mikhyel answered as he left.
8 8 ~
"Are you quite certain, Nikaenor?" Lidye asked.
Nikki pulled the driving gloves through his hands, impa-
tient at the delay Lidye's unexpected appearance was creat-
ing. Beyond the beveled glass of the Rhomandi House main
entrance, the family floater-coach balloon bobbed, waiting.
For him.
"The driver says that Mikhyel sent him back here for
his brother's use. And Bharker saw Deymorin leave with
Kiyrstin, so he won't need it. I planned to go for a drive
today, if the horses were sound, but that was before the
subpoena came in this morning. Well, the horses are sound,
but I wanted to wish Mikhyel luck first, so I came back,
but he's gone over early, and he never likes me to bother
him at the office, so now, if I'm going to drive and get back
before he's done, I've got to take the floater, because it
takes too long to walk."
"Don't you want to be at the hearing to support
Mikhyel?"
Nikki shrugged, avoiding her eyes. "The horses need to
get out. They've been cooped in since we arrived."
"Will another day make that much difference?"
"It's a private meeting."
"You could wait outside the chamber for him."
"He doesn't like me there, all right?" Nerves and the
necessary lie made him unreasonable. He knew that and
tried to temper his voice. "He never has. He says Imake
him nervous." More lies.
Of course, she didn't know about the Complication. She
didn't understand that he'd been banished from proceed-
ings such as this for reasons as reasonable as they were
unpalatable:
Nikki, it's not that we don't want you there.
Ha.
They're old men, Nikki. They didn't like having to accept
Mikhyel. They'll simply make you angry. Justifiably, but
now isn't the time.
So, when would it be time? When his hair was gray? Or
(he shuddered) gone?
Mikhyel must have a clear head, Nikki.
Deymorin didn't want him there because he thought too
loudly, felt too passionately. In short, Deymorin didn't trust
him. And maybe Deymorin was right. It was a very impor-
tant hearing for Mikhyel, so even though it hurt, even
though it meant he just wouldn't know what was happen-
ing, he was leaving. Voluntarily. Going Outside where even
Mikhyel's head couldn't follow him.
He hoped.
"I've got to go," he said, and without thinking, asked,
"Would you like to come along?"
It was reflex. The sort of question he'd been taught it
was polite to ask. It was, he realized too late, grossly out
of place to ask her on this day and under these conditions.
"II'm sorry. No, of course you can't. The Tower . . .
Anheliaa..."
"No." Lidye interrupted him, and she had a head-tilted,
considering look on her face. "No, Nikki, it's all right. In
fact" Her pale blonde head gave a decided dip. "I'd love
to. Let me get my hat."
She glided away, leaving Nikki more confused than ever.
Lidye hated the Outside, she'd made that abundantly clear
on their last outing. He hoped she wasn't reverting to her
previous manipulative techniques. He liked this new Lidye
much better. But did this mean her arm-clutching fear that
had ruined his last drive with her had been assumed as
well?
He certainly hoped that was the case. He wanted to enjoy
this afternoon. Wanted the sun and wind and smells of
Outside to wash away the resentment brewing in his heart.
He stepped out onto the floater dock to wait, slapping
his gloves against his thigh nervously. He'd hoped to be on
his way by now, had planned to go to Armayel today, when
the subpoena came in. Now, it was too late for that, not if
he were to get back by the time the meeting was over.
The walk back from the stables had taken far longer than
he had anticipated. It seemed as if he'd had to stop every
few steps to speak with people, friends he hadn't seen for
weeks, people he'd never met who just seemed to recog-
nize him.
He'd never been so conscious of being a Rhomandi. In
the past, most folk had seemed content to ignore that fact,
if they'd noticed. Now, the anonymity was gone. Everyone
wanted answers from him. Some had gotten openly hostile
when he had proclaimed ignorance, and he'd been very
glad  to  have  Lidye's  father's  green-and-gold  guards
around him.
And thanks to those delays, he'd missed Mikhyel after
all. So now, he was anxious to get back to the stable as
fast as possible, because otherwise, Mikhyel would hear him
and get confused, and they'd all be mad at him. . . .
He wished Lidye would hurry.
~ ~ ~
Deymorin was late; fortunately, so was the Committee.
Mikhyel stared out the large window draped in the elabo-
rate style of the mid-second century, hoping to catch a
glimpse of the Rhomandi floater-coach's black-and-silver
balloon entering the port below. If the cursed link could
be trusted, Deymorin had yet to leave Rhomandi House,
And considering that link, he supposed it was just as well
Deymorin wasn't here yet. Even before they began thinking
at one another, Deymorin had had the unerring capacity to
rouse the worst possible uncertainties in him.
Still, he'd feel far more confidence in the outcome of the
imminent hearing were he certain what would come through
the door when the Committee called on Kiyrstine romGar-
etti to testify. It wasn't that he didn't retain a great personal
respect for the unusual lady who, save for an awkwardly
still-extant husband, would be his brother's wife. Kiyrstin
was, by his own experience of her, intelligent, sensible, and
extremely politically astute.
But her men's clothing, her short-cropped hair and fre-
quently brusque manner would not, he feared, intrigue the
conservative group assembling just beyond the towering,
double doors that were of greater antiquity than the drapes.
He'd sensed, vaguely, Nikiki's coming and going, his de-
spair that he'd missed Mikhyel. He'd tried to send Nikki
reassurance, but Nikki had been concentrating so hard on
not interfering in Mikhyel's thoughts, Mikhyel doubted
he'd heard. Nikki's presence was no more than a shadow
of remembered sensation, now, hinting primarily of Outside
and invigorating winds.
Turning from the window, defying his nerves, Mikhyel
forced himself to sit rather than pace. He crossed his legs
and arranged the lace over the bandages, restraining a sec-
ond inclination, this one to delve yet one more time into
the contents of the document case propped against the
chair leg.
For the most part, those documents were no more than
he'd expected: memos similar to dunYardo's or that of dun-
Barkhii. Though couched in a variety of florid terms,
threats, and pathetic hardship accounts, they all boiled
down to two things: fear and money.
Rhomatumin Councillors, in the names of their constit-
uents, wanted their energy back. They wanted compensa-
tion  for  the  loss  of  production,  wanted  money  for
restoration after the riotsfor personal as well as civic
buildings.
And they wanted to make certain the Rhomandi remem-
bered that they, the Rhomandi, not Rhomatum, were re-
sponsible for the damages to the web beyond Rhomatum
herself. Anheliaa had sworn such a catastrophe was impos-
sible, and backed the claim (the Councillors were one and
all quick to remind him in those memos) with the Rho-
mandi fortune, not Rhomatumin taxes.
And there were concerns expressed about Lidye. To have
a Shatumin woman in charge, to have a notable number of
Shatumin men-at-arms highly visible throughout the City,
had people frightened.
He could appreciate their reservations. He'd had his own
this  morning.  Since  then,  he'd  discovered  Lidye  rom-
Nikaenor (or her representatives) had tampered with his
mail and his files and dismissed his staff. While he could
conceive of viable reasons for her actions, he did not auto-
matically accept her motivations as benign.
Under the circumstances, she'd have been foolish not to
take steps to discover his personal affiliations on the Hill,
also, to be cautious about leaving unsupervised individuals
in close proximity to the records his office contained.
What she chose to do with the information thus gained
was another question. He sincerely hoped she'd had the
sense not to act on concerns expressed under duress.
And much depended upon what other documents, other
than termination notices, she'd forged with his Signature.
There were many questions he wanted to ask Nikki's
wifefollowing this meeting.
Of the eighteen senior Councillors preparing their inqui-
sition behind those doors, two, possibly three would be
most inclined to trust him. Men and women with whom
he'd planned Rhomatum's future. In private. Individuals
who knew and trusted him, who had feared (according to
carefully phrased but anxious notes in his packet) for that
future when he'd  disappeared  under such cataclysmic
circumstances.
It was, perhaps, their dissension among those eighteen
seniors that delayed the start of the inquiry, and left him
sitting here.
Eighteen senior Councillors. One for each wedge-shaped
section of the City, chosen to their seniority by the other
representatives of the section. Men and women twice his
age and more, who had listened to him and taken his advice
ever since he'd come of legal age.
They'd listened not by choice, but for want of options.
He'd been the voice of the Rhomandi, their only link with
the Rhomatum Tower. The majority were oblivious to how
much he'd intervened, but there were those who knew the
narrow ledge he'd walked for years and feared the woman
in Rhomatum Tower without himself there to temper her
whimsy. Some had come up directly against Anheliaa's bit-
terness and manipulation, and those were his allies.
But they were not his friends.
And in that sense, he had no doubt that their trust had
limits. The rumors of war out of Mauritum had them fright-
ened. And fear made men both brave and stupid. He could,
if he so chose, turn that fear to his advantage. Anheliaa
was a master of the art of manipulation and Anheliaa had
overseen his education. He could convince them their life-
style and livelihoods were subject now to his whim. Could
threaten them with total annihilation of the web.
But he had no desire to intimidate the Council or Syndi-
cate. The facts were on his side, so was logic, and the Coun-
cillors were  not fools.  Neither were the Syndics, those
representatives of the satellite nodes who would be after
him the moment they'd reorganized their scattered
members.
If these leaders persisted, if they insisted on bringing
House Rhomandi down . . . Mikhyel stared at his clenched
hands, forced them to relax. If the Council thought they
were better off without the Rhomandi, let them have it.
Let them have it allthe Tower, the Rhomandi fortune . . .
the endless headaches.
He'd come to realize these past months that the web
provided luxuries, not the necessities of life. He believed
in the Syndicate, but he was not about to fight bull-headed
stupidity forever. He was tired. Tired of the games. Tired
of the constant tightrope. Either they saw sense . . . or they
did not.
The Rhomandi brothers had nearly died for the Tower
and the City and the web. Even before that, their lives had
been subjugated to the Tower and the web since they were
conceived. Deymorin's Outside holdings were beyond the
Council's reach. The three of them and their servants,
Kiyrstin . . . even Lidye, should Nikki so decide, could
survive without Rhomatum.
Whether Rhomatum could survive without the Rho-
mandi had never been seriously tested.
The elaborately-uniformed doormen swung open the
elaborately-carved doors.
As he stood up, Deymorin's thoughts brushed his. He
sent an irritated reminder in that direction, fueling it with
all his remaining tension. Afterward, he felt purged, Dey-
morin's and Kiyrstin's roles no longer as important as they
once had seemed.
He slung the document case over his shoulder with some-
thing approaching Deymorin's flair, and strode toward that
gaping double-wide maw.
The original summons had been to one of the small meet-
ing rooms, but a notice left on the door had directed Mi-
khyel  instead  to  this,  the  largest,  most  ostentatious
auditorium in Brinmori Hall, with prime seating for three
hundred, and a gallery for twice that number.
All for a meeting with eighteen people.
Intimidation. Anheliaa wasn't the only one skilled with
the tactics.
However, in choosing this gallery, those would-be intim-
idators overplayed their hand. In general, Mikhyel dun-
Mheric, representative of House Rhomandi, felt more at
ease in the anonymity of this great hall than he ever did in
a more intimate setting.
He stepped confidently through the doors and into the
great hall, where prismal skylights sent sunlight in shafts to
spotlight the podium at the acoustic focal point of the great,
semicircular room.
Only as his eyes adjusted to the lighting, did he realize
the change of venue was not the only tactical shift on the
part of his would-be intimidators. The hall was packed,
standing room only, with Councillors, Syndics, and anyone
else who could justify their presence.
Defying all rules of protocol, Mikhyel went directly to
that central podium and mounted it.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the Rhomatum Web." His
voice rang in the eerily, unnaturally silent hall. "The history
books describe the Rhomatum Syndicate of Nodes as an
economic coalition, a union of legally autonomous city-
states joined by a common and irrevocably interdependent
energy source.
"That autonomy, my fellow citizens of the web, is our
individual strengthand our collective weakness.
"Those same history books show that for the first two
decades of the fourth century After the Founding, the Rho-
matum Syndicate dealt with little more than trade disputes
and keeping the leyroads clear of criminal activity that
might interfere with the movement of goods. One by one,
in the name of efficiency and profit, we have eliminated
the programs that once guarded our borders against for-
eign invasion.
"I ask you now to consider what the history books will
say fifty years from now regarding the decisions we make
today.
"The web, that fragile thread that binds individual cities
into a single entity, is faltering. We need look no further
than the nearest leylight to assure ourselves of that simple
fact.  We  know  the  fact;  we  do  not  know  the  precise
causeyet.
"While we can rest assured that our ringmasters will iso-
late and repair the problem, eventually, even if the web
were to be restored to full capacity by the time we finish
dinner tonight, the situation that led to our current state
would still exist.
"Anheliaa is dying. That can be no surprise to anyone
here. Her death will leave an unprecedented void in Rho-
matum Tower. We must guard against that void. The mere
possibility of a vacancy in Rhomatum has already generated
one militant probe out of Mauritum. That immediate threat
is  gone,  but  Mauritum  remains  a  very  real,  long-term
complication.
"There can be no question that High Priest Garetti of
Mauritum has designs on Rhomatum. He made his interest
clear when he sent his junior priest, Vandoshin romMaurii,
into Rhomatum along with that probe. Had they managed
to coerce their way into the Tower, as was their plan, Van-
doshin romMaurii might well have seized control of the
rings, securing Rhomatum for his superior.
"Thanks to Anheliaa, and the storm that temporarily
took down the web, romMaurii won't be controlling any-
thing. Her actions also resulted, unfortunately, in the chaos
and loss of energy we're all of us all too familiar with.
However, while concern for our current situation cannot be
overlooked, I ask you to consider the possible alternatives.
Annihilation of the rings, or Mauritumin rule.
"Thanks to the historical stability of the Rhomatum Syn-
dicate. this first move to test our defenses was hesitant at
best. The firestorm destroyed the entire party; there will
be no firsthand accounts making their way back to High
Priest Garetti. Mauritumin understanding of the event
will necessarily be limited to the wildly speculative ru-
mors which have been circulating our own cities for the
past month.
"I know the truth of those days, my fellow citizens. I am
willing to share that truth with you today. But the Mauri-
tumin probe is only one incident. That which the incident
implies is my concern.
"Rhomatum and her Syndicate have gotten careless,
there's no other word for it. There is no other excuse for
the defenseless state into which we have fallen.
"Other interests, less traditional, but equally anxious to
take advantage of Rhomatum's impending vulnerability,
might well be organizing similar campaigns. History tells us
that in the early years following the capping of Rhomatum,
our rich lands attracted a variety of outsiders, both those
who had been trying for generations to settle here, only to
be driven out by the storms, and those living under the
skies to which Darius shunted the valley storms.
"Until the ring of nodes was nearly complete, the Syndi-
cate maintained border watches, and subsidized trained
troops that could be ready to leave their farms or kilns or
workshops and protect the storm-free corridors against
invasion.
"When all the satellites except Khoratum were capped,
the effectively continuous storm belt proved a more com-
pelling deterrent than any human sentinel, and those bor-
der raids trickled to a virtual halt.
"And then, Anheliaa came to power. Anheliaa, my
friends, has had an agenda her entire life. That fact is or
should be no news to all of us. Anheliaa wanted Khoratum
capped, and over the years she pushed programs that
shifted the web's energies and tax monies toward that sin-
gular purpose. She needed growth chambers beneath all
the nodes, and she needed strong redundancies within all
the Towers: she was prepared, my fellow Syndics, to sacri-
fice every ringmaster within the web to control Khoratum.
"However, Anheliaa did cap Khoratum, without the loss
of a single life, and we all know the result of that capping
has been a decade of absolutely reliable ley-energy.
"A fact that we, as a collective unit, have rather blithely
overlooked, was that Khoratum's capping also brought a
significant reduction in the storm belt, both in width and
intensity.
"I hope we have not delayed action for too long.
"Because as Anheliaa approaches her final hours, and
with the control of Rhomatum Tower in doubt, our relaxed
borders will appear increasingly attractive to outsiders. If
the Syndicate is to survive in anything approaching its pres-
ent form, we must reinstate the old patterns, revive the
border watches and work as a unified nation, not indepen-
dent entities.
"I personally accept no small part of the blame for this
oversight. The Rhomandi have traditionally represented the
interests of the web as a whole, not the interests of an
individual node-citynot even Rhomatum. But I have be-
come personally and painfully aware that for a generation,
the Rhomandi have provided no true guidance, no vision
toward a secure future.
"The Rhomandi are paying now for that dereliction.
"The Rhomandi are also coming to you armed with po-
tential solutionsif you're interested.
"Everyone in this room knows that Anheliaa made indi-
vidual agreements with every satellite Tower to ensure their
cooperation in the capping. Some of those agreements are
on record, others are not, though we all know they exist,
for all we pretend they are secret.
"If the Syndicate intends to enforce those agreements,
my brothers and I will not fight. Once Anheliaa is dead
and unable to contest the decision, the Rhomandi fortune
will be at your disposal, and the Rhomandi themselves will
leave Rhomatum forever. Because such a decision, consid-
ering the scope of this unpredictable and unavoidable
disaster, would ruin House Rhomandi financially before
it satisfied all claims likely to come forward. But if such
is the choice of the Syndicate, then the time of the Rho-
mandi is past, and my brothers and I have agreed that
we will not be the source of yet one more division within
the Syndicate.
"Obviously, House Rhomandi would wish otherwise. If
the web is to continue, we need cooperation, not division.
Rebuilding and regrouping, not blind vengeance. I hope,
before I leave today, we will have come to an understand-
ing that is best not for any individual, not for any individual
node, but for the entire Rhomatum Web."
He paused for breath. . . .
"Whatever  questions  you  have,  I  shall  answer.
Willingly."
He could feel their eyes on him. Feel the opposing energ-
ies of hope and fear, confidence and distrust.
"Whatever advice I can offer, I shall give. Willingly."
That sensation was nothing new to him.
"If you would like to consider the House Rhomandi solu-
tions, just ask."
It was the energy of life itself.
He let a slight smile curl his lip.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the Rhomatum Web," he
ended, in the voice one frustrated critic had said could con-
vince a hungry snake that an egg was a rose, "Mikhyel
dunMheric is at your service."
8 d 8
"I told you we should have walked," Deymorin said, as
he handed Kiyrstin from the floater-cab to the Brinmori
Hall dock.
"Better late than windblown, JD." Kiyrstin swept past
him, her skirts held precisely free of the dock. "Politicians
understand contempt. Besides, if that brother of yours
hadn't run off with the Rhomandi coach, we'd have been
here in plenty of time, now wouldn't we?"
Deymorin flipped a coin up to the independent cabby,
who single-handed it, tipped his hat, and eased the floater
free of the dock, pedaling off in search of another fare.
"You know it was a mistake." Ignoring the throb in his
head, he took the stairs two at a time to catch up with her.
"Jerrik said Nikki thought we'd gone over already."
"Well, he was wrong, wasn't he?"
"And we were cutting it damned close."
Her mouth twitched. "True." She smoothed the front
panels of the form-fitting bodice. "Even?"
"I'll let you know when my head quits vibrating. Rings,
the lad can pack a mental punch."
"You three had best sort that out soon and lay down
some ground rules, before one of you kills the other."
He grunted. Her point was well taken, but hardly neces-
sary. Mikhyel's kindly reminder to get his ass to the meet-
ing had sent him to his knees on the Rhomandi House
threshold. One hesitated to consider what might have hap-
pened had he been on horseback, or standing on a Tower
balcony.
His hip throbbed in memory of just such a fall that had
nearly killed him once and long ago, and on the wake of
the thought, a desperate plea from Mikhyel, elsewhere in
this building, begging him to shut his head up.
(Sorry,} he sent back, and put forth the effort to block
his thoughts, concentrating on the simple, practical aspects
of placing one foot in front of the other. The technique
wasn't completely effective, but Mikhyel claimed it helped.
And at least he'd gotten, in that brief contact, and the
residual awareness of his brother, a sense, almost a flavor,
of satisfaction.
"How's the meeting going?" Kiyrstin asked.
"Fi" He biinked at her, wondering how she'd guessed,
but they were at the lift, and he dared not inquire in front
of the silver-haired operator. They rode upward in silence,
and when they were again alone and headed down the
third-floor corridor. "How?"
"Did I know you were talking with Mikhyel? I'm sure I
don't know. Perhaps something about the silence, and that
vacant, witless look you get, I suppose."
"That obvious?"
"To a stranger. Rags."
"You might have said something before now."
"Waiting for the right moment."
"After the humor wore off?"
She glanced up at him, a seductive challenge.
"Dammit, Kiyrsti, it's not funny. It's one thing for me.
Mikhyel can't afford to appear a fool."
"Mikhyel doesn't."
"Oh. Here it . . ." He stifled the curse that rose, sent a
worried query to Mikhyel, received in return a vision of a
crowded hall, a demand to hurry, and the first hint of real
concern. {OH our way, fry.)
He grabbed Kiyrstin's hand and pulled her toward the
staircase. When she protested, he said, "He's done it, Kiyr-
sti, he's done it. The lot of themSyndicate and Council
every damned one of them, all there, and he's got them.
You, m'love, are his icing." He laughed aloud as he pulled
her up the stairs. "He's terrified what's going to come
through the door. What have you done to the poor lad,
Shepherdess? You should see the mental image he has of
you."
"They were captivated from the moment she entered the
room. She was . . . superb." Mikhyel raised his wine in a
toast to Kiyrstine romGaretti, who was seated next to
~ Deymorin at the head of the formal dining table
Next to where Nikki should, by rights, have been sitting.
But Nikki had insisted otherwise, and so sat in his old posi-
tion, on the table's west side, next to Lidye, his legal wife,
whose formal dinner arrangements had forced Nikki to
make that gesture.
Lidye had meant wellfor everyone.
He suspected that she'd sensed his disappointment at
being left out of such an important meeting before she ever
agreed to accompany him on the drive and that her deci-
sion to risk the Tower and go with him had hinged more
on his need than her desire.
And because he'd suspected that, and trying to be consid-
erate to everyone's needs, he'd cut the drive short and then
counted the stitches in the floater-cab on the ride home,
thinking nothing about politics or his brothers, trying to
keep his head quiet, the way Deymorin said he could.
He and Lidye had been sitting in the ringchamber when
Mikhyel's exuberant victory announcement had rung in his
head. He'd tried to keep that knowledge from Lidye until
he could escape from Lidye long enough to have Jerri write
a note that he could show Lidye and claim it was from
his brothers.
It had all been very complicated. And all because his
wife couldn't be trusted with their "secret."
On receiving the note, Lidye had immediately set in mo-
tion this fine celebration, in part, he was certain, to remind
his brothers of the New Order in the household. She meant
to imply they should not have left him out. But she just
didn't know. She didn't realize it didn't matter at all to him
that Deymorin was still acting like the Rhomandi.
He only hoped when the time came (after Anheliaa was
too dead to contest the reversion) and Mikhyel filed the
papers to reinstate Deymorin as Princeps, Lidye wouldn't
try to fight the action out of some mistaken sense of loyalty.
To him. Which was a pleasant thought, however wrong-
headed in this case.
Besides, when Mikhyel had arrived filled with gratitude
and praise for Nikki's adult attitude and his thoughtful de-
cision to vacate the city, Nikki had almost forgotten that
he had ousted himself from that very important moment.
Because he hadn't been there to foul the mental water,
Mikhyel had enthralled them allSyndics, Councillors . . .
and Deymorin.
Deymorin had said Mikhyel's eloquence would have daz-
zled Darius himself.
And thanks to Mikhyel's golden tongue, the Syndics were
looking to Mikhyel for leadership through the political
maze ahead, as they were looking to the commanding
Daymorin to organize the border watch they'd agreed was
vital for the web's future safety. As they were looking to
Lidye and Anheliaa to stabilize the web.
And to Nikaenor they looked fornothing. Nikaenor
was to stay out of the way. Everyone's way.
Nikki sighed and picked up his fork.
"DunHaulkh had already sent a team of examiners to
the Boreton Turnout," Mikhyel was explaining. "The facts
of the destruction were never in question. The factions and
forces behind it were. All the equipment that hadn't been
burned beyond recognition bore the Darhaven crest."
That was because romMaurii had stolen the wagons from
Darhaven . . . at the same time romMaurii had taken him
prisoner. Nikki wondered if Mikhyel had told them about
that. If Mikhyel had told them how his younger brother
the current Princeps of Rhomatumhad been stupid and
gotten himself shot and tied up like a pig for slaughter and
had had to be saved by his older brothers.
"... and combined with my simultaneous disappearance,
they were justifiably suspicious of the Rhomandi. They
wanted proof, or at least substantiating evidence of Mauri-
tum's involvement, and Kiyrstin" Mikhyel kissed his fin-
gers in her direction. Deymorin's gesture, not Mikhyel's.
"Kiyrstin provided all they could wish for, and dared them
to disbelieve her."
"You'd have loved it, Nikki," Deymorin said, chuckling.
"They cited every possible rumor, trying shake her story.
Syndic Marighi of Persitum asked about the wanton de-
struction of one of Rhomatum's largest markets."
Kiyrstin swirled her wine delicately. "I didn't once ex-
pose a certain ex-princeps' stupidity in leaving a poor igno-
rant city-girl in charge of a team of wild horses. But I fear
I maligned the characters of a flock of innocent chickens."
"Be that as it may," Deymorin said pompously, and
lengthening his face into a caricature of some unknown (to
Nikki) Syndic. "Is it the practice of well-born women of
Mauritum to have, how should I put this, relations with
the enemy?"
"Well, you see, gentlemen," Kiyrstin responded in kind,
"I could hardly have known him for the enemy. The poor
fellow had been dumped in a cold mountain shepherd's
pond, as . . ." She blushed delicately and dipped her head
behind a modestly raised hand. ". . . exposed as the day he
was born."
"And yet," Deymorin continued, "you were attracted, in
the physical sense, to this stranger. Does this not question
your morals?"
Kiyrstin's eyes widened innocently. "Not if you've met
my husband. Garetti had a wife for political favor and
blackmail purposes. I've become something of a connois-
seur over the years. I told you, he appeared before me quite
as nature created him." Her eyes biinked twice, expressing
amazement without the slightest hint of modesty. "Quite,
quite impressive on the most reserved of women, and I am
not, I fear, what one might term reserved. I would say,
rather, that it is a judgment upon the quality of Rhoma-
tumin leaders that, having encountered one of them, I find
myself, despite my expectations, satisfied."
Deymorin gave a shout of laughter. "I tell you, Nikki,
she had them by their collective hypocrisy. She neither con-
demned Garetti for despicable actions they've every one
of them at least considered in the past, nor begged their
forgiveness for taking advantage of fate's benevolence."
"I'm sure it was wonderful," Nikki said, feeling com-
pelled to say something, for all he thought Deymorin didn't
really understand the Syndics, saying such cruel things
about them. Of course they'd be shocked at Kiyrstin's cava-
lier attitude.
But Nikki fought to keep his thoughts and emotions to
himself, the way Deymorin insisted he could, keeping his
mind on silly things, like his wineglass or the shape of his
fork. So far he thought he'd done quite well. At least, Mi-
khyel's cheerful triumph seemed overall undisturbed, ex-
cept for the occasional puzzled look Mikhyel cast him.
"The old hypocrites want to see Zandy's machine,"
Deymorin said.
"Not here!" Lidye exclaimed, and Deymorin lifted a
hand.
"Of course not, madam. I'm not a fool. They're choosing
a delegation to go to Armayel."
Nikki concentrated on his fork's bent tine. He didn't
want to think about Alizant of Mauritum, the boy who had
come into the Rhomatum Valley with Kiyrstin. Zandy was
Deymorin's other recent obsessionbesides Mikhyel and
Kiyrstin and armies. A misunderstood, poorly used illiter-
ate with a machine that controlled lightning.
"They want to know more about it," Deymorin was say-
ing. "Want to know if it can safely coexist with the ley and
if there's any true market value, and they're willing to go
Outside to find out. Greed does wonders to offset
prejudice."
"I doubt anything will make a Mauritumin peasant boy
more palatable to them."
Nikki knew the moment he spoke he'd have been better
off keeping silent. He stared at that bent tine, imagining it
twisting, contorting into fantastical shapes. And he sensed,
underneath, that Mikhyel and Deymorin were arguing
about him.
For which disagreement he was sorry. And he was sorry
to ruin the mood of the party, but if Zandy had been here,
Zandy would have gone to that meeting with Mikhyel and
Deymorin and Kiyrstin. Would have spoken to Council in
all his illiterate glory. Zandy wouldn't have had to go driv-
ing Outside to keep his thoughts from confusing Mikhyel.
Wouldn't have all the councillors wondering where Nikki
was. Wouldn't have had to wonder and worry for hours
and hours and hours
"Nikki?" Mikhyel's voice interrupted his inner turmoil,
and Nikki, schooling his face and mind into pleasant indif-
ference, answered politely. "Yes?"
"I need your help, Nikki."
Nikki shrugged, refusing to show the relief that charged
through him like a horse at a gallop. But Mikhyel must
have sensed it, too, because the ghostly smile Mikhyel re-
served just for him twitched the corners of Mikhyel's
mouth.
"It's a major undertaking, Nikki, but one I think my
history-loving brother will enjoy. It will mean a great deal
of work. No short cuts. You'll have the help you need to
gather information, I'll see you get access to whomever you
deem material, but I want your take on the information.
Your evaluations, no one else's."
That didn't sound quite so exciting. "Evaluations? Of
what?"
"The nodes. Each and every one of them. I need current
statistics, population, geographic variablesyou know the
sort of thing. I need details of their economy, past and
present, politics, same. General history, primary factions
past and present. Customs, that in particular. Everything a
man might need to avoid insulting the locals."
Nikki shrugged. "I know all that now."
"Write it down for me? Cross-check all your references?
Especially of names and associates. Not that I don't trust
your memory, but it's very important that I make no
mistakes."
"Certainly." He tried to force enthusiasm into his voice.
"I'll do anything I can." It sounded like a lot of busy work,
but it wasn't as if he had much else to do. "What's it for?"
"As part of their agreement, the Syndics have demanded
that a Rhomandi make the rounds of the nodes to explain
in person the situation in detail to their various rulers. They
claim a discontent among the nodes that no Rhomandi has
deigned personally to acknowledge their existence in two
generations. It seemed reasonable, and I didn't argue, al-
though I don't like leaving Rhomatum at the moment."
Nikki sat forward eagerly. "I could go, Khyel. I'd be
happy to go!"
Mikhyel's face went blank. Deymorin and Kiyrstin
looked at each other then down at their plates. But Lidye's
hand clasped his, on the table, openly supportive.
"Of course he could," she said confidently. "In fact,
should. He is the Rhomandi after all."
Mikhyel pushed aside his wineglass and leaned forward,
elbows on the table, fingers loosely interwoven, chin resting
on his thumbs, and rubbed his too-smooth upper lip with
a thoughtful forefinger.
"Likely he should. And everyone seated at this table
knows he could. But the Syndics requested I go. Not Dey-
morin, for all they still tend to think of him as the Rho-
mandi, regardless of Anhehaa's meddling." He met Nikki's
eyes squarely. "What do you think, Nikki? Why would they
request my going rather than you or Deymorin?"
He knew what Mikhyel was doing. It was a game they'd
played since he was a child, and Mikhyel not much beyond
childhood in years, but very old in knowledge.
It was a game no one else at this table understood. Mi-
khyel had rarely demanded things of him. Mikhyel would
present the situation and ask: What would you do?
But it was different tonight. Tonight, everyone was star-
ing at him, wondering what was going on. And Deymorin
was frowning, not an angry frown, but curious, and Dey-
morin would be listening to his answer.
Carefully.
And Deymorin already thought him a selfish child.
He scowled down at his own wineglass. Mikhyel was
right, of course. Mikhyel was always right. The Syndics
asked for Mikhyel because the situation demanded a glib
tongue.
More fairly, the job required trust. No one had ever ques-
tioned where Mikhyel's loyalties lay.
Deymorin had openly allied with the Outside farmers
and miners and such, and he . . .
He was only seventeen. In Rhomatum, that made him a
man. In other nodes, under other laws, even Mikhyel was
barely considered an adult. In those nodes, he would be
accorded the same respect as a five-year-old.
Besides, Mikhyel had been the recognized representative
of House Rhomandi for ten years.
It wasn't Mikhyel trying to replace him, not Mikhyel try-
ing to push Nikki back into boyhood. It was Mikhyel say-
ing: this is the situation, Nikki, and the only adult answer
is...
He drained his glass and met Mikhyel's expectant look.
A thread reached him then. A hint of Mikhyel's true feel-
ings behind that look.
Mikhyel would love it if he could send Nikki. Mikhyel
didn't want to leave the City again. Mikhyel had been, and
still was, afraid of the Outside. The land that lay beyond
the reach of the ley-energy held specters for Mikhyel that
Nikki didn't pretend to understand.
But Mikhyel loved the Node Cities and the web, in a
way Nikki began to suspect neither he nor Deymorin could
match. Mikhyel's duty to the web was about to take him
Outside again, the way duty to the Rhomandi estates had
forced Mikhyel Outside when Deymorin disappeared last
fall.
And like the last time, Mikhyel would be true to that
duty, not because of his oath to the Council and the Syndi-
cate, not because he was second in line to Deymorin, but
because Mikhyel believed in what he was doing.
And damned if this brother would make that job any
more difficult.
He chewed his lower lip, then asked, "Couldn't Dey-
morin go for you?"
Which seemed to confuse Deymorin, but not Mikhyel,
who sent gratitude on that tenuous thread of awareness.
"Deymorin's going to be busy," Mikhyel explained. "The
Syndicate and the Council both have voted the necessary
emergency funds to begin restoration of the border watch.
Between that and training camps, Deymorin will have his
hands full."
Nikki nodded. He'd forgotten about that.
Mikhyel had worried for years about the deals Anheliaa
had made with the other nodes. Maybe Mikhyel, away from
Rhomatum and the shadow of Anheliaa, could find the an-
swers to those questions. Someone needed to have the en-
tire picture of the political affiliations within the web, and
who better to attain that picture than Mikhyel?
"I also hope to get a chance to talk directly with the
satellite ringmasters, while I'm there," Mikhyel continued.
"Why?" Lidye asked sharply, and Mikhyel cast her an
enigmatic look.
"To see if they can help isolate and repair the precise
points of damage within the web," was Mikhyel's cautious
reply.
"That's not necessary! When Anheliaa dies"
"We can't wait that long, Lidye. Since Anheliaa keeps
you from accessing the web, we must find other solutions.
Besides, I'm seeking consensus. I have developed a . . .
curiosity . . . about the web, and how those who use it
perceive it."
"Your curiosity comes rather late in life, Mikhyel
dunMheric."
Nikki eased his hand free of Lidye's, disliking her pa-
tronizing tone.
"Events have triggered it, madam. And need. I want
every Tower in the web on the alert for when Anheliaa
finally dies. It seems only sensible."
Lidye made a sound of patent disbelief, and picked up
her wineglass.
"Also," Mikhyel continued, ignoring her, "something
must be done about the web. If we can consolidate ef-
fortsboth in the boardrooms and the Towersand put
the health of the web first, perhaps we can accelerate the
healing."
And so, Nikki thought, Mikhyel had added yet one more
concern to his already too-long list. So many different con-
siderations, so many needs to balance. How had Mikhyel
learned to see all the variables at once? When had he
learned? Did he truly know? Or was he as uncertain as
Nikki felt now?
(Sometimes, brother. But over the years, you learn that
you can't always win. No matter how much you care, no
matter how hard you try, sometimes the most minor over-
sight brings you down. That's why you can't just dive in
headfirst. Not because you can't do it, but because, if it goes
wrong, you may drown. I don't want you to drown, Nikki.}
Nikki met Mikhyel's eyes and was oddly content. He
grinned without any effort at all, and asked, "So, when do
you leave?"
d 8 ~
"Behind you, boy!"
Thyerri twisted, caught movement in the corner of his
eye, and leaped into a high, twisting arc. He felt the shoosh
of air beneath him, like the passage of a ring, and landed
feet first, punched the ground with his toes, jumped straight
up this time, beyond the reach of a second swing, touched
ground, and rolled beneath the pike's backlash.
Zeiin cursed and whirled, swinging his pike across and
down, but Thyerri wasn't there. Laughing, having at last
the measure of the game they played, he spun away, a
tumbling, twirling escape that ended atop the midden wall.
The morning sunlight slanted between Bharlori's and
Gep, the shoemaker's, and all the haphazardly arranged
surrounding buildings, making a shadowed patchwork of
the alleyway.
Zeiin let his pike thud to the ground handle first, then
leaned on it, panting.
"And just what, in the name of the Mother, was that?"
Thyerri set hands on hips and laughed again. "In the
name of the Mother, that was an escape. Up and over the
rooftops, and I'm free."
"And if you don't? If your first attempt fails, your oppo-
nent knows you for a coward and knows your tricks?"
"I'll just have to make certain I don't fail, won't I?"
Thyerri jumped down into the cramped, spot among the
sunbeams.
Zeiin just frowned at him as if he'd uncovered a strange
new species of bug. And in his long silence, Thyerri began
to worry that he'd seriously offended the older man. Sak-
hithe had said that Zeiin was not only the local wrestling
champion, but a warrior from beyond the Khoramali. Such
a man, the warrior, would scoff at a coward's way out, at
escape as a priority, and Thyerri
Zeiin's pike lunged toward him, without warning.
Thyerri responded with exactly the same movements, but
this time it was Zeiin's low-hunched back he sailed above,
with the boost of an added punch of his hands to Zeiin's
bowed shoulders. The first toe-tap sent him deeper into the
shadows rather than straight up, and a side-roll brought
him up on the far side of a fallen beam.
He came up, breathing a bit harder, but glowing in his
victory, only to find Zeiin facedown in the dirt. Thyerri
vaulted the beam and rushed to Zeiin's side.
"Z'lin?" he called softly. "Z'lin!" He rolled the bar-
tender over, terrified that the blow to his back had done
serious damage.
The body beneath him erupted into movement. Before
he could blink, Thyerri was on his back with a dark mass
between himself and the blue sky, and a knife at his throat.
"Still think you know it all, boy?"
Thyerri swallowed hard, wondering where the knife had
come from, when he'd never seen Zeiin with anything more
dangerous than the blunt practice pike, wondering why
Zeiin looked suddenly so much darker and fiercer than he
ever had before.
He felt the knife prick his skin, and grew frightened with-
out knowing exactly why. His voice froze in his throat, his
face felt cold and hard as if he were made of ice, his eyes
wide open, frozen like the rest of him.
"Hold!" Zeiin shouted and raised a warding hand be-
tween them. The forgotten knife clattered to the ground
beside Thyerri's ear, Zeiin lurched away and staggered
backward. Thyerri scrambled to his feet and came up hard
against the shoemaker's rough-sided hut.
"Z'lin?" he whispered, and then, as his breath returned,
"Zeiin, what's wrong?"
The hand eased downward and a suspicious peek seemed
to reassure his instructor. "Boy, with those moves and those
Tamshi eyes of yours, there's nothing more I can teach
you."
"Please, Z'lin, please, don't stop now." Not under such
strange circumstances. "I'm just beginning toto react
rather than think. Isn't that what you've been asking me
to do?"
"Instincts, boy, are everything, and yours arepeculiar."
"Oh." So he was . . . peculiar. Nothing new in that,
except for the fact that now it seemed to matter to him.
Time was Thyerri had treasured his differences. Now
those differences stood between himself and the only life
left to him.
He sighed heavily and headed for the horse trough and
water pump. "Thank you, sir, for trying."
A sigh, heavier even than his own had been, filled the
air behind him. "Boywait."
He kept walking.
"I said wait." Sand and gravel struck his feet and
bounced off his pant leg. "Wait, damn your eyes."
Thyerri stopped, since he was beside the trough anyway,
and ducked his hands into the water, bringing it up to sluice
his sweating face. Cold and clear, it washed some of the
sting of the old master's words away along with the dirt.
More than likely, it was time to quit. Bharlori would be
unlocking the back soon, and he had duties to perform
before the tavern opened.
He grabbed his braid to keep it from falling in, drew a
breath and ducked his head into the trough.
"Thyerri." Zeiin's deep voice rumbled through the water
and the old man's hand gripped his shoulder drawing him
up. "Thyerri, lad, listen to me. I can teach you a handful
of tricks, but what you just did . . . that's far beyond me."
"What I did? What did I do? I jumped and rolled. I've
done it a dozen times already today!"
Zeiin's brow puckered, and he scratched absently at his
ribs. "I'm done anyway, if I'm to have anything left for
work." He caught Thyerri's elbow. "Come, sit with me in
the sun, lest an old man take a chill."
Without protest, Thyerri followed Zeiin to a neighbor's
steps, shaking the water from his hands and head, and
waited while Zeiin grunted and stretched, sitting only after
the older man had settled where he pleased.
"You're a good lad, Thyerri," Zeiin said, which seemed
to Thyerri utterly immaterial, especially considering Zeiin's
expression and the fact that Zeiin leaned away from the
most casual brush with Thyerri's sleeve.
"Give me your hand, boy," Zeiin commanded as he had
that first day. This time, Thyerri obeyed without hesitation.
Also as he had that day, Zeiin turned his hand over, and
set them palm to palm, as if to force comparison between
Thyerri's narrow bones and his own bulk.
"You were a radical dancer," Zeiin said, and Thyerri
looked away. "Apprentice, then. But you should have
been."
"So would all the apprentices claim, were they the sole
judge of the competition."
"Sakhithe says otherwise."
"Sakhi never saw me compete."
"Competition does not determine a true dancer, Thyerri.
You know that."
He shrugged. The conversation was painful and pointless.
Zeiin frowned.
"Tell me, Thyerri, how many of your competitors were
of the old blood?"
"Most are hill-folk"
"Hill-folk, perhaps, but not dancer-blood."
"How could they be? The ringdance came with Darius
and his followers."
"Ah, Thyerri." Zeiin shook his head. "So ignorant; like
all your fellow Khoratumin. The Dance is very old. Much
older than Darius."
"Rakshi's dance. The frenzy. Dozens of others, but not
the rings."
"Even that. But unless you want to waste time ar-
guing"
Thyerri shook his head.
"I thought not. Sakhithe told you that I come from be-
yond the web's border."
Thyerri nodded.
"And that my folk and yours were once the same."
Thyerri shrugged. Some said everyone in the world had
come from one child of the gods, a single human that split
down the middle to become the first man and woman. By
those criterion, they were all related.
It seemed a rather distant connection.
"Three hundred years ago, my folk left the Khoramali
rather than allow Darius' folk to destroy their ways." Again
he took Thyerri's hand and compared them, palm to palm.
"That's not just the difference between two men, Thyerri.
In my village, we had those like you. They were held apart,
not in contempt, but in respect. We were two different peo-
ples living in one village. The dancers bred true for hun-
dreds of years before Darius invaded."
Thyerri bit his lip, finding in Zeiin's words a strange twist
on an old, old story. He'd been raised in the hills more by
the wind and the rain and the leymother than by any
human hand; his understanding of his own people had been
gleaned from observation and the historian in Rhyys' court,
whose scholarship tended more toward fantasy than fact.
Thyerri's one true belief had been in Mother and her first
dancer-child, Rakshi, whose spirit flitted capriciously from
one radical dancer to the next.
Nothing else had mattered. Then. When his world was
Mother and the Dance.
"I look at those in the hills now and see that Darius'
folk invaded more than the land. There are few of my dis-
tant cousins left. Fewer still of the dancers." Zeiin enfolded
Thyerri's hand in both of his. "Our legends would have it
that the dancers were hunted, like beasts of the forest,
when Darius' folk first came."
"By the invaders?" Thyerri asked, finding his voice at
last.
But Zeiin shook his head. "I don't know. From what I've
seen and heard. I'd be more inclined to suspect those hill-
folk who welcomed Darius and his new order. Our legends
would have my ancestors leaving to escape their neighbors,
not Darius. When I came here to die, I never expected to
find one such as you, Thyerri."
"Odd." Thyerri jerked to his feet, crossed in two strides
to the building opposite, and leaned his shoulder against
the corner post. He didn't want to hear any more. Didn't
want this information that he might belong somewhere, but
that the somewhere was far, far from here, and that, what-
ever he was, the hill-folk he'd always considered his own
would kill him for that difference. Unless they'd forgotten
the past.
"Thyerri . . ." He jumped. He hadn't heard the old man's
movement, wasn't prepared for the rough-skinned hand
that cupped his chin and pulled his face around. He tried
to avoid the older man's scrutiny, but in the end pride
made him meet that gaze.
"Hmph. Normal enough now." He patted Thyerri's
cheek and dropped his hand. "Not odd, boy. Special, per-
haps, if you knew . . . But you don't. And I don't. Those
who did know, are, to my knowledge, dead, despite their
eyes. Or because of them. Who knows? Perhaps, in this
case, ignorance is best."
"Dead?" Thyerri whispered, and his heart twisted for
those kin he'd never known. "What happened? What do
you mean, you came here to die? Know what? What about
my eyes?"
Zeiin refused for a moment to look at him. Then slowly,
as if the words were being torn from him, he said, "I was
born, Thyerri, in a valley on the very edge of the storm-
belt. I grew up there, fell in love, had a wife and five beauti-
ful, loving children, three sons, two daughters. When An-
heliaa capped Khoratum and the storms eased, the raids
began."
"Why?" Thyerri asked, but Zeiin shrugged.
"Who can say? People we'd traded with for generations
suddenly decided our homes and fields were more attrac-
tive than our goods. Perhaps others were pushing them
from their far side. Who knows? We tried to protect our-
selves. We united under a rich neighbor, who had a huge
estate and many horses to protect, and we drove those in-
vaders back into the lowlands. But the enemy outnumbered
us. My comrades died, one by one, and finally, those few
remaining returned home, only to find our crops burned,
and our families and neighbors dead or taken into slavery."
"Did you go after them?" Thyerri asked.
"To where? How? And once I found them, what good
could I do for them?" Zeiin shook his head. "There was
nothing left, except the dream."
"Dream?"
"Marini and I always wanted to come home to die."
"Home?" Thyerri repeated, confused.
"We always felt out of place, Thyerri. Pashahli Valley
lies just across the Khoramali, but it was . . . different.
Fertile enough, but hot in the summer. Dry. The wind al-
ways blew hard and straight across the wide flat plains to
the east."
A faraway look came into Zeiin's lined face. "Three hun-
dred years, and the villagers still talked of the mountains
of home." His eyes flicked to meet Thyerri's. "I wanted to
see those mountains before I died."
Thyerri thought of his mountains, of the feel of the
meadow grass between his toes, and sun-warmed rock, all
those sensations that once had welcomed him as no one
and nothing had since, and biinked tears from his eyes. He
could well understand so long-abiding a love, had known
personally the heart-sick deprivation.
"Thyerri!" It was Bharlori, calling him to work. Thyerri
waved to the owner and turned anxiously back to Zeiin.
"But the other, those skills you do know, you will still
teach me that, won't you, Z'lin? Please?" When that an-
swer didn't come immediately, he said, "Thank you," on a
sigh, and headed toward Bhariori's.
"Thyerri, wait."
He swung around, hope springing.
"There's truly nothing more I can teach you."
He opened his mouth to protest.
"But if you want to meet me here each morningjust
to work out . . ."
Thyerri grinned, and skip-danced all the way into
Bharlori's.
It was a time of Family as Nikki had always dreamed Fam-
ily could be. Dinner together every evening, followed by
discussions about important, world-changing events, or
sometimes just quiet reminiscences. Stories that told him
more about his brothers than he'd ever known. Not big
things. Little things. The important things.
They each had assumed a proper family role. Deymorin,
as the Rhomandi (It was official now, or would be the day
Anheliaa died.), and beside Deymorin, Kiyrstin, who was
(Nikki had to admit) a proper, well-informed partner for
the Rhomandi of Rhomatum. And her opinions, when they
weren't aimed at destroying a younger brother's credibility,
challenged Deymorin to think, to see other sides of an
issue, and that, in general, was a good thing.
Mikhyel had returned to his familiar role of cool aesthete
for whom such  normal,  human drives as hunger and
sleep . . . and love . . . seemed somehow too commonplace,
which was a great relief to Nikki, who had depended for-
ever on Mikhyel for his sensible, distanced insights.
And for himself, Nikki had Lidye.
Lidye, who had asked for his understanding, not his
brothers', who had defended his rights as Princeps, who
shared his love of history, and laughed easily, and played
the piano with a skill and pathos he'd never imagined her
capable of feeling.
Lidye, who (true to her promise) never touched him,
never approached his bed, but who, from their wedding
night, nurtured his child in her womb.
Nikki had worried, briefly, when Mikhyel spent one en-
tire afternoon closeted with Lidye, the day after his trium-
phant hearing. But when they'd exited that meeting,
exhausted but still speaking, and Mikhyel declared himself
satisfied with her responses, Nikki's concerns had vanished.
And if, on occasion, it appeared that the acting Rhoma-
tum Ringmaster neglected her Tower duties to practice the
piano or to accompany Nikki on his trips to the library,
Lidye insisted that her active presence in the Tower only
aggravated Anheliaa into disrupting the rings' stable, if not
particularly productive, revolutions. And since Mirym took
care of all Anheliaa's physical needs, Lidye insisted her
presence in the Tower was unnecessary, and so she might
as well be helping him.
Mirym. Anheliaa's servant. The young woman he'd once
thought he might love and now remembered only as a
pleasant diversion. He felt guilty for that inconstancy some-
times, when he went to the Tower and was faced with her
quiet loyalty to Anheliaa's withering hulk, or intercepted
Mirym's understanding nod or her reassuring smile. Every
time he saw her now, she was washing Anheliaa's wasting
body, or stitching her silken pictures, or weaving intricate
patterns of lace.
Silently waiting for Anheliaa to die.
As were they all.
It was a time of waiting, a time of preparation.
And such preparations. The sense of purpose he'd sought
for so long permeated Nikki's every waking moment, as he
tracked down the details so vital to Mikhyel's upcoming
trip.
Much of the information Mikhyel required truly was in
his head, needing only references to verify the particulars.
In that, Lidye proved amazingly helpful. She threw her-
self into his work, accompanying him to the library, stay-
ing there and taking notes in a fine, exquisite hand while
he went off with Mikhyel to meetings throughout the
City.
And oh, those meetings. Mikhyel had never had any in-
tention of ousting him from the important position into
which Anheliaa had cast him, he knew that now beyond
any doubt.
Using Nikki's information-gathering task as an opening,
Mikhyel introduced him to Syndics, Councillors, City
engineers . . . important people of every description. Influ-
ential people, intimate meetings, one on one, with Mikhyel
retiring deftly to the background, using that secret link be-
tween them to guide his words, to suggest questions, to give
him silent reinforcement and approbation when he acted
on his own initiative.
Mikhyel used those meetings to show the Syndics that
they were dealing with a Rhomandi in every sense of the
word when they dealt with Nikaenor Rhomandi dunMheric,
that Nikki, like his brothers, could be Princeps of Rhoma-
tum and worthy of the title, should that need arise.
And he, in his turn, introduced the most elite of them to
Lidye, at meetings in Rhomandi House designed to supple-
ment his report for Mikhyel. He had the pleasure of watch-
ing their reservations and suspicions wither under his
endorsement and Lidye's own diplomacy. Certainly they
were mistrustful of her at first, but no one could doubt her
commitment to her new position.
She was, she would insist, present only as Nikki's secre-
tary, taking notes on their conversation, but her subtle pres-
ence, her obvious knowledge of their respective nodes,
soon won them over.
True to her claims, Lidye knew her historybetter
(though he quickly learned to mask the fact) than he. And
while she said little at those meetings, it was obvious that
no name, no historical event referenced, passed unnoticed.
In their private moments, she would lapse into entertain-
ing anecdotesstories he'd never heardabout his own an-
cestors, though they fit well enough into his understanding
of those individuals and the times in which they lived, sto-
ries she related with the ease and intimacy of a natural
storyteller.
She was eager to accompany him everywhere, whether
to the library, the market, even (in sharp contrast to her
previous demeanor) on the Outside drives he took to clear
his head and exercise his horses, and he found himself in-
creasingly reconciled to a life with her at his side.
He rarely saw Deymorin, except at dinner and afterward.
Deymorin was gathering troops and equipment, calling in
all those Outsiders he'd trained at facilities financed with
his own funds. Men (and even some women) the City
Council had once feared, thinking Deymorin was mounting
an offensive against the City, and now welcomed as Rho-
matum's hope against the Enemy.
Deymorin called those Councillors fickle and self-serving,
but better that, he also said, than other options. At least
those self-serving City-men were willing to provide the
funds for provisioning the incipient troops.
Troops to man the old guard stations on Persitum Pass,
troops for the coastal watchtowersrelegated in recent
times to peaceful rescue and warning along shipping
lanespreparing them again for their original martial use.
Manning the western coastline against Mauritum.
And those he gathered from the Rhomatumin jurisdic-
tion were only the beginning. Messengers came and went
daily, contacts with coastal landholders as well as nodes,
large and small, messages from individuals Deymorin would
be visiting while Mikhyel made the rounds of the primary
satellite nodes.
Providing Mikhyel survived long enough to make the
trip.
Mikhyel seemed to grow thinner with each passing day,
the lines about his eyes deeper. If Mikhyel slept, Nikki
didn't know when. He had meetings all day, and at night,
after dinner, he reviewed pending and extant laws with
Deymorin and himself, seeking consensus among them,
forming, Nikki slowly realized, a basis for future reference,
creating meticulous guidelines in a black-bound notebook
that grew markedly thicker with each passing day.
Guidelines for himself.
Because Mikhyel was leavingsoonand Deymorin was
leaving shortly after Mikhyel, and it was possible, Nikki
realized one night as he stared into the darkness of his
room, that Deymorin and Mikhyel might not return. It
was the possibility of war they discussed, not romantic
battles of the past. The world was in flux and history
taught that when stability was threatened, wars fre-
quently followed.
Deymorin might be killed on a battlefield that didn't yet
exist. Mikhyel was headed into a world filled with angry
and bitter people who might choose to blame Mikhyel per-
sonally, or others who would seek power by taking Mikhyel
dunMheric down.
Mikhyel had to be aware that while the Syndics might
have been swept up into Mikhyel's words and Mikhyel's
vision for the future, the nodes themselves might not
be. And Nikki thought of that dark and scarred man
in Sparingate, and the man who attacked him on his
seventeenth  birthday  right  on  the  supposedly  safe
streets of Rhomatum, and he realized that the guards
Mikhyel interviewed were going along for more than
carrying clothing trunks.
But even as that ominous shadow crossed his mind, Mi-
khyel's thought, a reassuring wisp, fluttered through him,
carrying with it a sense of Mikhyel, sitting in his own room,
of silver leylight illuminating the notebook that he worked
on late into the night, that being the only time left to him
to record the day's revelations.
And with that comfortable image, Nikki slept.
8 Q 8
"Thyerri," Bharlori intercepted him on the way to the
kitchen. "Can we talk, lad?"
"O'course, sir. But I've a table"
"It'll  wait,  son."  Which dereliction  Bharlori never  al-
lowed, but Bharlori took his elbow and urged him toward
the back room that served as his office. Thyerri resisted
only long enough to pass the order for table seven on to
Sakhithe before he forgot.
Bharlori waved toward a chair and Thyerri perched on
the edge, hoping this wouldn't take long, hoping, desper-
ately, that he wasn't about to get the sack.
It had been over a week since the dunKarlon incident,
and Bharlori had never mentioned the fightat least to
Thyerriand Thyerri had been working hard, hoping
the owner would forget the whole thing. DunKarlon
hadn't been back, and, except for customers asking
him when he would dance again, everything had seemed
to be settled.
"I haven't wanted to say anything," Bharlori began, and
Thyerri swallowed hard. The embarrassed tone, Bharlori's
patent efforts not to look at him, did not bode well for his
future here.
And Bharlori had said to let his table wait.
"Iit's all right, sir," Thyerri said to the hands folded
in his lap. "I1 understand. I'll leave tonight, after"
"Leave?" Bharlori swung about. "What makes you think
I want you to leave?"
"Isn't that what this is all about, sir? My fighting with
one of the customers?"
"Why would you think that?"
"He hasn't been back. His friends haven't. I've lost you
business"
Relieved laughter interrupted him. "Damn right that son-
of-a-goat hasn't been back! I told dunGythrii that if that
rijhili bastard of his ever darkened my door again, his entire
staff and household would be refused service."
"Th-then why . . ." Thyerri scratched his head. "What
did you want to tell me?"
"I just wanted to ask you if you'd be willing to dance
again."
Thyerri stared, dumbfounded.
And having begun, the words seemed to come to Bhar-
lori in a gush. "The customers have been asking. They've
told their friends, and they keep coming, hoping, even
though I've promised nothing. I wanted to wait until you
were quite recovered, you know. Sakhithe said she would,
but doesn't think they'd like her alone, which I think is
nonsense, but she"
"I'm not . . ."
"Whatever they give you, after the dance, I'll split,
half-to."
"Sir, that's not necessary. I'm your employee. You . . .
you gave me a job . . . a place to live, when I didn't know
anything. I'll do what you ask of me, but the frenzy, well,
I'll try, but I don't think I can just, well, do it.  A frenzy
happens of its own accord."
Bharlori's face glowed.
"I understand that. I didn't mean the frenzy. I just meant
for you to dance. And only when you feel like it, Thyerri.
Every night. Once a week. Whatever you want. Whenever
you want."
"I" Thyerri took a moment, while the world settled
around him. All he'd hoped for was to be forgiven for
disrupting his work that once. To be asked to dance, under
any circumstances . . . "What can I say, sir? It will be
my pleasure."
"And, Thyerri," Bharlori said, and the owner looked
quite fierce. "You don't have to worry about that dun-
Karlon, or anyone like him, ever again."
Thyerri looked down at his feet, curled his bare toes back
under his chair and shrugged.
"Thyerri, I promise you. Not while I live!"
Which sounded very like a challenge to fate . . . to Rak-
shi. A chill rippled down Thyerri's back, and all at once
Thyerri was frightened. Very, very frightened.
On the eighth day of the second week following their re-
turn to Rhomatum, and with Mikhyel's departure less than
three weeks away, Nikki was in his suite, sorting notes into
stacks when, without so much as a pull on the bell-chain
to announce her arrival, Lidye burst into his room.
"I told you I could find it!" she crowed triumphantly,
waving a book through the air. "I just had a feeling where
it would be."
Nikki stood courteously, uncomfortably aware of his half-
buttoned shirt hanging loose outside his breeches.
"What is it?" He reached for the book. "What did you
find?"
"Ah-ah-ah!" She whipped it out of reach and behind
her back. "What will you give me for it?"
"I" He hesitated, more than a little taken aback, her
coquettish actions unlike both her early childish posturing
and her more recent steady composure. Until he suddenly
realized . . . adult teasing, like Deymorin and Kiyrstin.
His breath quickened, an unexpected warmth grew
within him. He fought both feelings down. Their relation-
ship had been established, or so he believed, at partnership
and nothing more. "What do you want?"
She relaxed, brought the book out of hiding and held it
to her bosom between gracefully crossed hands.
"Just a smile, Nikaenor. A smile that's all for me, and
maybea little, just a little, approval?"
There was a winsome quality to her tone. A hint of sad-
ness. And Nikki wondered if perhaps she wasn't lonely.
She'd been in Rhomatum for the better part of a year now,
and for all practical intents, confined to the Tower that
entire time. She'd been forced to play a distasteful (he'd
come to realize) part for him, and sought acceptance, now,
for the woman she truly was.
He could understand that need, and with understanding,
the smile she requested came effortlessly. He moved from
behind the desk, held out his hand to receive the book,
transferred it to the other hand, and reached again, this
time for her fingers, drawing her over to a settee near the
largest window, a divan deep with cushions, worn and
comfortable.
His favorite reading spot.
She fingered a threadbare cushion, and he waited for the
inevitable suggestion that it be recovered, but she only met
his eyes, smiled a secret little knowing smile, and curled
her petite slippered feet up beneath her, the way he would,
sitting in that same spot with a favorite book in his lap.
Those excited little fingers flitted along his spine again,
and he settled into the other end of the couch, facing her,
and tucked up in similar casual comfort.
Only then did he transfer his attention to the book or,
more properly speaking, journal. An old journal dedicated
to the establishment of the first fourteen satellite nodes. A
journal that might have been written with Mikhyel's mis-
sion in mind, outlining, as it did, the events surrounding
the capping and the backgrounds and philosophies of the
founding fathers of the various cities.
His mouth was oddly dry. He closed it, swallowed, and
opened it again. "Where did you find this?" he asked in
what voice he could muster.
Lidye smiled gently. "Do you think it will be useful?"
"You know the answer to that. Where? Who. . . ?"
"Don't you recognize the hand?"
And then, of course, he did recognize it, from other
journals.
"Darius," he said, and she nodded.
"It was in Anheliaa's suite. I knew I'd seen it somewhere.
There would be a companion work, a continuation"
"Not likely," Nikki interrupted. "Darius died before . . ."
He let the thought trail off as he realized: "He couldn't
have written this. At least, not all of it. He died after the
capping of Orenum, and that was only the sixth satellite
capped."
And around the time of Orenum, the handwriting did
shift, but it remained very similar, almost as if there had
been a conscious attempt to copy Darius' style.
"His son, Darius II." She shifted to peer at the script
upside down. "Amazingly similar, don't you think?"
"That's one way to describe it." He skimmed a few more
lines, his familiarity with Darius' antiquated spellings and
speech patterns making it easy to absorb. "You say
there's more?"
"There certainly ought to be."
"In her suite?"
She nodded. "Bookshelves full of ancient journals, Ni-
kaenor. By all the Ringmasters of Rhomatum."
"I'd no idea," he murmured, his mind filling with images
of that forbidden landscape that was Anheliaa's apartment.
More sacrosanct than the Tower, he'd never entered it.
Perhaps these journals were the reason why no one else
was allowed in.
But Lidye had seen them. Lidye had been chosen by
Anheliaa to inherit those treasures. And Anheliaa had cho-
sen Lidye for him, so perhaps . . .
"Do you suppose . . ." He looked up and met her eyes.
"I'd like to see them."
"Why not? It will be my suite soon enough. How could
it be wrong to access it now, when so much depends upon
the knowledge lying within it?"
"How, indeed," Nikki answered, and he bounced to his
feet, holding his hands out to draw her up.  "Let's go,
shall we?"
It was a historical treasure trove, a tiny library without,
at first glance, a commercially printed book on its shelves.
Some were the originals of books he recognized as pub-
lished works, some were writings referenced in other works,
but generally considered lost.
Of most current interest were the shelves of journals,
the handwritten history of his family and their alliances by
marriage; but there were other books, books with elegant
bindings, leather covers with hand-stamped tilling that
spoke of uncommon origin. Antique in style, but too ele-
gant for the earliest Rhomatumin binderies.
Nikki drew one from the shelf, traced that impressed
lettering with his fingertips, and opened the cover. Unlike
the others, it was not handwritten, but the print was un-
even, the stamp irregular, and of a style he'd seen only in
histories of technology.
Old. Very old books. Illegal books. Pre-exodus, Mauri-
tumin books. Some, from the titles, must have been taken
from the Tower of Maurii itself.
Nikki's knees turned to water. He staggered, and caught
himself against the shelves. A presence at his back steadied
him, a slender, graceful hand reached around his shoulder
and turned another page.
"I loved this one," Lidye whispered next to his ear, and
she turned another page, and another, and he found he was
no longer staring blindly, but scanning the words, following
the text, absorbed in visuals, hand-tinted plates, images of
caves and flowing iridescent water and nonhuman, magi-
cal creatures.
Maurislan Tamshi tales.
Rhomatum had had similar stories, handed down by
word of mouth, intermingled with hill-folk legends, but
these were the originals. These were the stories Darius him-
self must have heard as a child, pictures he must have
looked at.
"Evi" His voice caught; he cleared his throat and tried
again. "Evidently the laws didn't apply to Darius."
"Of course not," Lidye said, her tone echoing some of
the reverence he was feeling. "Someone had to retain his-
torical perspective. I imagine he saved all he could before
ordering  his  people  to  destroy  their  Mauritumin
memories."
He leaned away from her, seeking her eyes. "How many
of these have you read?"
Her chin tucked shyly in an appealing half-shrug. "I've
had a great deal of time since I came here."
"Rings," he whispered. The book was shaking; so were
his hands. He closed the book and sought a nearby chair,
then sat there, clutching the book, and gazing blindly about
the room. Anheliaa's room. Anheliaa's suite. The suite
every Rhomatumin Ringmaster since Darius had lived in.
"What other treasures must be kept here?"
Lidye sank down beside him, spreading her skirts side-
wise in a graceful, single-handed sweep.
"We could," she began, then bit her lip diffidently.
"We could . . . what?"
"We could investigate the rooms together."
"We could do that."
Her long lashes biinked a single tear free.
"Is it not too late, then? Might we not find . . . something
in  common  still?  Nikaenor Rhomandi dunMheric  is  a
mana husbandto be proud of. I want to be proud of
us, sweet, sweet, Nikki."
"I" Somehow, the Lidye he'd first known seemed very
far away. The past days flooded his thoughts as her perfume
flooded his nostrils. Not the heavy scent he'd associated
with her before, but a light, floral scent, like a hillside in
spring. Like the Outside.
She'd evinced terror when he'd taken her driving two
months ago; he wondered if this perfume perjured that im-
pression, and if yes, what else she had hidden from Anhe-
liaa and so from himself.
The rings, had, after all, matched them.
The book forgotten, he reached to touch her faintly
flushed cheek. The color deepened under his stroking
thumb. She gave easily to the suggestive pressure of his
fingers, swaying toward him.
Their lips brushed, a feathery-light touch that he pressed
deeper, drawing her tight as that heat, strange and new and
wonderful, flared within him.
8 d d
"Heels down, eyes up!" Deymorin shouted from ring-
center. "Man, woman, noble or common, your ass follows
your"
Thump!
"nose." He cursed softly and walked toward the are-
na's far end, grabbing the free-flying reins of the free-
flyingand rather startledhorse, tugging the gelding to a
halt  and  pulling  him  to  heel.  "Are  you  all  right,
Shepherdess?"
Green eyes glared at him from under the shock of red
hair, the glue she used to plaster the locks in place these
days no proof against the wind and dust of horse. Kiyrstin
ignored the hand he stretched down to her, pulled her
knees up and sat there, brushing her sleeves and shaking
her hair free of arena sand.
Their sessions in the newly reinstated training arenas on
the outskirts of Rhomatum had become a daily ritual. In
part, to improve Kiyrstin's horsemanship, in part, just to
find time to be together.
The lessons had been his idea; he wasn't altogether cer-
tain Kiyrstin approved of his choice.
The horse attached to the reins bumped his back, an
impatient nose demanding attention, worried he'd done
something wrong. He reassured the beast with an absent-
minded scratch.
"All right?" Kiyrstin answered at long last. "I'm fine.
Wonderful." She rolled to her knees and, with a fair com-
mand of street language, hauled herself to her feet. This
time, her glare included the horse. "Evil beast."
"Eyes"
"Up," she completed for him. "Right. Deymorin, I'm
never going to learn. Why don't you admit it, and we can
go take a nice warm"
"Nonsense. You're doing splendidly. Up you go." And
denying her time to protest, he tossed her back into the
saddle.
"Rags"
"Just a little line work, Kiyrsti. To loosen you and the
horse back up. All right?" Somehow, her assent lacked con-
viction, but knowing he was right, he snapped the long lines
into the bit and started the gelding moving, just a slow
walk, at first.
"Have those investors settled on a date for the trip to
Armayel yet?" she asked.
"Try dropping the reins, Kiyrsti."
"What?"
"Trust me," he answered, with a laugh, and: "Not yet.
Sometime before I leave. Want to go along? See the fry?"
"Why Alizant endures that nickname"
He set the horse to a trot.
"Damn you. Rags"
"Canter\" he called out. "Arms out to the sides
straight, Kiyrsti. Tighten the arms, not the rest. That's my
girl." Her back was loosening up. Her shapely rump settling
deep and solid into the seat at last. He shook his mind free
of that distracting image and called: "Now, shed the
stirrups."
"Go to your seventeen hells."
"Eighteen. You're in Rhomatum. Drop 'em, missus."
This time, her curses covered several languages, but she
slid her feet free. When silence greeted his command to
close her eyes, he was certain he'd be sleeping in the barn.
And then, a soft "Oh, my . . ." reached his ears, and he
grinned at no one in particular, thinking perhaps his bed
was available again.
Her body relaxed and settled the way the gods had in-
tended when they first advised man to top a horse, and
Deymorin felt his grin widen. All Nikki's beloved poets
couldn't begin to find the words to express the way that
felt the first time. Just watching, a man could feel that ac-
tion beneath him, the sensual, almost sexual thrill of being
part of so much power and grace.
"So, Shepherdess," he began after a handful of rounds,
"what do you think"
She swayed, wildly.
"Kiyrstin!" he shouted, and: "Whoa!" to the horse, as he
dropped the lines and ran toward it. The creature stopped
obediently, then shied away from him, startled. Kiyrstin slid
inward bonelessly, but he was there to intercept her limp
weight before she hit the ground. And still, they nearly
went down, his bad leg choosing (with its normal exquisite
sense of timing) to protest the effort.
Grooms appeared to intercept the horse, and cradling
Kiyrstin in his arms, Deymorin limped out of the arena as
rapidly as his leg would bear. He carried her down the wide
corridor between stalls to the tack room and a bench cov-
ered with carefully sorted strips of leather: a stableboy's
afternoon project. With a silent apology, he swept the
bench clear with his booted foot and laid Kiyrstin flat, dis-
posing her limbs in what comfort the narrow bench
allowed.
She was pale, but her breathing was strong and regular.
Deymorin could see no obvious reason for the sudden col-
lapse, no visible injury, but the memory of her first fall
plagued his thoughts. For all it had appeared from his van-
tage to be a simple bounce off into the sand, even the
simplest blow, at the wrong angle, had been known to cause
irreparable damage to the strongest man.
"Kiyrstin?" A quick-thinking lad provided him a bucket
of water and one of the sponges they used for sluicing down
the horses after a good workout. He squeezed the sponge
and set it to her brow, wiping a drip from her mouth with
his thumb.
"Come, girl, talk to me."
"And say what?" she muttered, and damp sprayed on a
gust of escaping breath. "Told you so?" She struggled to
sit up, swept dripping hair back from her face, then paused,
sniffed her fingers, and jerked her head back. "Sweet
Maurii."
"Maurii smells like horse, does he?" Deymorin teased,
relieved.
"She," Kiyrstin answered, and wrinkled her nose. "And
Maurii doesn't have anything to do with horses. Maurii is
a very well-behaved goddess."
"I thought Maurii was a god."
"Only to men." She brushed his anxious hands aside and
stood up. "Don't fuss so, Rhomandi. I told you1 want
my bath."
"So, this was all a ploy, was it?" he murmured, cupping
her face in both hands, examining her eyes for any
abnormality.
Her mouth twitched. "Maybe."
He stilled the twitch with his own mouth, her lips opened
beneath him and those urges that had flared in the arena
returned, in full force.
"Rings, Shepherdess," he whispered, and pressed her
back to the wall, striving to control his ridiculously adoles-
cent obsessions.
Kiyrstin laughed against his chest, punched his ribs and
rocked a hip forward, an abrupt move from which he in-
stinctively flinched. She ducked away, laughing. He chased
her, making an equally noisy show of losing her, but know-
ing exactly where she was headed.
It was a spot in the loft, private amongst the bales of
hay and straw, but far from secret, and the lads in the
stable knew well the amusement value could never offset
the consequences of spying on whoever happened to be
using it.
Kiyrstin was waiting there for him, stretched out in loose
straw, hands laced behind her neck, legs crossed comfort-
ably at the ankles. He stood above her, leaning against
stacked bales. She eyed him up and down, and tsked disap-
provingly. "Have you always been like this?"
He opened his mouth, closed it again, not knowing how
to answer. "INo, as a matter of fact."
She grinned. "Good!"
And reached for him as he dropped to his knees beside
her.
d 8 8
Anheliaa's heavy chest rose and fell in rhythm with the
Cardinal ring, outermost of the nineteen concentric rings
of Rhomatum. Anheliaa was still alive, if what she experi-
enced could possibly be termed living. Although perhaps
having the world pending, waiting for her fate before mak-
ing a move was, indeed, the ultimate experiencefor
Anheliaa.
Mikhyel set the stack of letters he'd brought to the
Tower with him onto the small writing desk beside Anhel-
iaa's bed, and sank into the chair next to her.
He'd taken to answering his mail here in the ring-
chamber. Anheliaa's mind had gone completely opaque to
him, after that first visit, and he'd discovered that, as long
as his brothers were quiet, so to speak, he could escape
their thoughts here as well.
And somehow, the sheer macabre nature of the place
attracted him. He waited for her to die, as they all did, and
yet, he had to admit that he daily hoped to enter the Tower
to discover her small, deep-set eyes open and ready to chal-
lenge his independent actions.
To return here was to face the dichotomy that was his
life, a dichotomy without resolution until this key element
was gone forever.
A flash of green and turquoise at his elbow: a toshi lizard,
one of several flitting about the ringchamber. He reached
for the pot of ushin paste, dipped a finger and held steady
while the tiny creature eased down his sleeve and began
licking the sweet jelly from his fingertip. Male or female, it
was impossible to tell without much closer inspection than
this little creature was likely to grant him.
Perhaps it was bothsome toshi were like that.
Three others soon joined their cousin, and two more,
smaller, eyed him from a safe distance. The toshi lizards
thrived within the Rhomatum ringchamber. They were ac-
customed to him, as they weren't to Nikki or Deymorin,
and accepted him as a feature of their limited world.
He couldn't recall the first time he'd been brought to
the Tower to attend Anheliaa. Even before Mheric's death,
Mikhyel (raised to be more biddable than Deymorin) had
been trained to massage the aches from Anheliaa's shoul-
ders, bathe her brow, and brush her hair.
He supposed a normal person with normal sensibilities
would shudder at the memories conjured as he sat beside
her, waiting, without shame, for her to die. Memories of a
child's hands buried in the fleshy folds of Anheliaa's neck
and shoulders. Memories of numb fingers seeking the key
pressure points they'd learned to recognize on a well-
muscled servant. A servant whose slender young body
those childish fingers had still barely spanned.
Mikhyel rubbed his fingers, kneaded joints suddenly ach-
ing. He recalled wondering once, as he grew older, whether
his abnormally long fingers were the result of stretching his
child's hands around his great-aunt's body.
Not that it mattered now. Once she was gone, he'd never
have to come to her Tower. Never again would he be
roused from his bed in the middle of the night to ease her
mind and her body. Never again would he be forced to
listen to the bitter complaints when his best efforts failed
to relieve her pain, never again suffer her dry lips against
his skin when she was pleased.
A hand touched his, as it rested on the arm of his chair.
He jumped, discovered, to his disgust, that he was shaking,
inside as well as out. He turned his hand to lace fingers
with Mirym, and thanked her silently as they were inclined
to communicate, with Brolucci standing watch.
As the days passed, he'd found Mirym a warm, comfort-
ing presence. Whatever complex motives and associations
might have ruled her actions before the Boreton incident,
her actions since had been unwaveringly supportive of the
web in general and of himself in particular.
Which was, overall, a good thing, as he'd also grown
increasingly aware of her modestly rated Talent. Five days
before, a message had arrived from Barsitum begging for
more leyflow. A mining accident had flooded the healing
node with over a hundred injured. Mirym had cradled An-
heliaa's head in her lap, and the rings' steady pattern had
shifted, and Barsitum had gotten its increased leyflow.
Lidye had refused to try, had declared any attempt on
her part to shift Anheliaa's chosen course would simply
cause her unnecessary pain and might erupt in storms such
as the one that had chased them into the city.
Difficult to blame Lidye, assuming Anheliaa could affect
her the way she claimed, but Mirym had suffered no such
fears. Mirym had faced Anheliaa's wrath and won, not
through battles of wills, but via some more subtle manipula-
tion he had yet to comprehend.
As he'd grown suspicious these past days of Anheliaa's
ability to sway his thinking in the past, so had he examined
his comfortable acceptance of this young woman. In part,
his visits here had been to watch her, to challenge that calm
demeanor, to await some slip. But there'd been nothing,
only an increased curiosity on his part, a desire to under-
stand her better.
He wondered if he ever would.
{Don't hold your breath, raven-hair.} Mirym's character-
istic humor colored the thought.
Mikhyel laughed, acknowledgment of his discovery, and
raised her hand to his lips. On a sudden impulse, he drew
her closer still, cupped his hand behind her neck, leaned
forward...
Came a flux in that sense that held his brothers: infinitely
subtle and soft, but undeniable. He paused, his lips so close
to Mirym's he could feel her breath. He closed his eyes,
and in the star-shot darkness there, he saw Lidye's blonde
beauty shimmering before him, and just beyond, Kiyrstin's
laughing eyes.
"Rings," he breathed aloud, knowing, then, the source
of his uncharacteristic impulse. Mirym's silent laughter
seeped up his hand. He held her close, hiding her face in
his neck while he gained control.
Damn Nikki and damn his unpredictable, youthful urges.
Chapter Nine

"If you ask me, this is all part of the Mauritumin invasion
fantas" The speaker broke off abruptly and glared at
Thyerri, who paused in the open doorway of the smallish
room, balancing the large platter with both hands.
"Rings, Tobinsi," a second man said. "It's just Bharlori's
boy." The second man, a regular patron whose name was
Morshani dunSharn, waved imperiously to Thyerri. "Well?
Bring it in, bring it in!"
Thyerri rushed across the room and set down the platter
in the perfect center of the long, low table. Acutely aware
of the five men's impatience to continue their interrupted
conversation, he gathered the empty plates, then darted
past the guards and back downstairs to the kitchen, a part-
ing command to return with more wine ringing in his ears.
Bharlori's had expanded. The second-floor rooms, cheap
by-the-night lets in the early days of Khoratum, had been
transformed into private dining halls, each of a different
character and price range. Many of the well-to-do from
Greater Khoratum, like dunSharn, had become nightly reg-
ulars: the new Khoratumin bringing their other-node guests
down to Lesser Khoratum for private conferences and
deal-making.
Many, like dunSharn, spoke freely regardless of who was
present in the room. Others, like Tobinsi, were patently
suspicious. Thyerri had enjoyed, during his days as an ap-
prentice dancer in Rhyys' court, a lively interest in the po-
litical maneuverings of the nodes, and at times like this, he
found leaving such a gathering very difficult.
The talk was increasingly of dissatisfaction with Rhoma-
tum and Rhomatumin policies. Giephaetum and Orenum
had claimed for years that the Syndicate gave special con-
sideration to those nodes on the lucrative Kirish'lan trade
routes, ignoring the needs of the hard-working, but less
populous, timber and mining nodes of the north. Those
rumors of separate dealings with the nodes of the Southern
Crescent, always a topic of speculation, had taken on ever
more ominous tones since the marriage of Nikaenor Rho-
mandi to a Shatumin woman of that Southern Crescent.
"Do you mean to imply that Persitum intends to drop
from the web, Marighi dePers?"
That same angry voice penetrated the walls as Thyerri
approached the room laden with wine. Thyerri paused, just
out of sight of the guards, wondering if he should wait to
enter, curious himself to hear the answer to that question.
"That decision is up to Ringmaster Paris romPersii."
That voice would belong to Marighi dePers, who was, Thy-
erri knew from his title, an official representative of Persi-
tum Node.
"/?owPersii?" The first man laughed. "Have they rein-
stated the Order already in Persitum?"
"We never stopped believing, Tobinsi. The fact that Da-
rius ruled priests out of the Towers in the Rhomatum Web
could not end the belief. Three hundred years they've kept
it quiet, but the trainingand the faithcontinued within
the ranks of the ringmasters."
One of the guards glanced toward Thyerri's shadow,
then, and Thyerri walked boldly forward, as if he'd just
arrived, and knocked on the doorframe this time to an-
nounce his arrival.
"Come!" dunSharn's voice called, and the local man
smiled at Thyerri and waved him in.
"And if Anheliaa fights?" dunSharn asked, as Thyerri
moved silently about the room, filling depleted glasses. "If
she tries to force Persitum to stay in the web?"
"According to the Rhomandi," another stranger an-
swered, "they do not expect Anheliaa to awaken."
The Rhomandi? Anheliaa dying? There was a time that
news would have brought great joy to . . . the person Thy-
erri had been.
"And if she does?" the first man, Tobinsi, asked. "Or if
the Shatumin bitch proves capable?"
"Then Persitum is prepared to collapse the entire node
and reset all the rings but Rhomatum's." That was the Per-
situmin representative, Marighi. He was a long, thin man
with graying blond hair, and an air of perpetual perplexity.
He seemed very tired. "They must do something. Anheliaa
is draining all of Maurislan!"
"She's draining every node in the web. They say Mauri-
tum will suffer more than Rhomatum, if Persitum
withdraws."
"Who can know? It's never happened. No satellite has
ever willfully cut itself off from a mother node. Certainly
it can't be worse than what's happening."
The words were flying around his head, statements with-
out origin. Thyerri made another slow round of the glasses,
delaying his departure.
"Would that we had the option," dunSharn growled.
"Would that we had any true option."
"Perhaps we have," Marighi said.
"You mean the Mauritumin?" dunSharn asked.
Marighi nodded, but Tobinsi glared at Thyerri, and
hissed. "Idiots!" And to Thyerri: "Get out. Now."
9 ~ ~
"Persitum has recalled its representatives."
Mikhyel broke the news in the sitting room after dinner,
considering it only polite to allow time for good food to
settle.
"They're going to cut us off," Deymorin said.
"Obviously," Mikhyel responded, and sipped his wine.
"Garetti must be ecstatic," Kiyrstin said. "He's been try-
ing to get Persitum to cut off Rhomatum for years."
"Well, one can't blame him now," Mikhyel said. "Anhel-
iaa has been draining the entire web ever since Boreton.
It's unconscionable, what she's doing."
Word had come from the other nodes, from the ring-
masters with whom Mikhyel hoped to meet, that Anheliaa
was indeed drawing hard on their resources. They were, to
a Tower, fighting that leeching, and to a Tower, refused to
relax that battle until they had far more confidence in the
outcome of such a gesture.
"I'd stop her, if I could," said Lidye, from the settee
where she'd settled with Nikki. "It's just . . . she's so power-
ful, and I fear ..." Her voice trembled, and Nikki took
her hand, speaking soothing nonsense.
The fact that Lidye and Nikki had reconciled their differ-
ences was impossible to ignore. Beyond the fact that Nikki
had taken to sleeping in his wife's bed and disturbing all
their sleep with his youthful rutting, Nikki being Nikki and
in love with the notion of being in love, he radiated desire
and obsessive concern throughout the day as well.
Watching the tender little performance, Mikhyel hoped
her actions were less calculated than they appeared to
Nikki's rather more cynical brother. Having seen Mirym
brave Anheliaa's wrath quite successfully, he had his own
opinions on why Lidye chose to put off assuming control
of the rings.
Still,  considering  the  obscenity  lying  moribund  in  the
Tower, he supposed he should sympathize with Lidye's reti-
cence to challenge Anheliaa. There was no knowing how
channeling the ley-energy would affect Lidye until she
began work, was how Anheliaa had explained the dangers
at the pre-engagement interviews; and those physical pa-
rameters could change over time or overnight or not at all.
Nor did they know how the Tower work might affect the
unborn child Lidye carried. No Rhomatumin master had
ever tried. Anheliaa had counted on the child being born
before Lidye would be required to control the rings.
Truth to tell, Mikhyel suspected that Anheliaa had
planned to live long enough to train the child, and to hand
the rings directly down to a Rhomandi after all.
On the other hand, considering that Lidye had married
Nikki knowing that Tower work was inherently dangerous,
now was hardly the time for second thoughts, excuses . . .
or misplaced loyalties.
"Lidye," he said, and she looked up expectantly. "Persi-
tum's pending defection has raised new doubts, and revived
old factions within the Syndicate." He sent a mental warn-
ing to Nikki to hold quiet, sensed instant resistance, and
beat it fiercely down. "The old distrust is welling up be-
tween the Northern and Southern Crescents. Your presence
here tonight is fueling that suspicion. I will ask this only
once, and I trust you realize the ramifications to yourself
should I discover at some future date that you tied to me
today."
Her brow tightened, but otherwise, her calm face didn't
change.
"Are you Rhomandi or are you Fericci?"
It was a direct challenge of her loyalties. Nikki jerked,
full of protest, and Mikhyel sent another message, wanting
no extraneous commotion. He could almost feel Nikki
writhing beneath his hand, but the motion was all invisible,
a mental grip, forcing his brother to stay quiet.
Lidye rose to her feet and walked slowly about the room,
taking time to consider the question, wisely avoiding the
immediate, self-protective response that would simply have
confirmed his suspicions. She stopped, looking at Nikki,
then said slowly, carefully, "There is no way to answer that
question to your absolute satisfaction, Mikhyel dunMheric,
as you know full well." That steady blue gaze met his with-
out flinching. "Howeverand you can believe this or not,
as you willI'm not the same person I was when I arrived
here last fall. You cannot connect with the rings and not
become committed in a way beyond politics. My life be-
longs to the web, now, not to any one node. Not to any
one Family. My parents assumed otherwise. My parents
prepared me with certain objectives should I attain the po-
sition I shall soon hold, but my parents are destined to
disappointment. I listened to your advice, and your broth-
ers' on choosing my own guard. I also listened to my fa-
ther's. But ultimately, I followed the advice of the rings. I
have sent my father and his men back to Shatum. He was
not pleased with that decision, but I was. I found him . . .
uncomfortable to have near me. I am of this node now,
Mikhyel. Irrevocably. I . . . can't explain otherwise. I can
only act as seems best for the web in general and this node
in particular."
Mikhyel nodded, and released his hold on Nikki, who

glowered in angry silence.

I'm sorry, Nikki.}
You had no right!}
I had everv right. Until vou learn to control1

{i iiau every ugiii. uiilii yuu icaiii iu VUULIUI(

"Nikki?" Lidye's voice interrupted them. "Nikki, are you
all right?"
"Fine," Nikki said abruptly, and his sudden silence rang
in Mikhyel's head like a blow. "I apologize for my brother's
lack of respect."
"Your desire to protect my feelings does you credit," she
said soothingly, "but his concerns were well taken. Surely
you must see that as well? This is not the time for mis-
placed confidence." She looked up to meet Mikhyel's eyes.
"I only hope I have allayed some of his fears."
"What I think," Mikhyel said, without inflection, "is that
you had best hold with that stance, if you want to remain
Ringmaster of the Rhomatum Web. What we have accom-
plished so far is acceptance of the situation and the basic
goals we set forth for dealing with that situation. However,
the Syndicate considers the danger to the web to far out-
weigh the immediate danger from Mauritum, and seeks re-
assurances I can't give them. They believe that the only
real defense against Mauritum is a solid web with an unsha-
kably loyal and capable ringmaster. I tend to agree with
them."
"I can't do anything, as long as Anheliaa lives."
"No? And if the satellite ringmasters refuse to cooperate
unless you prove dominance? What then? Do we wait while
Anheliaa destroys the web?"
"We don't know that's happening."
"Don't we?"
"I can't do anything. The child"
"You would be the Ringmaster of Rhomatum, Lidye
romNikaenor. Will you master the rings, or won't you?"
Again, he was forced to divide his attention, to hold
Nikki quiet while he sought the truth behind Nikki's
wife's posturing.
"The risk is too great!" Lidye cried, and her eyes flashed
with growing anger.
"Then what do you suggest, you who would be Rhoma-
tum Node's master?"
She drew a deep breath, visibly controlling herself, then
answered coldly, "I've already answered that."
"Wait."
She nodded.
"Unacceptable."
"Damn you, Mikhyel dunMheric! Then find another!"
"Mirym?"
Astonishment filled the pale Shatumin features. "Surely
you're joking."
So she didn't know about Mirym . . . Unless, of course,
the look was contrived.
"What about Nethaalye? As I understood the situation,
she had at least some capacity to hold the rings, though
she wasn't as skilled as yourself. Is that accurate?"
Lidye shrugged, a single-shoulder, petulant gesture. "She
might have."
"In any case, I suggest we ask her to return as soon as
possible. Your Southern association is and has been a real
point of contention in any case. She's not pregnant. I know
she has courage, and I know her politics favor the web as
a whole."
"And if she hasn't the ability? If Anheliaa strikes at her
the way Anheliaa strikes at me?"
"We won't know until she tries, will we?"
"You are as cruel as your aunt, Mikhyel dunMheric,"
Lidye hissed.
"Tell her what you will. Frighten her off from trying if
you would like. I won't interfere. My desire is not to re-
place you, Lidye. My desire is to save the web. I would
think you would welcome relief in the Tower, and being
from the North, her presence here might reassure the
Northern Crescent that we're not favoring one side over
another."
"If she'll come back." Lidye cast him a clearly challeng-
ing sideways glance from half-lidded eyes.
"Why wouldn't she?"
"She didn't leave on a whim, Mikhyel dunMheric. She
left because she was convinced you had deserted her. Re-
jected her as Anheliaa had rejected her."
"I can't blame her for that. But if I explain . . ."
Lidhye shrugged. "It might be enough."
"But you don't believe so."
"I told you. She was quite upset. I tried to talk sense
with her, but when her father discovered you'd made that
servant girl pregnant"
"I . . . what? What servant girl?"
"Anheliaa's wench. Mirym. She had dizzy spells, fainted
in the Tower. Anheliaa's physician said it was too soon
to make the determination, but she seemed quite certain.
Refused to rest, as the physician recommended, saying her
response was quite natural."
Nikki was staring at him, his underneath presence, for
once, icy quiet. Painfully cold, and Mikhyel released all
hold on him.
Deymorin was radiating amusement and gentle mockery.
"Should have been more careful, fry."
"You're a fine one to talk, Rags," Kiyrstin said.
"But I didn't . . ." Mikhyel's protest faded into uncer-
tainty. There'd been only that once, and Nethaalye had
been gone within days. . . .
"Damn you, Mikhyel," Nikki hissed, "don't lie. I saw
you with her."
"What do you mean. Shepherdess?" Deymorin was ask-
ing Kiyrstin, causing an echo in Mikhyel's head as well as
his ears.
"Once, Nikki. There was just that one time"
"I mean," Kiyrstin hissed in an undertone Mikhyel heard
only through Deymorin's ears. "I'm sprouting, you're spin-
ning a new strand on the family web, your gun was
loaded"
"Liar!"
"Nikki, I'm not denying it happened, though I don't
know what you were doing in my room that night, but it
was just the one timeyour wedding night, and she
couldn't have known that soon"
"Once is all it takes, fry. Kiyrstin, do you mean"
"Yes, for Maurii's own sweet sake. I'm in foal . . .
breeding . . . pregnant."
Deymorin caught Kiyrstin up in his arms and swung her
about the room. His mind, intoxicated with Kiyrstin's reve-
lation, reflected within Mikhyel's. Deymorin was oblivious
to all else in the room. Oblivious to talk of other women
and other children, his vision and thoughts all on Kiyrstin.
And Mikhyel grew ill with the swirling images overlaying
Nikki's angry face, and with the mixture of Deymorin's
joy and Nikki's outrageoutrage that surged now past that
barrier of mental ice, though why Nikki would care about
Mirym, with Lidye warm and close and willing, remained
a mystery to Mikhyel.
Kiyrstin's scolding voice, rich and blessedly solid, broke
through the internal cacophony. "Let me down, you
overgrown . . . Don't you know you're supposed to be
careful of us when we're in this condition? I expect to be
coddled, treated like the most delicate web in the"
The lights went out.
Someone screamed; perhaps it was Mikhyel himself, for
the agony that coursed through him. Agony. Fear. Deple-
tion. Anger. Horror. Resistance.
Death.
Silence then. So complete, Mikhyel wondered if he was
the only one still in the room.
Or the only one still alive.
{Khyel?}
Deymorin. And a moment later, Nikki was there as well.
A sob.
"Kiyrsti?" Deymorin's whisper, and a rustle of cloth. A
sense of warmth and relief.
Carpet rasped his hands when he tried to move them. A
sense of gravity, of up and down. Of pressure along his
body. The floor.
"Lidye?" Nikki's voice. Broken. There was no answer.
"Lidye!"
The lights flickered.
And slowly steadied.
Deymorin rose from the floor, drawing Kiyrstin up with
him.
Mikhyel pushed himself off the floor, grasped a chair and
pulled himself to his feet.
Nikki was likewise swaying upright. Deymorin and Kiyrs-
tin. Lidye...
Lidye was standing, to all evidence, unaffected. She was
staring at the door, a slight smile on her face.
The door opened: Mirym, out of the Tower for the first
time since their return. And it was toward him she looked,
a fact Mikhyel realized only after sorting out the three-way
image of her. He closed his eyes and angrily shut out his
brothers' minds, an effort that left his head pounding, but
leaving only one image to contend with.
And when he opened his eyes and met hers, he heard
her as he heard his brothers, without the benefit of touch.
Or perhaps, he simply knew.
"Darius save us all," he whispered. "Anheliaa's dead."
Interlude

"Ah-h-h . . ." Mother's sigh fluttered the leythium veils,
and shimmered through the air. She inhaled, deep and
gasping, the first unadulterated breath of ley that she'd had
in two human generations.
Anheliaa was dead.
Mother had only enough time for that realization before
the renewing leythium surged toward her in an intoxicating
rush of total sensory glut. The tidal crest ebbed, and for an
instant Mother sensed the tiniest of her threads vibrating
with life again before the tap root that linked her to the
progenitor surged a second time, and Mother rode that
crest up and out of the pool and danced the ley as she'd
never danced before.
Chapter One

For Mikhyel, second son of Mheric, direct descendant of
Darius I, gods and religion were just wordswords for cul-
turally ingrained habits designed to ease the sleep of the
masses. Death happened, the inevitable consequence of life;
if any thing or any one governed  either or both sides of
that equation, he'd never perceived that it mattered one
way or the other to the living.
He'd resolved, when he was nine years old and holding
his mother's hand as it turned to ice, that dying and immer-
sion were experiences to be avoided as long as possible.
Beyond that, he endeavored not to consider. He knew only
that he never wanted to feel another hand do what his
mother's had done in those final moments, never wanted
to accompany another empty husk into the depths below
the City.
His mother had been immersed in the common hypo-
geum. She'd not been Rhomandi, in the literal sense, and
therefore, Anheliaa had claimed and Mheric had not ar-
gued, she'd not been worthy of Rhomandi immersion.
Anheliaa's life had been filled with just such petty
pronouncements.
Mikhyel thought perhaps that he'd begun to hate Anhel-
iaa that day. His mother had become, in those final years
of her life, the focus of his entire life, and when on her
dying bed she'd consigned the newborn Nikaenor into Mi-
khyel's care, the bond between them had been forged for
all time.
Anheliaa, by her arbitrary rejection of his mother from
the Family hypogeum, had destroyed any chance she might
have had of securing Mikhyel's loyalty. From that point, he
had endured Anheliaa's decrees, but he'd never accepted
them. Or her.
He'd followed his mother's funeral bier down a long tun-
nel draped with the remnants of some previous procession.
Decorations of a joyous party, a cheerful celebration of the
life that had been lived. A party that had culminated in a
procession into the uppermost cavern, where the ley
formed a shallow, faintly glowing lake, waiting to receive
the remains of the deceased.
Rather like it daily received the City's sewage.
The same common pool into which Anheliaa insisted his
mother would be set adrift.
But there was to be no party for the wife of Mheric,
Princeps of Rhomatum. In that, she was Rhomandi, Mheric
had insisted and Anheliaa had willingly agreed. There
would be no redistribution of her wealth, no sharing of her
personal treasures and trinkets, no loving reexamination of
the life that had been lived. She was to be carried in somber
propriety in the final hours of the day and released without
ceremony to the ley.
Mikhyel had cried that night, in the privacy of his bed-
room. Cried for the mother lost and the honor she'd been
denied. And he'd learned the meaning of hate.
Somehow, carrying Anheliaa's bulk down the ancient,
hand-operated lift, the thought of setting her adrift, didn't
affect him in the least.
As with his mother, for Anheliaa dunMoren, the most
celebrated of Rhomatum's celebrated ringmasters since Da-
rius himself, there would be no party. There wasn't even a
circle of friends and family to attend her immersion. Only
their tiny party of four: his brothers, himself, and Nikki's
servant, Jerrik, to steady the fourth corner of the bier.
That was the way of the Rhomandi Family. Since Darius
I,  they  had  buried  their  own  in  private,  in  a  cavern  far
deeper than the common immersion lake, in a pool that
lay directly below the rings themselves, a place as much
Rhomandi property as Rhomandi House was.
A place too holy, according to Anheliaa, for Mheric's
Outsider wife.
Anheliaa had died with the passage of Persitum from the
web. They'd pieced that together, when they had gone to
the Tower and discovered Persitum's ring lying dormant
on the floor. That Anheliaa's simultaneous demise had not
crashed Rhomatum itself was Mirym's doing. So he'd
guessed and Mirym had silently verified.
If Lidye realized the source of that stability, she gave no
indication. Lidye claimed the blackout was the result of
Anheliaa's battle to keep Persitum from escaping her hold,
and attributed the return of the other rings to stable orbits
to the inherent stability of Rhomatum Node.
That claim, whether made out of ignorance or willful
misdirection, did make him wonder about Lidye's future as
Ringmaster of Rhomatum.
However, Lidye was in the Tower now, despite her
voiced concerns for her unborn child. Lidye hadn't left the
ringchamber in three days. Three days during which she'd
neither slept nor eaten.
Three days since Anheliaa's death; three days before An-
heliaa's immersion, the minimum wait allowed by laws so
old even Darius hadn't dared to challenge them.
Three days, and from the calm skies and steady power,
the rings had, indeed, accepted Lidye in Anheliaa's stead.
Perhaps, Mikhyel thought, a happier note on this slow
descent into the depths of the Rhomatum Node, it had
been Rhomatum's acceptance of Lidye that had put that
strange look on Lidye's face the night of Anheliaa's death.
Perhaps the node itself had protected its new master from
the death scream of its former master.
Perhapsbut Mikhyel had lived too long in Rhomatum
Tower to count on any such benign explanation.
Queries had come in already, regarding the improve-
ments in weather and available power, and news reports in
general were optimistic for the first time in weeks. Queries
had arrived as well from the masters of the satellite rings.
They sensed a difference in the web, but no living master
could know what their rings felt like without Anheliaa in
Rhomatum.
Anheliaa's death made his upcoming task both easier . . .
and more urgent.
For the moment, only a handful of people knew the
truth, those like Diorak, Anheliaa's personal physician, who
had officially pronounced her dead and prepared her body
for immersion.
And those like Brolucci, captain of Anheliaa's personal
guard. Brolucci had disappeared following an hour in the
Tower with Lidye. He'd taken the rest of Anheliaa's guard
with him. Lidye had assured Mikhyel via written message,
that Brolucci wouldn'tcouldn'ttalk. And true to her
promise, Lidye had replaced Anheliaa's guard with men
of both Shatum and Rhomatum, and made all of those
appointments subject to his, Deymorin's, and Nikki's
approval.
Her father's opinion had not been solicited.
Politics, perhaps, but smart politics. And he was inclined
to believe Lidye about Brolucci. Even so, he was glad
Deymorin had set his own men to following Brolucci, men
whose early reports indicated a mind in serious disarray.
Kinder, Mikhyel would think, to place the man in perma-
nent custody, but the ringmaster held absolute power over
the Tower Guard, a circumstance Brolucci had accepted
with open eyes when he accepted Anheliaa's appointment.
It appeared, in retrospect, that Anheliaa had chosen her
successor well. He wonderedin retrospectwhether An-
heliaa had known how well.
Soon, of course, they'd have to issue a public announce-
ment, but until that time they had decided to keep Anhel-
iaa's passing quiet, to show the world that the Rhomatum
Web would continue without herhad, in fact, continued
for some time before the general public realized she was
gone. That was important. He wanted no more riots. No
more panic. Anheliaa was gone. Restoration could begin
in earnest.
Under Rhomandi control.
The lights inside the lift went out, leaving them in a dark
deeper than his own darkest dreams. Mikhyel stifled in-
stinctive panic, even as Deymorin's thought reassured him:
the extinction only indicated they neared their goal, a point
at which the leyflow required to excite the tiny crystal
within the bulbs eddied rather than flowed, making align-
ment impossible.
It was Mikhyel's first time inside the ancient shaft that
pierced the heart of Mount Rhomatum. A lift whose final
destination was the Rhomandi hypogeum. Fourteen years
ago, while Nikki and Deymorin had participated in Mhe-
ric's immersion, Mikhyel had been in Barsitum Hospital
fighting for his own life. Nikki had returned here often;
Deymorin had, chasing Nikki down. But Mikhyel had re-
fused to enter the private shaft, seeing no reason to go
early to his own grave.
The lift jolted to a halt.
A rasp of metal on metal: Deymorin had opened the
grating. Mikhyel adjusted the protective pad on his shoul-
dera thicker pad than the others' to make up the differ-
ence in heightand eased himself under the pall. At
Deymorin's murmured signal, they lifted the bier free of
the corner supports and moved out into the tunnel.
Mikhyel had some idea what to expect, from Nikki's po-
etic descriptions of his adventures as well as the many and
varied images he'd received from both his brothers for the
past three days.
But nothing could truly prepare a man for stepping off
a solid platform into utter blackness.
Fortunately, Deymorin moved confidently ahead, and all
Mikhyel needed to do was keep pace with his left-front
corner.
The bier was lighter than he'd expected. Stylistically sim-
ple, following another Rhomandi tradition, it added as little
weight as possible to Anheliaa's own bulk. But even she
was lighter, her body, once the vitality of the ley ceased to
flow through it, evidencing the effects of weeks without
normal sustenance.
Effects for which his shoulder was grateful.
His head felt odd. Light. Devoid of his brothers. It was
as if a haze had settled about his thoughts when they
stepped from the lift into the tunnel, insulating him and his
thoughts from his brothers, and theirs from him.
Light touched the edges of his vision, and soft streamers
gradually took form and color: a lacework of light covering
the tunnel walls. A web. Leythium. growing naturally here,
and pulsing with the ebb and flow of ley-energy.
Like blood through living veins.
By that light, he could see Deymorin's profiled face on
the far side of the bier. There was a throbbing, a fluctuation
of coloras if he could see the blood pulsing just beneath
the surface of Deymorin's tanned skin. Throbbing in time
with the pulse of the ley.
Mikhyel shuddered and turned his face toward a brighter
glow just ahead, beyond a bend in the tunnel, a gentle
curve that easily accommodated the bier's length, and then
opened out into the hypogeum.
He paused, an involuntary reaction. The bier stopped
as well, Deymorin granting him a moment to take in the
spectacleor perhaps, Deymorin himself had been simi-
larly mesmerized.
The cavern's perimeter seemed to fluctuate with that
same pulsating radiance. It was similar to, yet utterly unlike
Nikki's poetic depiction. More like Mirym's mental picture,
yet not that either. And he wondered, as Deymorin set
them into motion, whether Mirym's leythium lace was any
more accurate an image than Nikki's improbably perfect
round pool.
A luminous pool indeed dominated the cavern floor and
illuminated their footing, but unlike Nikki's poetic version,
its shore was amorphous, a mass of tendrils that extended
into shadowed perimeters. Those tendrils retreated from
their feet as they approached.
Deymorin guided them to the right, toward a natural
stone bridge spanning the widest tendril. Strange, Mikhyel
thought, that he hadn't noticed that bridge before. That
bridge, or any of the dozen or more spanning other tendrils.
He was just beginning to account himself unobservant,
when another scan of the cavern counted fewer bridges,
and a third found none.
Except the one toward which they headed. It was as if
something had given them a choice, and once that choice
had been made eliminated the other options.
Somethingor someone. As a sense of Anhheliaa had
permeated Rhomandi House upon his return, so now some
other presence resonated here. He wanted to ask Deymorin
if he felt that presence, wondered if Nikki did, but that
mental veil continued to hide their thoughts from him. And
he was somehow disinclined to voice the question aloud.
Besides, there was about that presence a sense of vast
age, a feeling that had been here since the founding of
Rhomatum, probably longer. And Rhomandi had been im-
mersed here without recorded incident since Darius the
first. Best, Mikhyel decided, just to finish their business and
escape as quickly as possible.
So he kept his gaze on that bridge, willing it to be real
as Deymorin set foot on the seemingly solid arch, and
sighed with relief when Deymorin indeed rose above that
strangely shifting shore. Mikhyel kept pace, watching that
stone beneath his feet, the leythium eddying on either side,
a substance that wasin this semi-liquid statenear-instant
death, absorbing human flesh as easily as it absorbed
human waste.
Or so he'd always been told; he'd never had any inclina-
tion to test the theory.
As his feet touched the far side of the bridge, the bridge
vanished, leaving himself and Deymorin on one side of the
tendril, Nikki and Jerrik on the other. Lifting the pall from
his shoulder, Mikhyel turned to face Deymorin, who had
likewise freed himself.
At Deymorin's signal, they knelt and released the bier
to the ley. Mikhyel kept his fingers well away from the
pool, but when Deymorin's came dangerously close, the
liquid retreated, sank away from his hand as the shoreline
had retreated from their feet.
As if the ley wasn't interested in living flesh.
Which made a man wonder, as some unseen and inexpli-
cable current caught the bier and carried it out to the cen-
ter of the pool, where and how his ancestors had learned
not to touch it.
Mikhyel supposed, had anyone asked, that he'd expected
they would leave Anheliaa's body here, floating, until one
day, they'd come back and it would have disappeared, con-
sumed into the ley. That's what happened to those im-
mersed in the upper pool, as he'd learned during his daily
visits following his mother's immersion.
He hadn't tried to speak with her: he wasn't like the
pilgrims he'd walked among, who came to ask advice of
their dead ancestors. He'd just thought someone should be
with her as long as there was anything left to be with.
That someone should remember her, someone should care.
Deymorin and Mheric had left the City the day after the
immersion ceremony. Mikhyel had stayed in Rhomatum
with baby Nikki and the wet nurse.
And Anheliaa.
Not a day had passed that he hadn't wished that bier
had held Mheric instead. Or Anheliaa. Preferably both.
But this wasn't the upper lake. The ley was different
here. Thicker, more viscous. And it was Anheliaa's body
floating, not his mother's. He doubted he'd return to this
immersion site other than to assure himself that Anheliaa
was, indisputably, gone from his life.
Dark thoughts, filled with bitter memories of Anheliaa
and her Tower, memories that were his alone, memories
that, had he any say in the matter, would remain his own
forever, and he was grateful for the haze that kept his mind
apart from his brothers.
From their silence, at this time when tradition dictated
family and friends remember aloud the accomplishments of
the deceased, his brothers shared his dilemma. Let those
who had known her less well extol her life and achievements.
Slowly at first, then with increased purpose, Anheliaa's
bier began to rotate, first one way, then the other. The
leythium, like some living creature, oozed tendrils up and
over the bier, tendrils that began to form the lacy, web-
like structure typical of solid leythiuma process that
in the growth chambers took months to form a palm-
sized crystal.
The iridescence flared. The bier soared upward on a
pillar of liquid leythium, lifting Anheliaa's web-covered
body well above their heads, stretching toward the
cavernous
ceiling. Mikhyel staggered slightly as his knees turned
liquid. It was Mirym's mind-picture and more. Drapes of
leythium lace bridged every stony contour and dripped
downward in graceful chandeliers, rippling with iridescent
light.
The chamber resounded with oppressive silence; or else,
he thought, distantly horrified, he was deaf. But then, came
a faint ringing, a chiming hum, inside him where he heard
his brothers.
The crystal was singing.
A prudent man would run in terror. Instead, Mikhyel
stretched his arms toward that brilliance, that sound, willing
it to shine and reverberate through him.
And the scentit was a million roses in bloom, the tart
freshness of raspberries, and the bittersweet of fire-blossom
tea. Scents that permeated his body, entering through his
very pores.
He was smelling with his fingertips.
How long it lasted, he'd never know. It was an instant
and a lifetime of glorious exaltation of the sheer essence
of being. And as the leylight coalesced and sank in on itself,
there came a welcoming, an invitation to dive into that
vibrant sensory stream, to follow the bier to the very heart
of the node.
{This is life . . .} that stream whispered, and he took
a step toward the pool. Another. Blindly. Aching for the
fulfillment offered.
"Khyel, stop'."
He couldn't move, though his feet strained against the
ceilingthe floor, mind insistedof the cavern. Deymorin,
his inner sense assured him: it was Deymorin's hands that
stopped him, and Deymorin's hand on his cheek, hard and
sharp, a blow that brought him to his senses a step short
of the pool's lethal edge.
The greater awareness faded, and before his eyes (Or
was it his fingertips that registered the sight?) the pillar
collapsed, sucking Anheliaa's bier into a hole of swirling
iridescence. The surface of the pool closed over her without
splash or reverberating ripple.
Deymorin's eyes were wide with fear. For him, the inner
sense confirmed, as the insulating haze vanished.  He
pressed his hand over Deymorin's, sending reassurance of
his sanity, surprised, when he thought on it, at the instinct
that guided his communication preferentially into that ex-
otic form.
He dropped to his knees beside the pool, to what his
mind said was solid stone. But even that hard surface
seemed to accept him, shifting beneath his weight, con-
forming to his shape, cupping his bony knees in total
comfort.
He reached a hand to the pool. Deymorin's protest filled
his mind, or his ears, or both. It was irrelevant, both protest
and registering agent.
He palmed the semi-liquid.
Or it rose to fill his hand.
He wasn't certain of the actual sequence.
He didn't care.
The sensory cognizance returned. Gentler. Less consum-
ing. And the ley floated there, a liquid rainbow in the palm
of his hand, at once briskly chill and soothingly warm. He
grew conscious of the sting in his cheek where Deymorin
had struck him, and following some instinctor perhaps
some outside suggestionhe raised his leythium-filled palm
to that spot.
Deymorin yelled, but the leythium had already oozed up
and over his cheek as purposefully as it had entered his
hand. Its essence traced his chin; he thought of the beard
that once had been so much a part of him, a personal trade-
marklost.
A sensenot his feeling, not Deymorin's or Nikki'sof
regret. Regret for the pain, for the embarrassment, and
a sense that it had been unnecessary. A sense of self-
interested healing.
And more, a sense of awakening curiosityabout him.
He lurched to his feet and staggered back from the pool,
clutching at the arm Deymorin stretched to support him,
thinking belatedly of the leythium that should, even now,
be eating his flesh away, and instead had evaporated with-
out a trace.
"Deymorin, do you feel it?" It was his voice, barely audi-
ble even to himself, asking that question. He was shaking,
a palsy that threatened every joint.
"What?" Deymorin answered, his voice strong, forceful.
"I don't feel anything."
Except frustration at him for being a fool. And relief for
him that his foolishness had not killed him. Yet. And anger
and fear that hethat Deymorinhad been held mo-
tionless, unable to stop his brother's suicidal actions.
"Get me out of here!" Mikhyel hissed.
"Gladly."
Far across the leythium pool, Nikki was staring at them
both, head cocked to one side, his eyes wide, brows drawn.
And as they watched, Nikki knelt beside the pool, as he
had done; reached, as he had done
"Nikki, stop"' he shouted, and the words echoed back at
him, chiming in the chandeliers. And Nikki heard him.
Nikki stared right at him, then deliberately thrust his hand
into the pool.
"Nikki!" Deymorin shouted, and he dropped Mikhyel's
arm to sprint around the pool, whatever force that had kept
him from reaching Mikhyel acting now in his favor, creating
shortcuts across the tendrils.
But even from his vantage, Mikhyel could tell Nikki was
in no danger. The leythium parted, avoiding Nikki's hand,
forming a crater in the smooth surface that tracked the
rapid sweep of Nikki's fingers as he sought to scoop the
leythium into his palm.
Mikhyel's head exploded with Nikki's internal scream of
outrage and denial, and Nikki jumped to his feet and ran,
away from the pool, away from the hypogeum and his
brothers, away from hisas he perceived itultimate
rejection.
8 ~ 8
Nikki began running the moment he could squeeze past
the lift door. He didn't know where he was, and he didn't
care. He just wanted away.
As he stumbled out into the rose-and-orange light of sun-
set, his brothers' pleas rang in his head, telling him to come
back, trying to force him back to where they could gloat,
where he'd have to look at Mikhyel over and over again.
Mikhyel, whom the sweet Mother of the Ley had saved
from certain death at Boreton; Mikhyel, whose mind now
glowed with the power to hold a man helpless. Mikhyel,
coldly practical, eminently logical. Mikhyel, whom the ley
had welcomed as surely as it had rejected him.
Roads, garden paths, and open courtyards, they were all
the same. Nikki just ran until he could run no longer, then
staggered to a halt beside a fountain, eyes blinded with
sweat, heart pounding, his hands scratched from the roses
he'd blundered past. He thrust his hands into the cool, hon-
est water, liquid that ran from his cupped palm the way
nature intended. He splashed water into his face, then bur-
ied his head in the water.
Instinct alone prevented his drowning.
Instinct, and his brothers whose thoughts followed him
and chastised him now for a fool.
He pushed himself up and away from the fountain's
stone edge, swept his dripping hair back, only to realize
he'd become the center of extremely unwanted attention,
as visitors to this small public garden gathered about to see
what  crazed  person  had  just  plowed  through  the
hedgeroses.
"It's  Nikaenor  dunMheric,"  someone  whispered,  and
someone else giggled.
Nikki glared from one vulgar face to the next, encoun-
tering grins, downcast eyes and open laughter, and wished
them all to the eighteen hells above Rhomatum.
(For the love of Darius, boy, get home!}
And he knew, then, where he was and how to get to the
one place he could both escape his brothers and find a truly
sympathetic ear.
Mirym was coming down the staircase as he took the
steps two at a time. He crossed to the outside curve, ignor-
ing her, this girl he'd once thought his special friend, who
was now pregnant by his brother's seed.
But her hand caught his sleeve as he passed, and as if
through that touch he sensed her concern. For him. And
suddenly he saw himself as she must and was ashamed.
He stopped, not because he wanted to, but because he'd
been raised a gentleman, and gentlemen did stupid things
like that.
Mirym frowned, the way his brothers would when they
heard his thoughts and disapproved. Her hand dropped
from his sleeve, her fingers curved into interlocking circles,
her sign for Anheliaa, and she tilted her head in question.
"Immersed," he answered shortly.
Her puzzled frown deepened. A forefinger traced a circle
around her mouth, inappropriate though the sign now was.
"Mikhyel's fine."
Her shoulders lifted, her hands fanned outward.
"I don't know where he is. I don't know where Deymorin
is. I don't care\"
He started up the stairs, she grabbed his sleeve, firmly
this time, and he spun, sweeping his arm through the air
to free it. The back of his hand caught her face and she
staggered, falling a handful of steps before she caught the
railing and steadied herself.
{Nikkif Damn you}
That was Khyel. And Mirym's head jerked as if she, too,
had heard. Maybe she did. Maybe there were more secrets
between his brother and Anheliaa's servant than just chil-
dren. Maybe Mirym had taught Mikhyel to hold him cap-
tive as he had at dinner the night Anheliaa died. Maybe
Mirym had only pretended to be his special friend. Maybe
she'd always had her sights set on his older brother.
Maybe the two of them planned to take over the Tower.
Maybe the whole web, considering what had happened in
the hypogeum.
{Nikki!}
{Get out!) he shouted inside.
Mirym swayed and collapsed onto the stair in a not-quite
swoon. Nikki took a step down, then actually heard his
brothers shouting. Cursing them all, he raced up the stairs,
headed for the lift that would take him to the one place
they dared not follow.
ega    ~    <~>
"Mirym saidT' Deymorin repeated.
(Like this, Deymorin. Didn't you hear her on the stairs?)
Mikhyel looked at Mirym, then, and said, "Oh." And to
Deymorin again: "She says she tried, but you gave her a
headache."
"A headache?My sincere apologies. I think."
Mirym laughed, silently as always; and Mikhyel ex-
plained, "She says it's not all your fault. That damned
childish mental outburst of Nikki's almost knocked her
cold." And to Mirym, he said, "It certainly was childish.
And cruel. Especially after he'd already struck youand
no, it wasn't an accident. It was a temper tantrum."
Mirym shrugged. Mikhyel frowned. Deymorin's head
buzzed, and he cursed at Mikhyel. "Talk, will you?"
"Sorry. Sometimes I forget which I'm doing."
"Forget." He had to make a conscious effort not to speak
aloud. "How long has this been going on?"
"You mean with Mirym?"
"Unless you've started talking with lizards. Of course,
Mirym."
"Just since we got back. But it's not quite like with you
and Nikki. We have to be touching."
He shook his head. "Brother, we're going to put you
under a microscope yet. Spreading leythium all over your
face, talking inside your head . . . what next?"
"Nothing, I sincerely hope. No, Mirym." Mikhyel
turned to the young woman, who was jerking his sleeve
emphatically. "I'm fine. It didn't hurt me at all." And:
{Thanks, brother.)
"Rings, Khyel, you think that's going to remain a secret
in this house? Nikki is jealous as hell of you. He's not going
to keep quiet."
"Jealous? Of whatT'
"This is Nikki we're talking about, Khyel." And he fol-
lowed with the image of Mikhyel as he'd seen him, kneeling
beside the pool, eyes glowing like the ley itself as the liquid
caressed his cheeks. Fey. Magical. Not quite human.
The embodiment of Nikki's most cherished, poetic
dreams.
"Good . . . gods . . ." Mikhyel whispered, and Mirym
patted his hand. "You saw that?" he asked her, and for a
brief time, they sat there, side by side, hand in hand, before
she patted his again, and reached for the glass at her side.
"Mirym saidT' Deymorin repeated.
{Like this, Deymorin. Didn't you hear her on the stairs?)
Mikhyel looked at Mirym, then, and said, "Oh." And to
Deymorin again: "She says she tried, but you gave her a
headache."
"A headache?My sincere apologies. I think."
Mirym laughed, silently as always; and Mikhyel ex-
plained, "She says it's not all your fault. That damned
childish mental outburst of Nikki's almost knocked her
cold." And to Mirym, he said, "It certainly was childish.
And cruel. Especially after he'd already struck youand
no, it wasn't an accident. It was a temper tantrum."
Mirym shrugged. Mikhyel frowned. Deymorin's head
buzzed, and he cursed at Mikhyel. "Talk, will you?"
"Sorry. Sometimes I forget which I'm doing."
"Forget." He had to make a conscious effort not to speak
aloud. "How long has this been going on?"
"You mean with Mirym?"
"Unless you've started talking with lizards. Of course,
Mirym."
"Just since we got back. But it's not quite like with you
and Nikki. We have to be touching."
He shook his head. "Brother, we're going to put you
under a microscope yet. Spreading leythium all over your
face, talking inside your head . . . what next?"
"Nothing, I sincerely hope. No, Mirym." Mikhyel
turned to the young woman, who was jerking his sleeve
emphatically. "I'm fine. It didn't hurt me at all." And:
(Thanks, brother.)
"Rings, Khyel, you think that's going to remain a secret
in this house? Nikki is jealous as hell of you. He's not going
to keep quiet."
"Jealous? Of whatT'
"This is Nikki we're talking about, Khyel." And he fol-
lowed with the image of Mikhyel as he'd seen him, kneeling
beside the pool, eyes glowing like the ley itself as the liquid
caressed his cheeks. Fey. Magical. Not quite human.
The embodiment of Nikki's most cherished, poetic
dreams.
"Good . . . gods . . ." Mikhyel whispered, and Mirym
patted his hand. "You saw that?" he asked her, and for a
brief time, they sat there, side by side, hand in hand, before
she patted his again, and reached for the glass at her side.
And all Deymorin got was a buzz in his head. His
brother, whom he'd thought he was finally beginning to
understand, was growing stranger by the hour. But he
wasn't about to let him drift again, not without a fight.
"Why, Mikhyel?" he asked. "Why'd you take the risk?"
"I . . . Somehow, I think I knew there was no danger.
Or, perhaps, I just expected it to part, the way it did for
Nikki. The way it avoided our feet when we walked."
"But you're not certain."
Mikhyel shook his head. "Honestly, Deymio? I'm
ashamed to admit I had no real control over my own ac-
tions. But Nikki"
"Did it deliberately. I almost wish it had eaten a fingertip
or two. Would have served him right."
"You don't mean that."
"Don't I? I suppose not. But Nikki's still living in some
fantasy otherwhere. That he took such a risk"
"Perhaps he had no more choice than 1."
"You know better, Khyel. You saw his face. It was open
defiance of common sense."
Kirstin entered then, a footman carrying a tray of pots
and towels in her wake.
Mikhyel stood up. "Will you be all right?" he asked

Mirym, who nodded. "Then I'll say good night."

Good night? Where do you think you're going?)
My room.}
What about dinner?}
I'll eat in my room.}
What about Nikki? What should I tell him?l

Mikhyel paused at the door, turned, and said, "Not a
damn thing."
Chapter Two

". . . and then Mikhyel put his hand into the pool, and his
skin didn't melt! When he raised his hand, it looked like
he held a rainbow! And then the rainbow touched his
cheek and covered his face, and then . . . it talked to him!"
Nikki gripped Lidye's hands, squeezing until she protested
softly. He relaxed his grip and raised her hands one at a
time to kiss them. "I'm sorry, darling. My only thought
was . . . Go to Lidye. Lidye will understand."
"Understand what, sweet Nikki?"
"It talked to him, Lidye. I heard it. Felt it in his head,
and it was wonderful. And I wanted it to talk to me, but
when I put my hand in the pool"
She exclaimed softly and turned her attention to his
hands, turning them one way and another.
"It's all right. It . . . rejected me. No matter where I
reached, the ley moved. It was . . ." His voice cracked,
useless, as his mind was useless to find words to express
his humiliation and pain.
"Poor Nikki," she said softly as she touched his cheek.
"You do so want to learn, don't you?"
"Of course, I do! And the hell of it is, Mikhyel doesn't.
All Mikhyel wanted was for Deymorin to get him away.
It's . . . It's not . . ."
"Fair? No, darling, the ley is never fair. The ley
just . . . is."
He balled his hands into fists, but there was nothing to
hit.
"I fear there were times that Nethaalye would have
echoed your feelings. But Rhomatum wanted me, not her.
Therefore, I am here and she has returned home in
disgrace."
Put that way, he couldn't remain angry. It wasn't Mi-
khyel's fault he was too cowardly to appreciate the gifts
offered. But knowing couldn't take all the hurt away. He'd
been right to come here. Lidye was sympathetic, as he'd
known she'd be. And his brothers' thoughts couldn't reach
him here. Couldn't confuse his thinking.
"You, at least, are not in disgrace, Nikki. I love you. I
love the fact that you want to know."
Soft skin brushed his tight knuckles and slick, manicured
fingernails slid inside, urging them open.
"I love the fact that you risked so much to learn. Thank
the blessed ley it didn't accept your challenge."
"Challenge?"
"Some people can touch the ley and live, Nikki. That's
the way of life. Mikhyel is evidently one of those. It is a
physiological protection. Something he was born with. It
doesn't make him more or less than anyone else. When it
avoided your touch, the ley was protecting you, my darling.
It didn't want to hurt you."
Put that way, the ley's actions didn't sound at all terrible.
He smiled at her; she smiled back and raised his hand to
her cheek, which seemed to him an altogether agreeable
compensation for the ley's rejection.
"What did you mean, Nikki?"
"Mean?" he asked, watching the reflection of the rings
in her eyes.
"You said you heard the ley talk to Mikhyel. What did
you mean? What did it say?"
"It called to him. It wanted him."
Her smooth brow tightened and her eyes flashed, an
angry look that vanished in the next breath. "But Mikhyel
rejected its advances, you said?"
Nikki nodded, and Lidye smiled gently.
"Ah. There, you see? The test of a man's character is
not what Talent he's given, but how he uses it."
Which seemed, somehow, derogatory to Mikhyel, when
she said it, and Nikki looked away, escaping the flash of
silver in blue eyes. But her hands drew him back.
"How did it talk to him, Nikki? What did it sound like?"
"I heard it . . . felt it . . . in my head."
"In your head?"
He paused, thinking caution at last, but too late. Lidye
cupped his face in her soft hands and brushed his lips with
her thumb.
"It's all right, my darling. If there are secrets, you don't
have to tell me, but how can I understand? How can I help,
if I don't know all there is to know?"
Defiance filled him. His brothers still didn't trust Lidye,
because his brothers didn't bother to understand Lidye, as
they didn't bother to understand him and this great need
to be one with the ley.
"Deymorin, Mikhyel . . . I can hear them in my head,
sometimes. And they can hear me."
She nodded, a calm acceptance that rather disappointed
him. He'd thought to amaze her. She must have guessed,
because she laughed gently. "Dear Nikki, of course, I'm
not altogether surprised. I've seen what Anheliaa does . - .
did. How she invaded innocent minds and manipulated
them with pain and fear. That you and your brothers speak
to each other in this way is, it would seem to me, a kinder,
more civilized use of that ability."
Nikki thought of the night Anheliaa died, of Mikhyel's
mind, like a fist holding him immobile, and wondered if
Lidye would consider that civilized, but he was embarrassed
that he'd not been able to break that control, even to pro-
tect her honor, and so he said nothing.
"Poor Nikki," she murmured enigmatically, which made
him wonder if she could read his mind the way his brothers
did. "When did it first happen? Can you tell me that?"
Which she wouldn't have to ask if she could. "I think
the first time I felt . . . part . . - of them was on my birthday.
When Anheliaa tried to force Deymorin to accept a bride
of her choosing."
Her eyes dropped to her hands, resting now in her lap.
"The night she leythiated him away?"
"You know about that?"
"Of course. Anheliaa told me everything. She was very
frightened of your brother, and very fearful of leaving me
in his control."
"You weren't here yet."
"But she'd already seen me in the rings. She knew she
wanted me for you and she very much feared Deymorin
would make life difficult, if not dangerous, for both of us."
"That was stupid of her. Deymorin would never hurt
anyone."
The fingers of her left hand began kneading the knuckles
of the right, pulling, twisting, a gesture vaguely familiar,
but one he couldn't quite place.
"He hurt her badly that night," she said.
"Deymorin? How?"
"His defiance. "The blockade against her that the three
of you formed."
"Oh, that. Well, that was her own fault, wasn't it? If
she'd left him alone, she wouldn't have had the problem.
In fact, if she'd left him alone, none of this would have
happened."
The knuckle-kneading paused, and her blue eyes gazed
rather wistfully at him.
"None of it? Would we have been wed?"
He couldn't answer that. Not truthfully. If Deymorin had
been here, he might well have talked him out of marriage
to someone like Lidye. But apparently his silence was an-
swer enough.
"Then I can't be altogether sorry it happened, Nikki. I
wouldn't want us not to be wed."
"Even though it almost killed him?"
"It wasn't our marriage that almost killed him, Nikki.
Please don't equate those two events. It was your family's
bullheadedness pitted against itself. And even at that, it
brought Mauritum's invasion to our attention. It allowed
Anheliaa to stop that lightning machine before it reached
Rhomatum. Is that bad?"
"Yes . . . I mean, no . . . I1 suppose . . ."
"And Deymorin wouldn't have his Mauritumin mistress.
I don't think he would prefer that, do you?"
He frowned. She was twisting things around. Confusing
him.
"I'm sorry. Nikki dear. But it's important that you under-
stand. Events involving the ley happen for reasons. The ley
knows what it needs, senses dangers we cannot imagine,
and protects itself and so us from those dangers, if only we
will listen and not resent the minor prices we must pay in
the process."
Suddenly, that absentminded joint-kneading struck a
chord: Anheliaa. Not a day had gone by in the Tower that
he hadn't seen her dbing that, trying to ease the pain of
the swollen joints.
"What's wrong with your hand?"
She biinked, glanced down. "Nothing, really. Habit, I
suppose."
"Habit?"
"Picked up from Anheliaa, no doubt."
Which made no sense if nothing was wrong. He reached
for her right hand, examined the knuckles, looking for
swelling, heat, as he would in a horse's overstressed joint.
She chuckled, but made no attempt to pull away. If any-
thing, she slid her whole body closer.
"So," she said, and her warm breath caressed his neck.
"You first heard them on your birthday. And then? Did
you hear Deymorin when he was . . . in transit?"
"N-no . . ." His vision flickered, his senses fluttering from
her proximity.  The  rings'  gentle  thrum  echoed  his
heartbeat.
"When, Nikki? When did you hear him next? How often,
dearest Nikaenor?"
He closed his eyes and tipped his head slightly away,
anticipating the touch of her lips.  "Off and on. Ever
since . . ." But he didn't want to think of that, not with
those lips so close to his neck.
"Since what?"
He shrugged, the mood vanishing.
"Was it our wedding night, Nikki?"
"How did you know?" He leaned to the side to see her.
She met his eyes, close-up as they were, and her hand
brushed his hair back from his face.
"It makes sense, my darling. There was so much ley in
the air that night. And at one point . . . you seemed . . .
different."
"/ was different!" He grabbed her hand, bending it to
display the long, enameled nails, polished and sharpened,
as Anhehaa's had been. "My back still carries the scars!"
"I'm so sorry, Nikki," she said in a pained whisper, and
tears touched her eyes. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I hardly
remember that night, except for fleeting nightmare images.
And that . . . afterward . . . you were so angry."
She was shaking, inside and out. The delicate fingers
turning red within his too-tight and twisted clasp. Appalled
and ashamed, he released her, then gathered her into his
arms, murmuring apologies.
Her return hold, hesitant at first, tightened when he
failed to reject it, and with a sigh, she fit her head to his
shoulder. Beyond her pale hair, the rings seemed to beat
just a bit faster. Imagination, perhaps. Or perhaps a reflec-
tion of their delicate master's own increased heartbeat.
The most wonderful feeling he'd ever felt surged through
him, washing away any residual doubt he'd had regarding
his beautiful wife.
"What did happen that night, Nikki?" she asked.
He tightened his arms, willing those thoughts away. "I
don't remember either."
She leaned back to see his face. "You're only saying that
to make me feel better."
"I'm saying that because it doesn't matter."
"But it does. You were so . . . very . . . angry."
"I don't think I can explain."
"So show me."
"What?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing. But
Lidye smiled, stood and held out her hand.
"Let me teach you one of the great mysteries of the
rings."
Beneath him, the comfort of a cushioned chair. Behind
him, his wife, her hands on his shoulders, massaging; before
him, the rings of Rhomatum. Eighteen concentric, spinning
rings, hanging suspended in the air, the nineteenth, the Per-
situm Ring, lying inert on the patterned-tile floor. The out-
ermost ring, the Cardinal Ring and taller than Nikki
himself, spun on an axis perpendicular to the floor, pointing
straight into the heart of Rhomatum Node. The others spun
on axes only a master could align, a master who could feel
the flow of ley energy between Rhomatum and its satellite
nodes, and react to its infinitesimal shifts.
Flowing ribbonlike among the spinning rings was the
final outer element: the radical, a streamer of pure ley-
thium, that chose its path at random until the master de-
clared otherwise. It was the ultimate tool for manipulation,
and the aspect of the ringchamber least often invoked, due
to its intrinsically capricious nature.
Legend held that when the rings began spinning above a
node, the radical rose of its own accord from the depths of
the leythium chambers and began its dance. Nikki had
never seen a node capped, never watched rings spun for
the first time, so he couldn't say for certain. But without
the radical flitting among them, the rings could spin forever
and the power umbrella would never manifest.
Or so legend had it. The theory, to Nikki's knowledge,
had never been tested.
At the heart of the mechanism, a solid leythium-coated
ball spun (or vibrated, he'd never been certain which, only
that it lacked hard edges when viewed squarely).
It was on that ball Lidye told him to gaze, and as her
fingers massaged their way up his neck and to his temples,
the hazy ball disappeared, became his room, as it had been
the night of his wedding. And his voice and Jerrik's whis-
pered in the shadows, discussing the upcoming event.
Jerrik's shot: Tie her up and have someone hold a twitch
on her to keep her from kicking . . .
And his own laughter, which caused him now to blush
and turn away, but Lidye's fingers reassured him, and urged
his attention back to the sphere, where the image had
wavered.
Jerrik again: This had better go . . .
As he fingered the chain Nikki wore around his neck.
And Lidye's whispered question took him back, making
that chain the totality of the image, revealing the Rhomandi
Family crest in silver webbing over gold: Deymorin's ring,
left behind with his clothes when Anheliaa sent him spin-
ning through time and space.
"So that's what happened to it," Lidye chuckled, and he
relaxed. "Anheliaa always wondered. She never thought to
suspect you."
He'd taken it from this very room, planning to return it
to Deymorin when he finally found him. Instead . . .
On the sphere, a man's face replaced the ring. A Mauri-
tumin priest who had stolen that ring from him . . . and
then vanished in the heat of the Boreton Firestorm, taking
the ring with him.
"Our wedding, Nikki?"
And obediently, he turned his thoughts to that night, and
her room, her body, beautiful and willing beneath her sheer
nightdress. And his own utter indifference. Somehow, those
feelings came through as surely as the image, as Lidye's
feelings also permeated the air. He knew, for instance, that
she'd been dreadfully embarrassed, fearful.
And then, she'd changed, grown aggressive and insistent,
Ah, darling, it was not I . . . and the hum of the rings
had filled the room. Despite his indifference, his body had
responded, his autonomy had vanished, and he recalled . . .
Fear. And somehow, from somewhere, Mikhyel had been
there, and Mirym, and then only Mirym, and Mikhyel's
room.
And always the rings, relentlessly pushing them on.
He closed his eyes, then, not wanting to show her the
joy he'd experienced with Mirym, wanting less for her to
see the hellcat she'd become in their bed. Besides, for that,
there was no image. His body had borne the scratches, but
Mikhyel carried the memories.
"Oh, Nikki . . ." Lidye's whisper trembled, and she sank
down at his feet, clasping his hand, pressing his fingers to
her lips. "I'm so sorry . . . so very . . ."
He brushed her hair, and cupped her chin, urging her to
look up. "Not your fault, dearest. You think I don't know
that now? And it wasn't so terrible. Just not what I'd
dreamed my wedding night would be."
"And how did you see it, Nikki? In your secret dreams?"
He smiled down at her, then looked to the sphere.
Interlude

There was a presence in Mother's web. A shimmering inter-
ference of substance where none had been. Substance and
a foul stench.
Mother hissed her disapproval to her crystalline drapes
and sank beneath the ley's surface, but the stench followed
her even there.
Sucks-pond-water the scent taste suggested. The prede-
cessor himself. But he wouldn't dare. Sucks-pond-water
never left his source. Couldn't.
Or so she'd always beheved.
Mother sent a searching tendril, touchedand re-
coiled, disgusted.  Then  a fleeting, intensely focused
thought flung the dropping out, back toward its true
owner, the one responsible for its tasteless existence.
There was resistance to its return, of course, but she was
aware now, and the dropping would not, could not, re-
turn to her web.
Surprise, and yet another attempt to force the human
excrement upon her. Curiosity and rousing awareness when
she laughed and flung it back again.
The predecessor had been complaisantly respinning the
same web, over and over, as if that were all he'd been
budded for, munching contentedly on the detritus of his
humans.
Fat and lazy, that was Sucks-pond-water.
And now he discovered an unpalatable bit and tried
to fob it off onto her, thinking, perhaps, in her current
depleted state, she hadn't the strength to oppose him.
Depleted, but not for long. The ley flowed steadily
again, now Anheliaa's interference was at an end. Moth-
er's strength grew with each passing moment. Soon, very
soon now, her time would come, despite the rings spin-
ning overhead, misdirecting her energies into foolish,
wasteful tasks.
A third time the progenitor cast.
This time, Mother was waiting.
Chapter Three

(Fingers in his hair, pulling at the braid, ripping the
strands free.)
{Tell me, Mikhyel. Tell me you love me . . .}
(Fingernails tracing the line of his cheek, sharpened,
enameled fingernails pressing into his flesh, drawing blood.)
{Tell me, Mikhyel. Say it. Tell me you'll miss me when
I'm gone.}
"Say it!"
Deymorin's eyes flew open. Kiyrstin, her head heavy on
his chest, stirred, murmured a protest and shoved a fist into
his bare ribs.
There was no sound, no one in his moonlit suite but
Kiyrstin and himself.
Dreamnightmare, more likeand coming from his
middle brother, though Mikhyel seemed quiet enough now.
Which only meant Mikhyel was awake.
Deymorin frowned into the dark and closed his eyes,
forcing his startled body to relax. And behind his eyelids,
in the corner of his bedroom, glowing with an internal
light...
"Anheliaa . . ." His voice was a tight whisper.
Or Mikhyel's voice.
Not his room: Mikhyel's. And Mikhyel's hoarse voice
repeated the name, and Mikhyel struggled to escape the
bed's grip, fell out the far side, legs completely entangled
in sheets and blankets.
"JD?" Kiyrstin whispered, or perhaps shouted; he could
no longer swear to what was in his head and what in his
room. "Deymorin!"
He was thrashing, fighting the covers. Or Mikhyel was,
in that suite down the hall.
"Dammit, JD, wake up'."
And then he was clinging to Kiyrstin, and her hands were
clamped on his arms, shaking him back to sanity.
Laughter filled his air, shrill and familiar. HeMikhyel
cowered, there in the shadow of his bed, covering his ears
against sounds that penetrated his pores.
Listening with hisMikhyel'sfingertips.
"Rings," he whispered aloud, and pushing free of Kiyr-
stin, flung the sheets back, and bolted into the hall, headed
for Mikhyel's room, prepared to break the door down if
the fool had locked it.
Raulind was already there. With a key. The valet threw
open the door, shouting for Mikhyel. A purple glow ema-
nated from within the room, bathing the hall in eerie light
that faded even as Deymorin cleared the doorway.
On the far side of the room, half on, half off the bed,
his black hair a spiderweb tangle about his head and shoul-
ders, was Mikhyel.
"Damn you, Anheliaa," he hissed, seemingly oblivious
to Deymorin's presence, and he slipped down to his knees,
dragging his hands across sheets that pulled loose, following
his descent. His head fell forward into his crossed arms and
the cushioning mattress. "Couldn't you at least die like a
normal human being?"
9    8    "gt
The mountain air tingled with unleashed energy.
{Mother!) Thyerri cried out, caught in half-asleep stupid-
ity, and his arms tangled in his blankets as he reached for
that which was no longer his.
He started awake, in time to keep from shouting aloud.
{Mother?} he called again, knowing there would be no
answer, for all the air around him said life had returned
to Khoratum.
Thyerri buried his head in his arm, shivering. Around
him, his fellow employees slept quietly, oblivious to the fact
that the world was changing.
The air had been quiet for three days. Three storm-free
days in a row. And the lights had held steady in the Tower
and beyond. And tonight . . .
Thyerri biinked. The hand he rested on . . . the entire
arm . . . glowed with faint green light.
"Mother?" he whispered, aloud this time, but there was
no response, and the glow neither scintillated nor eva-
nesced. He knew then, it wasn't Mother, but only the
mountain, calling to whomever could hear.
Needing freedom, needing moonlight and cleansing
breezes, he slid free of his pallet and covers, stepped over
sleeping bodies and crawled out the window to the alley.
There were ways out of the old village, passages through
the stone that were older than the city wall, passages
Rhyys' City Guard didn't know about. Thyerri's feet fol-
lowed one such without benefit of thought, and when next
he came to his senses, the mountain was beneath his feet,
and moonshadowed forest surrounded him.
He came to the lake and threw himself in, diving deep,
feeling the energy tingling through him, dissipating at last
into the icy glacier-melt water. And at the edges of his
senses, there was a presence that called to him.
(Mother!} he shouted again, begging for an answer, seek-
ing asylum from the wild ebb and flow of energy.
Still, there was nothing, though his mind began to spin
for lack of air.
Lungs straining, he pulled at last for the surface. He
broke free, gasping, and trod water. Water that glistened
green in the silver moonlight. Glowing with energy, as Thy-
erri himself glowed.
As someone on the shore of the lake glowed.
Someone who was watching him.
The energy ebbed at last, flowed from the air and himself
and the lake . . . and that statue-still figure on the shore.
And as the last of the glow faded, the moon hid behind a
cloud, leaving them all in darkness.
When the moon returned, the figure was gone.
~    ~    <gt
"He claims it was just a nightmare." Deymorin cast his
robe over a chair and slid under the covers Kiyrstin lifted
in welcome. "He says it was brought on by his falling asleep
with his . . . hair braided." But the shudder that rippled
through him revealed more to her than his skeptical words.
"But you don't think so," she said, wrapping her arms
around him comfortably.
His broad chest heaved in a sigh. "It makes just enough
sense with what I saw in his head when ..."
Another shiver passed through him and Kiyrstin bugged
tighter. His cheek rubbed across her head.
"What was in his mind was no nightmare, Kiyrsti. And
dammit, I saw that purple light."
"Could it" She bit her lip, the thought too bizarre to
contemplate. "Still, this is Anheliaa we're talking about,
JD. Could it actually be her?"
"Anheliaa? I suppose we have to face that possibility.
But . . . there is the leymother."
Mother. The Tamshi, or so she'd claimed to be, who had
taken the form of a man six hours dead to warn Deymorin
of danger.
"You think she's here to warn him of something?"
"Warn? Possibly. But what if it was Mikhyel she wanted
all along? What if she wasn't warning us, but sending me
to where Nikki was. To get Mikhyel there?"
"She waited long enough to show, if that's the case. He
almost died, Deymorin. He wouldn't have been much use
to her then, would he?"
He shrugged. "I suppose it depends on what she wanted
to do with him."
"You think she might have a special interest in him?"
"I think the ley has. I'm beginning to wonder if there's
much difference."
"The ley."
"I don't know if I can explain. In the old stories, the
Tamshi and the ley are always interlinked. The way she
changed shape, the way she disappeared, it could all be the
same thing. All I know is, she appeared out of nowhere
and healed Mikhyel. She had no interest in Nikki, none in
me. Yesterday, down in the hypogeum . . . Shepherdess, it
was" Another shiver. "There was no sense in Mikhyel's
face. No thought. He just reached blindly and buried his
hand in the leythium. And I couldn't get to him, couldn't
stop him. It was as if every muscle was frozen. There are
powers at work that I don't like in the least."
"He's all right now, though?"
"Five stiff drinks later? I suppose. If he forgives me in
the morning."
She traced patterns on his chest with her fingertip.
"Why Anheliaa?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Why would Mother take the form of Anheliaa?"
"To terrify him? Because it was convenient? Hell, I don't
know." Deymorin's voice was shaking. A long pause, then,
"I thought I knew the whole of it."
"Of what?"
"Mikhyel. Mheric. But this . . . rings. Shepherdess, what
was in his mind . . . I can't begin to imagine what she did
to him over the years. How he stayed sane . . . And I left
him here. First, I deserted him to Mheric, then I deserted
him to"
He cursed, and rolled away, driving a fist into a well-
stuffed pillow. Once. Twice. And again, harder and harder
until feathers poofed out.
Kiyrstin, deciding he'd wallowed loog enough, placed a
firm hand on his broad shoulder. The pounding stopped.
"Done is done, my friend. Mikhyel doesn't blame you."
"He damnwell should!"
"Maybe. But he doesn't. I can't see where you have the
right to blame yourself."
He rolled back, bugged her in harsh desperation.
"I hated her, Kiyrsti," he whispered. "I hated her, and I
wanted her dead, more often than I can remember. And
that was just for her obstinate ego. If I'd known what she
was doing to Khyel, I would have killed her, and damn the
rings. I almost wish that had been her in his room. I wish
I could face her down, on whatever battlefield she chose
and make her suffer the way she's made him suffer."
"You want to rend a purple ghost into bits of ectoplasmic
goo? Rain leythium thunderbolts down upon her insubstan-
tial head?"
That gained her a reluctant laugh.
"Rings, you sound like Nikki," he said.
"So do you."
"Darius save me."
"Darius is hardly in a position to save anyone."
"Who better to take care of a ghost than another ghost?"
"I'd say, forget about ghosts and take care of yourself."
She stroked his arm, then smoothed his chest and stomach.
"On the other hand, if it is Mother . . ."
"I'm going to have to tell Mikhyel the truth, Kiyrstin,
and damn the consequences. He's got a right to know. Not
that he'll believe me, of course, but"
"After all that's happened? After the hypogeum? I think
you underestimate him, Deymorin."
"I hope you're right."
She let her hand drift lower and shifted toward him.
"Trust me," she said, and set her lips to his.
Chapter Four

Morning sunlight danced in the fountain, sparked colors
from dew-touched rose petals.
Four clear days in a row. Four mornings since Anhel-
iaa's death.
Twenty-one before his scheduled departure on a tour
that had suddenly acquired more intimate overtones.
Mikhyel walked a familiar route among the roses, out,
as had become his habit over the years, before the gardener
made his morning rounds. His mind was clearer this morn-
ing that it had any right to be, considering the liquor Dey-
morin had poured down his throat. Possibly it was the tea
Raulind had pressed upon him at the last.
And perhaps his head wasn't clear or painfree, but sim-
ply numb.
Kharishia's Pride was in full bloom. He paused beside
the rose, one of his favorites, to drink in the fresh berry-
touched scent. Lavender, shaded to turquoise, with a blush
of unnameable color that made it glow. The variety only
grew here, at the heart of Rhomatum. Other nodes had
tried to import it without success.
Even its growth pattern was different than other roses,
sending out runners that sprouted upward.
The origin of the name had been lost to antiquity . . .
until Lidye. According to Nikki's strangely knowledgeable
wife, Kharishia was the name of Darius' mysterious last
wife.
His ancestor.
A suspicious cast to a leaf caught his eye. He knelt down,
turned it . . . aphids. He peeled the leaf away from the
stem, caught a tiny black eye watching him from the shad-
ows beneath a neighboring bush, and set the leaf down in
those shadows.
The instant his hand drew away, the tiny flash-lizard
eased out of the shadows and began devouring the aphids,
a tiny tongue-flick at a time.
Mikhyel rested his elbow on his knee and rubbed a hand
across his eyes. He wondered, sometimes, if he would ever
sleep properly again. His brain seemed to have forgotten
how to shut the world out and relax. It had been difficult
enough, upon their return to the City, catching up on what
amounted to two months' work. Now, with the plans for
his upcoming trip, the notes he was accumulating for Nikki
while he was gone, arranging for the children . . .
The lizard flitted away. Mikhyel pushed himself to his
feet and continued on his path.
Children. Family. It was a problem he'd never envisioned
attached to his own duties and obligations. Nikki's duties,
perhaps. Deymorin's, certainly. Deymorin had always loved
children, and Deymorin and women were so paired in his
own mind that children and family were simply a logical
by-product.
He scraped his foot across the path, smoothing the fine,
white gravel, wondering idly what gardener's tool had left
the small trench.
Himself . . . He stopped beside the fountain, propped
one leg on the marble ledge and trailed his fingers in the
clear chill. Mheric's legacy had been too strong. He hadn't
ever really wanted a wife, let alone children.
Nikki had been his child, placed newborn in his nine-
year-old arms by their dying mother. And he'd gotten Nikki
to manhood, somehow, and by that act assumed his duty
to the family web accomplished.
The Rhomandi had never been a prolific family; to have
three sons of breeding age at one time was unprecedented.
Now, if Lidye were to be believed . . .
He raised a handful of the chill water to cheeks suddenly
over-warm, feeling foolish. Blushing, at his age and in the
presence of only the long-finned pond fish.
If Lidye had spoken the truth four nights ago, Mirym
carried his child. Certainly, it was possible. His body and
Mirym's had had as much intimate contact as Nikki's and
Lidye's, but why hadn't Mirym said something? There'd
been time, surely, during those shared afternoons in Anhe-
liaa's ringchamber. They'd have had the ultimate privacy
of their own thoughts, with only a surreptitious touch of
their hands.
He had no reason to believe she felt any particular af-
fection for him; he knew he had none for her, had, in fact,
reason still to suspect her deepest motives. But he would
have thought they were at least adult enough to broach a
topic that so intimately involved them both.
He brushed the damp down his face; stubbed skin rasped
beneath his touch. He should have shaved, but he hadn't
had the heart to rouse Raulind after last night's
He dropped his hand, staring at fingertips that looked
perfectly normal, then explored his chin and lip more
carefully.
Pluck them! Destroy them all!
Anheliaa's voice echoed in memory's ear. Anheliaa had
hated his growing up, had attacked the hair that marked
his puberty, endeavoring to stave off the inevitable, to keep
him a child as long as possible. He remembered standing,
bare of clothing, skin still tingling from the scrubbing
sponge, for Anheliaa's inspection.
Every night.
And nightly, as he grew older, Anheliaa's personal maid
would pluck his body free of hair.
Nothing Mheric had ever done had been half so
irrational.
Anheliaa had had no husband, no lover, to his knowl-
edge, in all her long life. She'd been an embittered, crippled
woman. She'd always wished Mheric had had a daughter,
she'd made no secret of that, had frequently cursed him
for his ill-considered gender. And after Anheliaa and her
rings flung him to the Boreton Turnout, the only hair left
on his body had been the hair she'd allowed him to keep
as a child, that on his head, his eyebrows and his eyelashes.
And now, she was dead and his beard returned.
Coincidence?
Somehow, he doubted it.
So many questions still, regarding that time following the
battle of Boreton. Questions he believed his brothers could
answer, if they would, but Deymorin just laughed and said
he'd best forget about it, and Nikki glowered and said noth-
ing, but Nikki's mind was a confusion of images of old hags
and reptiles, and a cloud of shaded hair framing impossibly
beautiful, glowing eyes.
A gust of cool air whipped fountain mist across his face.
He shivered.
The sound of heavy skirts displacing gravel swished
above the music of the fountain. He glanced up and inter-
cepted Mirym's doe-eyed gaze. She was alone.
He sought words, commonplace pleasantries, but what
came out was, "Is it true, Mirym? Are you carrying my
child?"
Her smile was tender but secretive. She pressed her
hands to her stomach, than crossed them on her bosom and
rocked gently. Touched his arm and shrugged.
"You're pregnant, just not certain it's mine?"
She nodded.
"You've been with so many men recently," he chided
gently.
She looked generally skyward, her head tilting to one
side and the other as she ticked off fingers. When, having
used up both hands, she began a second round, he acknowl-
edged defeat. Chuckling in spite of the gravity of the situa-
tion, he grasped her hands to stop her.
(Truth, madam. Am I the father?} He thought the words
as clearly and forcefully as possible, afraid she wouldn't
hear, this far from the ringchamber.
She jumped and pulled her hands away, eyes wide with
pain and indignation.
"Forgive me," he said, and reached again, this time to
lay his hand lightly on hers, repeating his question, but with
rather more civilized intensity.
Her  answer  was  just  vague  acknowledgment  of
probability . . . and a reminder that Kiyrstin was also
breeding.
"Rings," he whispered, and stood up, feeling a need to
move. Three men, three women . . .
{And an old woman's obsessive desire for offspring.} Mir-
ym's thought pursued him, acknowledging his line of
thought, and Mirym herself was beside him, hand on his.
"Lidye was so certain, that very night . . ." he said.
{As was 1.}
Which assurance defied all he understood about such
things.
"I thought it took months to know"
(I knew.} Mirym's insistence left no room for skepticism.
(That night, I felt it quicken within me.}
"Was it Anheliaa? Was it all her doing?"
{Anheliaa was very powerful in her desire. I suspect, yes.
But perhaps it was simply meant to be.}
"I can't believe in coincidence that great."
{Did I say coincidence? The ley was involved, Mikhyel
dunMheric.}
"Leythium is a substance, Mirym. To deny coincidence
implies  motivation.  Motivation  implies  self-awareness.
Cognizance."
{I said the ley, not leythium. There is a difference, as you
well know, Mikhyel, son of Mheric, descendant of Darius.}
"The ley is leythium. Crystal that glows and heats within
the sphere of its parent node. Liquid that ingests animal
flesh and waste and anything else that was once living. It
requires the human mind and human-cast rings to direct it
to do anything more."
{And was it nothing but light and heat that you experi-
enced in the cavern of spirits? Was it light and heat that
visited your room last night?}
This time, it was he who retreated from that revelatory
touch. "Who are you? Why How do you know all this?"
She reached, he pulled away; she frowned and held her
hand out insistently. Conceding to necessity, he veiled all
thought of the cavern and placed his palm with hers.
{I amwasAnheliaa's servant for two years, Mikhyel.
She taught, she tested, oh so many women, but she never
asked me.  I listened  and I learned. I felt,  and I
extrapolated.}
And this silent young woman had shunted power to
Barsitum . . . and held the rings steady when Persitum fell
and Anheliaa died.
{I will aid; I will not be Rhomatum's ringmaster.}
Perhaps she'd plucked that thought from his mind before
he was aware his thoughts were headed in that direction.
"I wasn't going to ask that. Would never, but . . ." His
choices seemed suddenly confused. She carried his child.
He didn't, morally or legally, have to acknowledge it or
assume responsibility for it, such was the advantage of his
position. But he could no more leave her on her own than
he could his own sister, had he one.
"Mirym, do you want me to marry you? I will, immedi-
ately and without reservations, if that's what you wish. The
contract with Nethaalye's parents would have to be renego-
tiated, but she'd understand, and we might have to delay
long enough . . . I don't believe she'd agree to being second,
which is only fair, but . .."
Laughter, clear and golden in his head. Her hands
clasped his this time, and her lips brushed his knuckles.
{Hush, before you explode your poor brain. My dear
Mikhyel, thank you, no. I treasure my independence. But
if I were you. I'd be careful, cautious about mending your
way with Nethaalye. She deserves her own happiness.}
Which insight he didn't need her to explain. He knew he
was not the stuff of which a woman dreamed.
He'd never concerned himself about that before, had
never cared whether a woman desired him or not. Desire
had not been part of his life. Those erotic sensations Dey-
morin and Nikki sought so eagerly had held only distasteful
connotations for him.
Now, for the first time, he thought he might wish that
were not the case.
Mirym's eyes crinkled with amusement, picking up his
thoughts, or at least traces of them. He smiled back,
brushed fine, curling strands back from her face, feeling an
urge that, when examined, seemed all his own. A lovely
feeling. A temptation he didn't recall having felt before.
He searched that inclination for any trace of his brothers.
It seemed important, somehow, that it be his own. He'd
been Deymorin's proxy in the Council chambers, Nikki's
proxy in bed, he'd acceded to Mheric's demands as a child,
to Anheliaa's in his adolescence and to Ganfrion in the
Crypt.
Just this once, he wanted this simple, uncomplicated
human urge to be his alone.
But there was nothing of his brothers surrounding the
urge, only himself and his affection for this strange young
woman. Sensing only mutual interest through their clasped
hands, he leaned forward, seeking her lips
"Damn you, Mikhyel dunMheric!"
A hand grasped his shoulder and jerked him around.
Nikki.
"What's your problem now?" he asked, not the least in-
clined after last night to tolerate Nikki's histrionics.
"Haven't you done enough?" Nikki asked, and his con-
fused emotions flared through Mikhyel. He'd come here
(embarrassment} to apologize to Mikhyel for yesterday,
only to find his {shock} austere brother pawing Mirym, who
{betrayal} had been his special friend, and {jealousy} she'd
been kissing him back. And a final, unconfused montage of
{disappointment} and {anger} and {lust}.
"Go away, Nikki, and duck your head in the fountain."
He reached for Mirym's hand.
"Can't keep your lecherous hands off her, can you?"
Nikki hissed, and an impact to Mikhyel's shoulder sent him
staggering away from Mirym. He came up hard against a
stone wall and pushed himself away, only to be slammed
back.
His head snapped backward, struck hard, and his vision
faded. He biinked his eyes, clearing them to Mheric's fury.
Nikki! his mind screamed insistently. But a deeper por-
tion, a portion forged so early it saw beyond the blond hair
and blue eyes that said mother to the black essence below,
that said Mheric.
Nikki screamed something unintelligible, and struck him,
a backhanded blow that blacked out his vision a second
time. He flailed blindly, seeking a handhold to keep up-
right, lost it when a battering ram in his gut doubled him
over and turned his legs to water.
His fingers slid down that unseen brother, his knees shot
with pain as they struck the ground.
Images flooded his mind of Ganfrion and the prison
his own thoughts or Nikki'sand his hands curled into un-
familiar shapes. Fists. He wasn't a child any longer. It
wasn't Mheric. He could fight back.
Another portion of his mind screamed this was Nikki\
and still another recalled Nikki's birthday and Nikki
sprawled unconscious on the floor, victim of his brother's
hand. His hand.
And a vow he'd made that day. A vow that he would
not end like Mheric.
And another portion stated coldly, as the blows landed
and he raised his arms to protect his face, that he had not.
~ 8 8
"Nikki wants to see him," Deymorin said softly to Kiyrs-
tin, trying not to disturb Mikhyel, who was sleeping at last.
"Tell him to go to hell," was Kiyrstin's answer, and while
she was probably right, it was not precisely the answer to
set Nikki's mindon the far side of Mikhyel's bedroom
doorat rest.
"He was upset, Kiyrstin," Deymorin said in reluctant
support of that remote plea for understanding.  "He
didn't"
"Think? I rest my case."
"You're too hard on him, Kiyrsti," Mikhyel whispered,
and Deymorin stifled a curse.
"I thought you were asleep," he said, and crossed the
room to sit next to the bed.
"I was." Mikhyel pushed himself upright. He rubbed his
jaw and winced.
"Rings, Khyel, I'm sorry. How's Nikki's jaw feel?"
"Like hell, thanks. Are you sure you didn't break it?"
"No, more's the pity." Deymorin's fists clenched again
at the memory of Nikki's black anger flooding his mind, of
Nikki himself standing over Mikhyel's senseless body. And
then, it hadn't been Nikki, but Mheric, and for once he'd
been there to stop his father's brutality. "I've never been
so mad."
"Caught up in the past, Deymorin. We all were." Mi-
khyel sighed and rubbed his jaw again. A jaw darkening
with stubble for the first time in a month. A face amazingly
untouched, though Mikhyel had, according to the physician,
at least one cracked rib.
"Let it go, Mikhyel. You do him no favor."
Mikhyel's thin throat worked in a hard swallow. "I can't
stop it, Deymorin. I've tried, but he wants so badly to for-
get. For everything to be back . . . the way it used to be."
Kiyrstin muttered something under her breath, the gist
of which they could both imagine.
"He doesn't realize what he's doing," Mikhyel said.
"He just wants to be the center of everyone's attention,"
Kiyrstin snapped, and Deymorin didn't argue. It needed to
be verbally acknowledged, which neither he nor Mikhyel
seemed able to do. "In the past week, Mikhyel has been
currying him to take Mikhyel's place here in Rhomatum, a
position he looks upon as necessary but overall rather bor-
ing. Now, the ley itself speaks to Mikhyel? Calls Mikhyel
to it? Mikhyel, the barrister? What could be more romantic,
and who less deserving of the honor?"
Deymorin stifled an objection; Mikhyel's brow was fur-
rowed in concentration and his presence beneath was im-
penetrable stone.
"Nikki's spoiled," Kiyrstin continued, obviously devel-
oping a theme held too long in reserve. "He's spoiled and
his head is full of clouds. He needs a thump now and again
to get his attention."
"I've 'thumped' him more than anyone deserves," Mi-
khyel said, and Deymorin nearly choked on the self-con-
demnation that flowed to him from Mikhyel.
"And always turned about and apologized and said how
sorry and wrong you were, I'll wager."
"'Well, yes, of course I did. I"
"Did you ever just thump him because he'd been an ass,
and tell him to straighten up or you'd thump him again?"
"No!" Mikhyel's voice was strengthening with each pass
Kiyrstin made at him. "I'd never do that!"
Kiyrstin gave an exaggerated harrumph. "I rest my
case. Councillor."
She cupped Mikhyel's face in both hands and kissed
him lightly.
"You're his brother, Khyel, not his father. You've done
your best. Nikki knows that, but he's using your own guilt
against you now, whether he means to or not. He's feeling
sorry for himself and he's dragging you both into his mid-
den heap with him. He lives in a real world of high stakes
risk and wants to solve its problems with Tamshi tales."
"Not his fault," Mikhyel said slowly, and his hand
clasped Kiyrstin's, as if he was using her to keep his
thoughts focused. "When Mheric would . . . When we were
in the closet, I'd distract him, keep him quiet with promises
of the Tamshi. We'd accredit every noise to a Tamshi in
hiding."
"That's fine, for a child. And many children will seek
magical answers. Adults know the answers lie in them-
selves. That transition from one way of thinking to the
other comes harder in some. You may have thumped Nikki
a few timesmaybe even harder than you meant. And I
wouldn't say you were right or wrong to do that. Can't. I
wasn't there, now was I? But I see the result, and Nikki is
far from cowed."
"I struck him in anger, Kiyrstin. Always in anger, always
too hard."
"Maybe. And maybe not. How would you know? You
didn't have much of an example, now did you?"
"Perhaps Mheric's father's example was worse even than
the example he supplied us," Mikhyel answered, his tone
gaining a healthy touch of humor. "By your reckoning,
would that not absolve Mheric's actions?"
"Absolve?" Kiyrstin repeated, and seemed to turn that
over in her own mind. "No, I don't think so. I don't absolve
anyone's actions, Khyel. I just don't lump all situations into
one category."
"Ah, but you're the woman who tried to kill her husband
with a manicure knife. You would think all guilt is circum-
stantially unique."
"I would. And I do. Besides, it was Deymorin who
thumped him, not you."
"This time."
"Details. The important thing is, Nikki didn't run off this
morning because he'd been physically hurt, as you'd realize,
if you weren't so involved. He'd been a fool and a brute,
and he didn't want to face that fact in company. Nothing
unusual in that. I didn't know Mheric, but I do know his
sons, one of whom is the most self-confident ragman I've
ever met, one of whom carries the weight of the world on
his shoulders, and one of whom, raised by the other two,
is a self-important seventeen-year-old, not all that different
from other spoiled seventeen-year-olds I've known. That's
all I really know about Mheric's skills as a father."
"Not much to go on, is it?"
"It's everything." Her look sobered. "The point I'm try-
ing to make, Khyel, is that there comes a time when it's
not the father, not the brother, but the basic substance of
the individual. You want to feel sorry for someone, ask
Zandy sometime about his father and masters. You don't
catch him sniveling about his treatment. He wouldn't know
how. Wouldn't think of it."
"Z-Zandy?" Mikhyel's voice stumbled and panic re-
turned to that other sense.
"You remember Zandy, Mikhyel," Deymorin said, stem-
ming his own rising alarm. "The boy Kiyrstin brought with
her from Mauritum? We left him at Armayel with his
static potentiator."
Mikhyel relaxed, and his smile was warm, easy. "And
the puppy."
"Rings," Deymorin laughed weakly. "And the puppy."
But he wasn't feeling like laughing. He'd thought they
were beyond this. Since their return to Rhomatum, Mikhyel
had done all they could ask and more. But since Anhehaa's
deathmore, since the funeral yesterday, he'd seemed to
be coming apart again.
According to Mirym's indignant written account, Mikhyel
had made no move to defend himself against Nikki's attack,
apparently convinced, from the impressions that even now
leaked through to Deymorin, that Nikki's anger was utterly
justified, though Mirym claimed otherwise.
The arrogance, the self-confidence and conviction that
had bolstered Mikhyel dunMheric's actions for years had
been shattered at the time he most needed it. He required
a keeper here, in his own home; how in the name of Darius
was he going to survive seventeen potentially hostile node
cities on his own in what was now a crisis, not an agenda?
They needed him to remember everything, Zandy, the
potentiator, Anheliaa's actions . . . everything that had
happened in the recent past. The web was counting on
the keen-witted negotiator, the lawyer, the politician, not
a feeble-minded
"Keep your concerns to yourself, Rhomandi," Mikhyel
muttered bitterly. "I'm here. I'll be here when the time
comes. I wouldn't have agreed to the tour if I wasn't certain
I could do it."
"I know that. Sorry. It seems Nikki's not the only one
casting unwarranted thoughts about."
"Thoughts? Was that all? I could have sworn . . ." Mi-
khyel rubbed a shaking hand across his forehead. "It's get-
ting worse, Deymio. Sometimes, I can hear you more
clearly than when you speak. Sometimes, it's as if words
only..."
"Confuse the meaning?" Deymorin finished for him. "I
know what you mean. I suppose we'll become accustomed
to it."
"Or, please the nonexistent gods, the link will wither and
fade away entirely."
"Not very likely, considering."
"No? My beard's coming back."
Stated as if the two facts were connected. And perhaps,
to Mikhyel, they were joined in some strange way. And if
Mikhyel truly ceased to believe in it, might the link vanish?
The possibility startled and disturbed Deymorin. The un-
natural communication seemed in some ways the most nat-
ural aspect of his existence now. To have it disappear would
leave an emptiness inside him nothing could ever possibly
fill.
Of course, he didn't have to contend with the ramifica-
tions that unquestionably plagued Mikhyel.
"Do you really wish for that?" he asked finally, simulta-
neously reaching for that internal reassurance, but he
couldn't claim surprise when Mikhyel refused to answer in
either form.
However, since the ability to change history did not lie
within his newly-discovered talents, he took Mikhyel's
other hand in his own, deliberately seeking Nikki's aching
jaw, deliberately absorbing every bruise Nikki had given
Mikhyel, blindly attempting what Mikhyel seemed to
achieve without conscious thought.
His reward was a bodyful of annoying achesand a
brother who gave a deep sigh and relaxed, possibly for the
first time since they'd brought him here that morning. And
up Deymorin's arm, along with that stream of physical sen-
sation, came a hint of gratitude: acknowledgment (via that
very means Mikhyel wished eliminated) of Deymorin's
good intentions.
(No sense wasting a useful tool,} came Mikhyel's wry
answer, before his wearied mind faded into silence.
Chapter Five

{Hello, Mikhyel.}
Anheliaa. Again.
"Go away." Mikhyel moaned and rolled over, ignoring
the purple glow illuminating the armchair in the corner of
his room.
{Oh, stop it. Rings, such a baby. Whimper, whimper,
whimper. I never saw so many tears.}
"Liar," he whispered, and discovered his voice hoarse
and ragged. "You never made me cry. Never!"
A purple chuckle. {True enough. So, boy, when are you
going to come see me?}
"Never. You're a figment of my imagination. An ugly,
noxious irritation of repulsive memories. Go away!"
{A figment?} Prick of sharp nails across his neck. {Are
you so certain of that?}
He refused to listen, refused to react as those enameled
daggers traced his cheek.
{Rings, the damned brush is back.} A sharp tiny pain.
And another. {Pluck it out, boy. Get rid of it!)
He squeezed his eyes shut, ignored the momentary
sparks of pain, knowing imagination for an immensely pow-
erful disseminator of lies, fully capable of supplying both
voice and sensation. And for a moment, as the prickling
pain ended abruptly, he believed he'd won.
But those sharp nails returned, trickled over his shoul-
ders and down his chest, insinuating themselves into his
nightshirt, raking patternsringsthat dripped, warm and
damp, along his ribs.
He cursed at the memory, and wrapped his arms around
a pillow, pressing it to his chest. But the sensation pursued
him, as surely as if the pillow weren't there. And a massive
weight depressed the mattress behind him, rolling him
backward into a waiting, smothering embrace.
His mind screamed denial: memory held nothing of this.
Anheliaa had never invaded his bed, couldn't, were she still
alive, have walked even that short distance between the
armchair and his bed without help.
{Perhaps, child, that inability was all that prevented me.
Who knows?)
{Go away!} he shouted within his head. {Go back to the
sewers where you belong!}
{Unkind, sweet Mikhyel. Besides} A smell of indigna-
tion, a color of pique. {Besides, he doesn't want me either.
He wants you. For which, one can hardly blame him, can
one, sweet, tender, tasty Mikhyel?}
He? Who did she mean: he?
{You were my downfall, pretty Mikhyel. You and your
brothers. I knew you were different. I did my best to keep
you apart. But you're the one the ley wants, not the others.
Did you know that?)
{Goaway!} Mikhyel buried his head in the pillow.
{Perhaps sending you through . . .} The voice in his head
took on a taste of speculation. And all the while, the nails
traced bleeding patterns . . . {Perhaps that intimate contact
with the ley triggered some latent ability. You have the
power, child. You lack the drive. You could be the greatest
of all time. . . with my help. Let me in, child. Pretty Mikhyel.
Sweet, sweet, Mikhyel . . .}
Mikhyel forced his eyes open to a faint purple glow ema-
nating from his chest, forced himself to admit this was not
just an overactive imagination. He pressed his elbow deep
into the mattress, struggling to turn over.
Laughter, shrill and mocking filled his head; fingernails
held him steady by the simple expedient of digging straight
into his skin.
"Damn you!" he shouted aloud and struck backward,
encountering nothing but purple mist.
And there was banging at his door. And voices, shouting.
He screamed back and fought the all-too-substantial hold.
The door burst open.
The mass behind him vanished.
He tumbled backward, slipping half out of bed, the blan-
kets tangling about his legs. He was hanging headfirst when
steel-banded fingers clasped his shoulders and hauled him
upright.
8 8 d
Mikhyel was covered in sweat and streaked with blood,
but from the volume of his curses, and the strength with
which he sought to free himself, he wasn't seriously injured.
In fact, Deymorin, with his head still ringing from the
power (reeking of Mikhyel's anger and Mikhyel's denial)
that had flooded his sleeping mind, found himself struggling
just to contain his markedly smaller brother's flailing arms.
To avoid servant-generated gossip, he ordered every-
one save Raulind from the room. Once they were alone,
Deymorin lifted Mikhyel bodily into the air, while Raulind
worked his thrashing legs free of the blankets. When words
and mind proved equally unable to penetrate whatever
madness surrounded Mikhyel, they simply man-handled
him into the bathing room, and flung him into the pool,
tattered, bloodstained nightshirt and all.
He burst free in a spray of water, striking blows at invisi-
ble opponents, sputtering curses that rose into a single, furi-
ous scream of denial. The words were incoherent, but his
mind writhed in black hatred, emotions that nearly blinded
Deymorin in their intensity.
Finally, Mikhyel's energy faded, his arms stilled and he
sank into the water, limp as a child's rag doll. The current
of the cycling water drew his hair in a black stream toward
the outlet, seemingly determined to pull Mikhyel's entire
body with it.
Deymorin was about to go in after him when the cords
in Mikhyel's neck strained and dragged his head clear of
the water. "Get out\" he shouted, and with an angry sweep
of his arm that staggered him, sent a spray of water over
the bath's tile floor.
Deymorin stepped back, out of range, but no farther, and
between one heartbeat and the next, the madness faded
from Mikhyel's eyes. His body drooped, as if that sustaining
anger had flowed out the drain, and he swayed to the side
of the pool, catching himself on the tiled edge, and buried
his face in his crossed arms, still cursing softly.
Scratches marked the bony arms cradling Mikhyel's dark
head. Deep gouges that matched bloody marks on Mikhy-
el's chest and throat.
Fresh wounds.
And a man had to wonder, whose future had been en-
trusted to those bony arms, whether those wounds were
self-inflicted, and if not, then who had put them there, and
to where he, or she, or it, had disappeared.
"I'm leaving, Deymio," came a low, bitter murmur.
"Of course you are. Next month"
"Not soon enough. Tomorrow . . . the day after . . . as
fast as I can make the arrangements."
"Why the sudden hurry?"
"You're driving me insane."
"I'm driving you insane? What have / done?"
"You. Nikki . . . Anheliaa. What's the difference?"
"More dreams, brother?" Deymorin asked, refusing to
take offense.
Silence, then: "Leave us, Raulind." It was a cold order
from the midst of Mikhyel's arms. Raulind hesitated, and,
again from that arm pillow, softly, "Please."
With a look that reluctantly entrusted Mikhyel to Dey-
morin's care, Raulind left. At the sound of the outer bed-
room door closing, Mikhyel's eyes gleamed up at him
through a veil of dripping black hair. "She is dead, Dey-
morin. Tell me that much is true."
He said nothing.
"Tell me!"
Deymorin squatted on the edge beside Mikhyel. "Per-
haps there's dead and - . . dead. This is Anheliaa we're
speaking of."
Mikhyel sighed, heaved upward, and raised his hands to
dig his palms into his eyes. He was shaking. Above the
water line his flesh pebbled with chill or shock or both.
Deymorin rose to fetch a bathsheet from the cupboard,
biinked his eyes against the warm, dry air that blasted him
from the cabinet, and returned to stand at the top of the
steps, cradling the towel against his chest to retain its heat.
"Come, brother. Out with you."
Mikhyel stepped from the pool, his tattered, soaked
nightshirt trailing unnoticed off his shoulders, his grip on
the handrail white-knuckled and imperative. Pride kept his
chin high, though he avoided Deymorin's eyes, but nothing
could conceal the mortification at his own behavior that
echoed between them as Deymorin pulled the shirt from
him and wrapped the towel around his shoulders.
Mikhyel stumbled twice on the way to the grooming
couch. Rings knew he had reason enough.
Sounds from the main bedroom, a flip of sheeting, a scuff
of slippered foot on carpeting, and a marked lack of gossip-
ing female voices indicated Raulind had taken it upon him-
self to repair the damage to Mikhyel's bed, this Second
night running. Deymorin left Mikhyel's side to shut the
connecting door. When he turned, Mikhyel was scrubbing
at his arms with the towel as if he could rub the bloody
scratches into nonexistence.
"Easy on, brother," Deymorin cautioned, and paused at
the grooming table for the salve every man kept at hand
to seal and protect razor cuts.
Mikhyel's head fell back onto the padded headrest. He
seemed oblivious to the blood seeping from his nose.
Deymorin rolled a small towel and tucked it under Mikhy-
el's neck, ran cold water over a second cloth and settled it
gently across Mikhyel's high-bridged nose.
"Hold," he ordered, and placed Mikhyel's near hand
over the cloth.
In the mirror, Mikhyel's image, eyes at half-mast above
the white cloth, stared into the shadowed corners of the
bath. Inside, however, he seethed. Like a tiny shock every
time Deymorin's fingers brushed so much as a strand of
Mikhyel's hair, there came angerbitterness against an all
too celibate life, a life constructed around denial of life's
most basic instincts.
And coloring it all, an intense hatred of Anheliaa.
"She was back, wasn't she?" Deymorin asked, as he
spread Mikhyel's hair to hang in the warm outflow of a
heating register.
Mikhyel's cold stare didn't waver.
Deymorin scooped a two-fingered glob of ointment from
the jar, captured Mikhyel's arm and began applying it to
the ragged scrapes, working his way up over one shoulder
to the deeper wounds on Mikhyel's chest.
Mikhyel hissed; possibly it was the sting of the ointment
on the deepest gouge. "Nightmare," he stated flatly, and
his eyes closed.
"Did this to yourself, did you?"
Mikhyel shuddered. "I must have."
"With what?" Deymorin reached for his hand, held the
close-trimmed nails to a close inspection.
"No one else here."
"Now."
"See someone leave?"
"Door's not the only way out."
Mikhyel's eyes slitted open, sought his in the mirror.
"What do you know that you aren't telling me, Deymio?"
Resentment, distrustthey'd had enough of that in this
family.
"Remember the day you popped out of the sky and
landed on Nikki's head?" he asked.
"Not when I can avoid it."
He smoothed another dollop over the wounds. "We
had help."
"Help?" For once, he seemed to be getting more from
Mikhyel than Mikhyel from him; and Mikhyel was confused
byor resistingthe images pressing for acknowledgment
within his own mind.
"Nothing we had would have saved you. Truth, brother.
You were dying. An old woman came out of the forest. An
old woman whose eyes burned with a green fire. She saved
you"
"With parnicci salve," Mikhyel interrupted firmly, as if
determined to prove he remembered.
"No, Khyel. Not parnicci. And she wasn't just any old
woman." He finished smearing the last cut and turned to
wipe his hands off, before meeting Mikhyel's gaze squarely.
"Laugh at me, brother, and I will break your nose. She
was Tamshi."
Mikhyel, who should have been outraged at Deymorin's
apparent soft-headedness when so much relied on them,
nodded slowly, his face devoid of emotion.
"Less than an hour earlier," Deymorin continued, "Ben
had hailed me from the forest."
"Ben was dead." Mikhyel's voice was flat, as barren as
his expression.
Deymorin nodded, a single dip of his chin. "That Ben's
eyes also glowedwith green fire."
"Shapeshifter?" Coldly stated, as if the ancient myth
were a common occurrence.
"Or illusionist," Deymorin temporized.
"Somehow, I don't think so."
"Says the man who always insists there's a rational expla-
nation for such things."
"I still believe that. If this . . . Tamshi can appear in
various forms, there's a logical reason. It's just a matter of
knowing all the facts." Mikhyel's brow tightened and his
mouth pressed to a thin line. "Why didn't you tell me about
this before?"
"She said not to. I thought it was for your sake. I thought
your sanity had been pressed so hard already, that this
might send you over the edge."
"And now?"
"I suspect sheor something like heris behind these
nightmare appearances of yours."
"And so might have had other reasons for keeping me
ignorant."
"I just don't know, brother. She'd saved your life. I did
what I thought bestfor all of us."
"She." Mikhyel repeated, then looked away. "Anhe
the thing said, 'he' didn't want it . . . her . . . Anheliaa.
That 'he' wanted . . . me."
And from Mikhyel's mind came flashes of the Rhomandi
hypogeum, of the lure cast only to Mikhyel.
Deymorin asked, "What really happened to you?"
A gray-green flicker, quickly hidden beneath dark lashes.
A noncommittal shrug. "I was tired. The pool seemed an
attractive option to thinking, I suppose."
"It called to you, brother. Loud and clear. I heard it, but
it wasn't the least bit interested in my humble self. And it
actively rejected Nikki's wanton advances."
Another shrug. Denial permeated the room, thick and
heavy. But curiosity was there as well, about Deymorin's
revelations, about the creature's words and a beard-stub-
ble's mysterious reappearance.
"Don't you dare go down there alone, Khyel. Do you
hear me?"
Mikhyel's silence, inside and out, terrified Deymorin.
"Dammit, brother, promise me!"
A level gaze held his. "What if that really is Anheliaa?"
"Khyel"
"Think about it. Think about that . . . feeling down in
the hypogeum. That wasn't Anheliaa, I'll swear to it.
This . . . felt like her."
"So she can sink back into the ooze where she belongs.
Mikhyel, don't give heror it, or whatever a foothold in
your head!"
"Foothold in my head? Why do you put it that way?"
"I1 just . . ." Except he had no answer. The impression
had just come to him.
"But that's what she wanted! She wanted in. She said,
together we, she and I, could be the greatest of all time."
"The greatest what? Ringmaster?"
"I . . . I don't know. We're on the verge of learning
something here, Deymorin. More about the ley than has
ever been known. More than Darius brought out of Mauri-
tum. More than our very expensive researchers have come
up with in three hundred years."
"At what cost, brother? That . . . thing invading your
mind? I think not."
To which Mikhyel said nothing.
"Dammit, Khyel," Deymorin said slowly, "I'll kill you
first. And to hell with the web, the Syndicate and Rhoma-
tum! There's got to be another way."
And still, the uncertain oscillations in Mikhyel's mind
swung wildly.
"Need I remind you, it's not your mind alone it would
be in?"
Relief. A deciding factor to tip Mikhyel's mental scale.
"Thank you, Deymorin."
He grinned. "Does this mean I let you live?"
"For a time, at least."
"Good. I'd hate to have to explain myself to the Syndi-
cate." He replaced the lid on the ointment jar, and held
out his hand. "All right, brat, time for bed."
Mikhyel's mouth twitched into a reluctant grin, and he
limped slowly into the bedroom. Deymorin followed, mak-
ing an elaborate show of tucking Mikhyel in like a child,
deliberate nonsense that soon had Mikhyel cursing him
roundly.
Deymorin laughed and nodded toward the couch on the
far side of the room. "Just for the record. I'm sleeping right
over there for the rest of the night."
Mikhyel grunted his disgust. "Which half of you gets the
floor? Go to your own bed, Deymorin."
"Do I really need to list the arguments, Mikhyel? I'd like
to keep you sane and in one piece at least until you get on
the road."
Mikhyel lay quietly, his emotions masked behind
thought. "And if I let you stay now? Where will it end,
Deymorin? You worried about me in the Crypt. You're
worried about me now. Will you insist on coming along on
the tour? Will you sleep at my feet in Shatum? In Giephae-
tum? Khoratum? What about Barsitum? Are the brothers
there suspect as well? I've got work to do, brother. Work
/ do well and you detest. Politics, Deymprin. Remember?"
"Point made. Barrister." Deymorin z)t on the edge of
the bed and stared at his clasped hands. "Still, I could wish
you weren't going alone."
"Alone? I've eleven men to account for. Raulind. Three
secretaries. Coachmen, grooms"
" To account for' being the significant phrase, brother."
"I've fifteen guards to watch over us twelve fools. What
else do I need?"
"The guardsmen you've chosen are good men. I'd trust
Ori with my own life. They'll be sufficient against the obvi-
ous emergencies on the road. It's the not-so-obvious I'm
concerned about. A true back-man who understands the
streets. Who can read the wind and know of attempts on
your well-being before they happen."
"Someone without scruples, who can get to the places
I can't."
"That's not what I mean."
"No? But it's what I want. Thank you for the suggestion,
Deymio; I'll find someone."
"You don't know anyone!"
Mikhyel's mouth twitched, and his mind was solidly
blocked to Deymorin. "Go to bed, Deymorin. Not on the
couch. Your own bed. With Kiyrstin. I promise you, I fear
her wrath far more than that of some insubstantial ghost."
"She wasn't insubstantial!"
"I'll be all right. Anheliaa's . . . gone for the night."
"How the hell do you know?"
"Dammit, brother. Get out of my bedroom!"
"All right!" He pressed Mikhyel's shoulder, sending him
the love and concern that boiled within him, the knowledge
that he was a heartbeat away, and left the room. Nonethe-
less, he waited, just outside the door, until that inner sense
indicated peaceful slumber, before, still against his better
judgment, he returned to Kiyrstin's ready arms.
Chapter Six

This time, he was waiting.
"Hello, Anheliaa."
"Aha, the child's awake."
Mikhyel pushed his back into the pillows and drew a
knee up to prop an elbow. Anheliaa was seated in an arm-
chair, lounging actually, as if the arthritis that had plagued
her since puberty was nonexistent. And, indeed, the hand
she waved through the air was not the least misshapen.
But then, he supposed a ghost had no bones.
"You lied to your brother, you naughty child."
She stated only the truth. He'd known she'd return; he'd
planted the lie of slumber into Deymorin's head so that
he'd leave, had surprised himself when the ploy worked.
He was gaining all manner of talents these days.
But Deymorin's revelations had suggested a path to him,
an answer to the weakest link in his planned tour. He'd
been prepared to approach the satellite node ringmasters
with vague theories and untested strategies. Anheliaa or
Deymorin's Tamshi, this creature was linked in some man-
ner to the ley, and might well be capable of answering all
his questions.
"What are you doing here, Anheliaa?" he asked. "You
are Anheliaa, aren't you?"
"Of course, I'm Anheliaa. I'm bored, darling. I want
company."
"Company? You're dead!"
"Well, there is that, I suppose. It's not at all what I
expected."
"Expec" Mikhyel's throat constricted with unexpected
laughter. "Tell me, aunt, whatexactlydid you expect?"
"Why, to become one with the ley, naturally, boy." Her
ethereal hand fanned through the air. "My spirit joined
with the ancestors. Don't you remember your catechism?"
"I remember you told me to learn it and reject it."
"Yes, well, experience changes us all, I suppose ...I
nearly got you, you know, the day that you and your broth-
ers returned to Rhomatum. I sent the lightning at you, but
you got inside the City too fast. Perhaps, if you had- not,
perhaps if you had preceded me into the ley, I might have
released my hold on life sooner. Who knows?"
"You tried to kill us?"
"Of course. Silly, I suppose. Petty. But I was angry. Par-
ticularly at you, my darling. I'd expected problems from
that bull-headed brother of yours, but you . . . you were
mine, formed to my specifications. When you turned on
me, you had to be punishedpreferably eliminated. I'd
hoped Bro would take care of you . . . after. But I didn't
realize your potential. And that Shatumin whore proved
more clever than I supposed. Poor Bro . . . Ah, well, he
was an ass. They killed me, you know."
"Killed you?" Mikhyel struggled to sort the disjointed
fragments  to  hold  them  for  later  analysis.  "Who?
Brolucci?"
Always assuming he had a "later."
"Bro?" Shrill laughter filled the air and his head.
"Hardly. Those damn fool second-rate ringspinners. So set
on protecting their little puddles of energy. If they'd helped
me, I'd be alive now and Persitum would still be ours.
Fools, I tell you. All of them."
A rant was brewing. In that, this creature, whether real
or impersonation, echoed Anhehaa's manner to perfection.
It was a familiar pattern. One, Mikhyel judged, it was time
to break.
"Enough of this." He threw back the covers and sat up.
Anheliaa straightened, her eyes widening with interest.
"Yes, nephew? What would you suggest instead?"
"Who are you really? What do you want?"
"Anheliaa, darling, obviously."
"Anhehaa's dead."
"You are redundant, child. The point was made. Reality
argues. What now?"
He frowned and sank back on the edge of the bed. "How
are you getting in here?"
"Why" She biinked. "I don't know."
"Don't know? Or aren't admitting. You said before 'he'
didn't want you. Who is 'he'? Why should he want you?"
"He didn't. Neither did she! I feel like a damned shuttle-
cock. Flipped here. Flipped there. I suppose, darling, I
landed here because I could always count on you. And
because he1wantwanted you."
She rose with a control and grace she'd never had in life.
And it was Anheliaa, but Anheliaa as he imagined she'd
wished to be: strong, lithe, physically imposing, mesmeriz-
ing in her confidence.
"I want you, darling. I want to be what you can be. Make
you what you were meant to become." She sank down be-
side him, embracing him.
He controlled his reflexive flinch. Bend to the one in
power, the one with the knowledge you sought. He'd
learned that lesson in a hard school. But there was a reason
for the insistent pull he'd felt in the hypogeum, a reason
for Anheliaa's appearances here.
And he had been chosen to uncover those reasons. If his
sanity was the price, his sanity would be forfeit.
He reminded himself of that necessity as nails raked his
throat and down past his nightshirt's collar, flicking the but-
tons off one by one, those nails severing the threads as
effectively as a honed blade.
Breath that smelled of fire-blossom tea puffed into his
mouth. His eyelids drooped, shuttering him from her image;
his head fell back, too heavy to hold upright.
(Damn you, let him go!}
Deymorin's voice in his head along with Deymorin's vi-
sion: himself in the arms of a creature that bore superficial
resemblance to Anheliaa, past the decaying flesh. The crea-
ture raised its face from Mikhyel'shisneck, snarled at
himat Deymorinand bent again, to a sickening, noisy
nuzzling.
But that repulsive creature couldn't be the source of the
smooth, powerful arms supporting him, and that limp,
twitching body surely could not belong to him. He was
soaring  in  the  air,  drifting  in  an  ocean  of  purple
sensuality....
A purple halo shimmered around the entwined bodies of
Deymorin's vision, and Mikhyel knew that shimmer, felt it
enter his fingertips with the scent of fire-blossom tea, heavy
with honeythe way Anheliaa preferred it.
And somewhere, some part of him saw Deymorin lunge,
sensed the creature's snarl, the swipe of the creature's
clawed hand. Deymorin swayed out of reach, grabbed the
creature's wrist and jerked. The arm parted at the elbow,
and the stench of decaying flesh filled Mikhyel'sDeymor-
in'snostrils.
For Mikhyel there was only the scent of fire-blossom tea.
The glimmer deepened, widened. Mikhyel heard Dey-
morin's denial, inside and out, knew Deymorin's intense
desire to follow . . . to protect his brother.
As Mikhyel had wanted to protect Nikki.
And a bridge formed between them, a glimmering web
of iridescence. A bridge reminiscent of the force that had
drawn him inexorably to Nikki and to Boreton nearly two
months ago.
Mikhyel deafened himself to both internal and external
voices. He fought to destroy that bridge, to contain Dey-
morin, to cast a net over him. Or a web. A web to confine
Deymorin and his potent desire in a cocoon.
Like a spider's prey. He fought Deymorin's call, knowing
that to listen was to draw Deymorin with him into whatever
hell awaited him on the far side of the purple haze.
It was the hypogeumor at least, a cave.
Mikhyel pushed himself up, away from ground that
shifted beneath his palms like the softest sand, and con-
fronted a cavern that could contain the Rhomandi hypo-
geum several times over.
Miles of shifting, billowing leythium crystal draperies
camouflaged the true depths of the ceiling. Thick, viscous
leythium formed a living sea in which islands rose and sub-
sided even as he watched. A sea whose subtly mutating
shores fluxed in and out of sight, extending at times to
depths his rational mind refused to accept.
Rational. Mikhyel stifled the laughter that threatened.
Logicthe accepted rules of existence with which he'd
grown uphad little bearing on his present situation.
In the center of the lake, something burned: multicolored
flames without smoke, without scent, unless that flame was
the source of the aroma of fire-blossom tea that filled the
air. Free, this time, of the cloyingly sweet honey.
Radiating from this seemingly boundless cavern, seem-
ingly infinite corridors led to points of throbbing, pulsating
color. Eighteen in all, each glimmering in a spectrum that
centered about a different color . . . blue-green here, spring
green there, deep, blood red. . . .
Infinite. Boundless. The concepts were crazed, but those
were the words his mind supplied. He rubbed his hand
across his eyes, wondering for the briefest instant, if Anhe-
liaa's ghost had, in fact, dragged him with it into death.
And then, on the floor near him, he saw the decomposing
corpse of Deymorin's final imaging.
Its left arm was missing.
That final touch of the macabre lent a compelling reality
to an inherently unreal event, an oddly common touch to
an uncommon scene, and restored his faith in his own
senses.
He staggered to his feet and stood swaying, feet wide
apart. He examined his arms for burns, for anything remi-
niscent of that other near-disastrous transportation to Bore-
ton, but there was nothing. Rather, he felt energized. The
all-consuming weariness, even the lingering aches from
Nikki's attack were simplygone.
A color of satisfaction. A scent of lazy curiosity. Belong-
inghe'd swear to itto that presence he'd felt in the hy-
pogeum. He recognized it as surely as he recognized the
individual signatures of his brothers.
"Who are you?" he shouted. "Where are you, and what
do you wanft"
{Want, want, want}
The word echoed in his head, carrying with it that sense
of welcome, of open arms waiting to draw him to some
liquified fate.
{No, no. No!} he heard, and that protest reeked of Deym-
orin. So, he wasn't entirely alone.
{Here?) he sent out into that strange aether.
{No! Dammit.} And with that denial, came an image of
his own room, empty.
Mikhyel smiled to himself. Deymorin had not been
drawn after him; in that, at least, he'd won.
And still that sense of welcome surrounded him. He
turned slowly, allowing Deymorin to keep his mental foot-
hold, seeking that presence that was not, definitely not An-
heliaa. In fact, all sense of Anheliaa had vanished; only the
corpse remained as a reminder of how he'd come here.
The entire cavern pulsed with light and color of leythium.
Leythium lace draperies billowed in an unfelt breeze, as if
the ley itself were breathing. Light rippled and pulsed down
those corridors to the distant light sources, like blood pass-
ing down arteries. All around him, a forest of glowing pil-
lars oozed up from the floor to meet and merge with the
lace draperies.
He reached a curious fingertip to the nearest leythium
trunk. His finger sank into a substance that was neither
liquid nor solid. He had no sense of texture, only of warmth
and a rhythmic throb . . . like a heartbeat. He pressed
deeper. His entire hand disappeared.
He closed his eyes, realized, in a half-awake way, that
he'd sunk to his knees, and he leaned toward that welcom-
ing warmth, feeling it creep up his arm to his elbow and
higher. His other hand rose, without conscious thought.
{No! Khyel, stop.']
Nikki. This time it was Nikki calling him. Wanting him.
Needing...
{Dammit, Khyel, how often do we have to go through
this? Get back here. Now! I want to go back to bed!}
It was as if both brothers were there, pulling him away
from that pillar, slapping his face as if he were hysterical.
He could hear them, feel them, though they were far, far,
far away. . . .
But that warmth slid away from him, down his arm and
off his fingertip, leaving no sensation at all, no sense of
residual substance, only a memory.
{Well . . . damn!}
For the first time, that inexplicable presence took firm
mental form. Directly before him, the substance that
seemed so firm beneath his feet liquified and began turning
slowly, then expanded upward, twisting, contorting into a
vaguely, humanlike form.
Arms . . . legs. Three of the latter, until that third ap-
pendage gradually took the shape of a tail that swept
around the forming body and tapered to a tip that twitched
just a finger's breadth from Mikhyel's bare foot.
He was enraptured. A detached part of Mikhyel's mind
reached that conclusion when he found himself unable to
look away from that twitching flash of iridescent scales. His
eyes followed that line upward, past slender curves of waist
and shoulder, up a long, swanlike neck to a face that de-
fied description.
Fangs, scalesor perhaps the crystalline webbing that
fluttered so freely all around themfaceted eyes . . . utterly
inhuman, utterly beautiful.
Mikhyel gazed into those huge eyes, his neck painfully
bent as he strained to take in a creature half again as tall
as Deymorin, until, as if in response to that observation,
the creature diminuated, took on proportions and features
more like his own, until they faced one another, eye to eye,
man to . . . almost man.
The creature extended a graceful hand, palm upward. A
sense of attraction. Interest . . . Hunger. This was the source
of interest.
{Come...}
"No . . ." Mikhyel whispered, having no breath for more,
and he took a blind step backward. The ground gave be-
neath his bare foot, but insubstantial brotherly hands stead-
ied him, and brotherly anger shouted at the creature to
leave Mikhyel alone.
Fangs appeared, shrank to blunt, manlike teeth in a
purely human smile. {You have associations.)
"I have brothers," Mikhyel stated aloud, knowing he
could answer with that inner voice, but determinedly
human in the face of this inhuman entity.
A creature of the ley. Tamshi, perhaps. A part of him
burned with unanswered questions, but he resisted that cu-
riosity and the vulnerability it exposed. This creature had
drawn him here. This creature wanted him, not the other
way around. He would dictate the terms of this encounter,
not this creature of Rhomatum Node.
And with that decision, his fear vanished along with the
shrinking uncertainty.
Humor filled the air, his mind, his body. Rich, internal,
full-bodied laughter. Intrigue.
{Where have you been?) the creature's mind asked.
"Right overhead."
"And why . . ." The voice that reached his human ears
from that long throat was a soft, sibilant hiss. Uncertain at
first, gaining confidence with each syllable.  "... have you
not been brought to me before?"
One gliding step bridged the space between them and
the creature reached a graceful hand to touch Mikhyel's
face. Tasting him. Mikhyel, forcing himself to indifference,
discovered, to his mild surprise, that he was fighting curios-
ity, not fear.
"Why," the creature continued, "have you not danced
with the rings?"
"Danced?" Mikhyel laughed, the image of his graceless
self flitting among the whirling dance rings too insanely
humorous to ignore.
"Silly child, not those rings." The fingers drifted to his
forehead and the hum and flash of the ringchamber filled
his head.
"I've no talent"
"What fool told you that?"
"I tried, but the rings wouldn't respond."
"I suppose not." The creature's chest rose in a heavy
sigh. "Darius, you are not."
You have the power, child. You lack the drive. . . .
"Oh, yes, Anheliaa. Get rid of her, will you?" The crea-
ture waved a disinterested hand in the direction of the
corpse. "I can't expel her beyond the web, and she's such
a pollutant."
"But . . ." Anheliaa's body should just disappear, as his
mother had, as all those other bodies had through the
years.
But the ley wasn't supposed to rise up into this amazing
creature and converse with him.
Neither were corpses supposed to visit you in your room.
Was he truly going mad?
{Not at all, child. She's just been as stubborn in death as
she was in life. She retained enough vitality within the web
to pull these little tricks. Likely she's still here, if I cared to
seek her out. But the body . . .} A sense of delicate revulsion
permeated the thought. // did think that youngest child of
mine might take her . . . she seems to eat positively
anything . . . and Anheliaa did control her wild tendencies
at the last . . . but even she drew the line at Anheliaa. . . .}
Body. Vitality. As if that which had accosted him in his
room and Anheliaa were two different, however related,
entities.  And  the  "youngest  child"  who  had  rejected
Anheliaa . . . whom Anheliaa had "controlled at last" . . .
did the creature mean Khoratum? Was there another crea-
ture like this one beneath Khoratum?
Deymorin's "Mother" perhaps?
Laughter. {Mother. Is that how she calls herself? I've been
away . . . too . . . long. . . .}
The creature had wandered off, or dissolved and re-
formed elsewhere, Mikhyel couldn't swear what exactly
he'd seen. But weariness floated like a cloud about it, and
it reclined in a graceful lizardlike swirl on a leythium ledge
that rose to meet and surround its body.
{I'm tired, child. It's been . . . so very long since I've
taken form.}
It raised a hand to him, gesturing desire, but without
that internal pressure to comply, and Mikhyel rewarded its
tempered approach, moving to kneel beside the leythium
couch. The creature's fingers wove through his hair, and
through that touch came a sense of pure pleasure, simple
delight in the feeling of the strands slipping through fingers
that hadn't felt anything for a long, long time.
"Who are you?" Mikhyel whispered, giving in at last to
those innermost drives. "What are you?"
jl am . . . what you would have me. Before that . . .}
A sense of age that staggered human understanding.
Mikhyel closed his eyes as the unearthly cavern shifted
about him, images of geological ages as reflected in the
cavern superimposed over his own sense of the world
above
{We call it the surface world, child.)
Teaching, as was the way with this creature, its nature
driving it as surely as Mikhyel's own nature drove him to
question, neverminding common sense dictated it was safer
not to know.
Mikhyel fought back a surge of hope. As he'd suspected,
the answers to their dilemma were here, if only he could . . .
"The web," he murmured, and gazed up into eyes that
had no discernible pupils, but only color glittering from
beneath half-cast lids.
{Yes, child? You're concerned. Fear. You shouldn't be.
Time . . . time will heal.)
Mirym's words echoed in his mind. But they didn't have
time. The Syndicate didn't.
"Is it Khoratum . . . sir? My lord of Rhomatum? Is that
the source of the problem?"
"My . . . lord." Gentle laughter. "Call me . . . call me
Father, son of Darius. Perhaps my silly bud had the right
of it. . . . Khoratum? Yessss. How did you . . ." Fingers
brushed his mind, and his fears about the web, the plans
for the trip rose and bubbled to the forefront of his mind.
"Ah, how clever you are, child."
And in his mind, Anheliaa's purple essence flared: {Yes,
by all means, go to the fools, make them work as one, my
golden-tongued love. Promise them anything, but get them
to repair Khoratum, and then force Persitum back into the
web. And then, my darling, come back to me and}
The creature of Rhomatum snarled and Anheliaa's pres-
ence shattered like crystal against stone. And the shards of
her essence pierced Mikhyel's mind like tiny needles.
He cried out, protesting. The next moment, the creature's
mind brushed his and the pain vanished.
{Forgive, son of Darius. I forgot the fragile nature of
your mind.}
This time the creature's presence filled him, exploring,
curious. Invasive. Mikhyel tried to push it out, tried to raise
protections such as he built against his brothers, but to
no avail.
"Damn you, get out!"
Light flared all around him, and he was alone again. Fac-
eted eyes widened with interest.
{Darius you most definitely are not, child.}
"I never claimed to be. And I'm not your child! Is it
Khoratum? If the masters unite, can they repair the
damage?"
Fangs glittered as the smile ceased to mimic his own.
{Do I answer, oh, wise one? Or leave you to your fate?}
"And if I judge incorrectly? If it destroys you?"
{Destruction. I wonder . . . is that possible? Curious . . .}
"If it is, you won't be left with much time to ponder the
sensation, now will you?"
Laughter. {Oh, I know the answer well enough, child of
the surface world. But you . . . I think, perhaps . . .}
And an image filled him, of the web and the strands
permeating the landscape, the taproots leading to each sat-
ellite, the damage, like a collapsed tunnel in the area of
Boreton, on the Khoratum line. Not a bleeding wound.
A . . . clogged pipe.
Laughter came. A sense of acknowledgment.
{Together, child, they could tunnel through with ease. Give
them the picture, tell them to blow as one, and your problem
is no longer.)
And abandoning that thought, the creature exuded an
overwhelming curiosity. About him. And the creature's de-
sire for him to stay, a need to teach, to impart the knowl-
edge of the ages into a receptive mind. An answering
passion surged within himself, but:
(I can't. I'm . . . I'm sorry. I can't stay.)
And his mind was filled with all he had to do, uniting
the nodes, raising the armies, providing for the children. . . .
{Children. Yes. Children.}
But that which his mind interpreted as child did not carry
, a sense of a mother's womb, but rather an image of buds,
strands of personal substance oozing between cracks in the
stone, sending tendrils deep into the earth. Growing.
{Growing old. Growing away. Go to the children. Tell
them their source remembers them. Then come back to
me, Darius.)
"I'm not . . ." Mikhyel's throat constricted on the admis-
sion. The creature had known Darius. Wanted . . . Darius,
not  Darius'  inadequate  several  generations  removed
grandson.
{No . . . not Darius. Son of Darius' son. Father of Darius'
son. Child of the Mother who is a child.}
The words made no sense. The images echoing behind
them were equally disjointed. The creature's awareness was
shattering, shimmering as was its form, both, Mikhyel real-
ized,  taken  for  his  sake,  for  his  limited  ability  to
understand.
{Come back to me, child. We'll find the answers
together....}
Mikhyel grasped the boneless hand, knew despair when
it turned to liquid and seeped between his fingers.
(I'll be back}
But the creature was beyond hearing, and as the glow
surrounded him, Mikhyel bent his head into his arms, not
wanting to see the cavern disappear.
Anheliaa's body, partially decomposed, was waiting for
him in his room.
~ ~ 9
Mikhyel's disappearance had left Deymorin with an ach-
ing head and a feeling of utter helplessness, feelings only
partially alleviated when Nikki's mental arrival allowed
them to reach into that cavern and free Mikhyel's mind
from the ley's enticing web.
But they'd achieved only a temporary freedom. Through
Mikhyel's eyes, he and Nikki had seen the creature rise
from the ley, had heard its advice. And within Mikhyel's
mind, he'd sensed the fascination, the trust the creature
engendered.
He'd called to Mikhyel, but Mikhyel hadn't heardor
Mikhyel had ignored him. When the creature had tapped
Mikhyel's insatiable curiosity, nothing he or Nikki could do
had been able to shatter the barrier that supernatural prom-
ise had imposed between them and Mikhyel.
They could only wait, hoping, until first Mikhyel's mind
and then Mikhyel himself returned, cloaked in an iridescent
shimmer, reconciled, possibly even content.
But not happy.
"Get out," Mikhyel said aloud as soon as he was able,
and he shied away from Deymorin's hand. "I said, out"'
And a different sort of barrier formed between them.
"And take that with you!"
With a jut of his stubbled chin, Mikhyel indicated the
lump that had materialized with him, a reeking corpse that
matched the reeking arm he'd thrown out the window
nearly an hour ago.
"Just a damn minute," Deymorin hissed, and cornered
Mikhyel, grabbing his arm, forcing the inner communication.
Bitterness. Anger. Frustration. All those came through.
Not directed at Deymorin, not at Nikki, but at life. At
circumstances that forced Mikhyel dunMheric once again
from taking a preferred route toward personal fulfillment.
"I'm sorry, Khyel. I'm sorry our mother died and left
you with Nikki and Mheric. I'm sorry Anheliaa used you.
I'm sorry I left you with the Syndicate. I'm sorry the web
is down and the Syndicate needs you now. But the web is
down and we do need you and damned if I'd let you incar-
cerate yourself in the ground with a talking rock even if
we didn't. As for your stinking corpse" He waved at what
remained of Anheliaa dunMoren. "We got rid of it once.
What are we supposed to do with it now? Eat it?"
Mikhyel's eyes narrowed to angry slits, the greenish tint
flashing in a stray beam of light. Then, for no apparent
reason, the anger faded, his brows lifted, and the narrow
shoulders beneath Deymorin's hands shook with silent
laughter.
"I'm . . . not quite certain. If we eat her, it comes out
the other end, doesn't it? And that goes into the ley as
well, and if he doesn't want her in the one form, I doubt
he wants her in the other, and I don't think we want that
lining the halls of Rhomandi." He met Deymorin's open-
mouthed disbelief and laughed aloud. "Try breathing, Dey-
mio. It's . . . salubrious. 1 think we're supposed to bury
her, someplace beyond the web. He doesn't want her . . .
polluting his node."
The tension that had sustained him for the past hour slid
away, and Deymorin grinned back. "Can't blame him for
that. What then, brother? What do we do now?"
"Sleep. I think, I want to . . ." Mikhyel's eyes closed,
standing upright as he was, and he slumped, limp as death.
But it was sleep, not death, Deymorin knew that before he
caught him and eased him onto the waiting bed. Sound,
deep sleep as he'd not had for weeks, possibly even for
years.
Chapter 5even

"Deymorin says you're leaving early," Nikki said, breaking
the silence that had filled the room since Mikhyel let him
in.
Mikhyel nodded, and continued sorting through the items
on his vanity. Needless fussing, Nikki could tell. Excuse not
to talk to him.
Nikki swallowed hard. "Is it . . . is it because of yester-
day morning?"
"What do you think?" Mikhyel shoved back from the
vanity, rose, and went to get a cravat from his dresser.
"Khyel, I'm sorry. I"
"Sorry? You don't know the meaning of the word."
This interview was going as badly as Nikki had feared.
Worse, if possible. He tried desperately to regroup.
"Khyel, it's not . . . I am sorry. It's just . . . you didn't
apologize to her. And then I saw you kissing her and"
"I didn't apologize because I don't damn well regret it!
Any of it!"
Nikki shook his head, confused. "Any of what, Mikhyel?"
"It's not just yesterday. It's not just Mirym, don't you
see that? You're a hypocrite, Nikaenor. You make allow-
ances for Lidye, for yourself, even for Deymorin and Kiyr-
stin, but somehow, Mirym is my doing. What happened in
the hypogeum . . . what happened last night is all my doing.
And somehow, in doing I'm cheating you."
Mikhyel turned to face the mirror, struggled for a mo-
ment with his cravat, but his visibly trembling fingers fouled
even the simplest folds, and with a curse, he ripped it off
and threw it to join two others on the rumpled bed.
Then he leaned on the vanity, hands flat, elbows locked,
his eyes pressed shut. When he continued, it was with
greater control. "I don't regret what happened, and I thank
every god we supposedly do not believe in that Mirym ap-
parently does not regret it either. But if you recall, I was
in there with Lidye's claws, not you."
"It's my body that bears the scars!"
"And my mind. I'll trade you the distinction any time,
brother. You were making love to Mirym"
"It was your seed planted in her! Your child she car-
ries now."
Mikhyel's jaw clenched, he turned back to the mirror and
another cravat. "Get out, Nikki."
"But"
"Get out, before we say things we really prefer to
leave unsaid."
Nikki caught his breath, recognizing, almost too late, the
anger shattering his own thoughts as bleedover from Mi-
khyel. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they'd both entered into
this conversation with a little anger, a little fear, and their
small concerns had fed each other until now, they were
somehow near blows all over again.
Agreement and remorse. That was Mikhyel. Clearly.
He met Mikhyel's eyes in the mirror. Eyes in a face that
looked increasingly like the old Mikhyel: dark-haired, cool-
eyed, a bit mysterious, even to those who knew him best.
Part of it was the return of his beardnearly full-grown
already and lacking the gray it had acquired in recent
months, a near-miraculous return that only added to his
mystery.
The heard was part of it, but the hard set to jaw and
eyes was another part.
"I'm sorry, Mikhyel. I did want to apologize for yester-
day. I dtdn't want you leaving without"
"You came, Nikaenor, for absolution. I don't know why,
I can't read that behind the muddled emotions you radiate
constantly. If I were hopelessly cynical. I'd say it was be-
cause you're hoping I'll be able to take you down into that
cavern I was in last night. Well, you won't get absolution
from me. Not today. Perhaps never. Despite all your pro-
testations to the contrary, you have special feelings for
Mirym. Anheliaa's influence notwithstanding, the simple
fact is that on your wedding night, / lay with the woman
you really wanted, because you wanted her, and I, fool that
I am, hadn't the moral fortitude to deny that need. Or my
own need, for that matter. Now, in the inevitable aftermath,
you choose to take exception to that fact, you choose to
blame me, personally. I don't appreciate that. I don't ap-
preciate your laying me out cold because I happened to be
talking to the young woman"
"You weren't talking!"
"who bears the child of my body," Mikhyel completed
without a pause. "No, I wasn't. And I'll tell you something
else, Nikaenor dunMheric, I was enjoying it! For the first
time in my life, I felt the urge to kiss a pretty woman. I'm
twenty-six years old, little brother. Only weeks short of
twenty-seven. How many times have you had that urge and
acted on it, you who treated yourself to a brothel on your
seventeenth birthday?"
"Khyel, I'm sorry! I didn't mean"
"I know what you meant."
"Of course," Nikki said, feeling the bitter resentment
that was a constant in his life now rising. "You always have,
haven't you?"
Mikhyel said nothing.
"I was just Dammit, Khyel, it's as if you know what
I'm thinking before I even think it and I don't like that.
You know everything. It's not fair. I can't hear you. How
can / know what you were doing with her? I'm just trying
to sort things out, and then you and Deymorin make me
feel"
"You're right, Nikki, I can. If you think I want it that
way, you're out of your mind. I know you're trying to" sort
feelings every seventeen-year-old would prefer to $eep pri-
vate, and you feel as if they're exposed to the world. Ring-
fire, boy, I know what you're thinking and feeling even as
we speak! I can hardly sort your thoughts from my own. I
have to ask what you're wanting to talk about, and then
try to answer based on what we've said to each other, not
all the other scattered bits I've picked up from you."
"Why bother?" Nikki asked bitterly.
"Because, dammit, I respect you. I respect your need and
desire to be understood and to sort out your own feelings.
But I'm tired, boy. Tired of understanding and making ex-
cuses, for you, for Anheliaa, even for myself. I'm tired of
trying to hold my thoughts clear of yours and of Deymor-
in's. Thanks to this cursed link, there's not a moment in
the day that I don't question my judgment." Mikhyel's
voice was shaking, beyond his control, and that last control,
more than his words and that underneath sense, shook
Nikki.
"I meant, Nikki, that events have opened my eyes these
past few days. And I'm not about to close them again. I
love you, Nikki. Deymorin loves you. But nothing we say
or do will convince you of that. Ever. If you would hear . . .
but you won't."
"Can't," he protested weakly.
"You hear well enough when you want to hear. But I'm
not talking about that inner voice. I'm talking about a life-
time of commitmentmine and Deymorin'sto you. At
the moment, harsh as it sounds, you're reveling in being
misunderstood. That happens at seventeen. I trust you'll
get over it. Most of us do. But I can't wait for that."
"What do you mean?" Nikki asked, fearful of Mikhyel's
unequivocal language.
"I mean I can't handle your confusion and uncertainty
your damned whining and wallowingany longer; I can't
afford it. I've a job to do. Dammit, I've got my own life
to live!"
Their eyes met, and Mikhyel's were still hard, still dry,
though Nikki sensed at last the effort it took to maintain
that facade.
"I'm leaving in three days. You can find your own peace.
Pretend the past weeks never happened, if that's what you
want. But remember, eventually I'll be back. And / won't
pretend it never happened, because if I let you delude your-
self with the idea that it's all right, that I forgive you, you'll
continue to fool yourself, and I'll continue having to pre-
tend, and  that's too hard, Nikki.  It's just too  .  .  .
damned . . . hard."
Nikki stared at his boot toes, carefully polished, as he'd
carefully prepared the rest of himself for this meetingon
the outside.
But Mikhyel didn't care about the outside. It was . . .
hard . . . to hear what Mikhyel was saying, hard to admit
there was any truth whatsoever to it, but even without that
underneath feeling, he knew Mikhyel wouldn't lie to him,
not about this. They'd had serious talks over the years;
Mikhyel expected him to listen, expected him to judge for
himself the right and wrong of it. Mikhyel had taught him
to ask questions, and consider all the answers.
Of course, Mikhyel himself hadn't been very good at that
where Deymorin was concerned. He and Deymorin had
Nikki caught that thought and worried it about in his
head, wondering was he using Mikhyel's previous shortcom-
ings to excuse his own current ones, and decided maybe he
was, and that maybe he should look only at himself and
his own reasoning.
At least for now.
"What were you talking about?" he asked.
"I offered to marry her," Mikhyel replied promptly, with-
out questioning who Nikki meant, leading him to wonder
if Mikhyel had been following his every thought. "She de-
clined. Politely, but quite pointedly."
"Why?"
"I didn't get a chance to ask. I don't know that I would
if I could. Her life is her own. Her choices are. But I'll tell
you this, Nikaenor, whatever happens, to any of us, she
and her child will be cared for. I've seen to it, set the
paperwork in motion and if anyoneanyonestands in the
way of that paperwork or compromises her future, I'll take
her and the child and leave Rhomatum forever."
"But you don't love her."
"No? But then, you didn't love Lidye when you mar-
ried her."
"I don't love her now."
"No?"
"I . . . Well . . ."
Mikhyel laughed, and it was an easy sound, not a painful
one. "It's all right, Nikki. She's different, now Anheliaa's
gone. Perhaps we all are. Perhaps we need to get to know
each other. Perhaps we need to know ourselves first. I'll be
gone at least two months. Deymorin will likely be longer.
You'll be in charge. You've done well, Nikki. You've made
very good impressions. I've had several Syndics stop me
specifically to commend you on your deference and willing-
ness to listen. They're ready to be on your side. Use that
talent you've developed over the years for compromising
between your two bull-headed brothers. And remember,
Mauritum isn't our only threat. A month ago, you were
planning a dam. Have you forgotten that already?"
He had forgotten, because it didn't involve him. It was
an Outside problem: changing weather patterns that were
turning parts of the fertile Rhomatum Valley into bogs and
other parts into near-desert. Older, more experienced men
had wrestled with the problem without success. The dam
was his idea, one Mikhyel had had vetted by engineers and
geologists. The experts were enthusiastic, Mikhyel had said.
The Council and the Syndicate were less so.
Convince them.}
1-1
Can't, little brother?)
Their eyes met again, directly this time, not in the mirror,
and Nikki grinned.
"Will."
~    <gt    <gt>

The door closed behind Nikki, quietly, as Nikki's mind
was quiet at last. Mikhyel waited until his awareness of
Nikki had faded, before he relaxed his own internal con-
trols and sank wearily into the nearest chair, shaking inside
and out.
He'd known Nikki would come this morning. He'd had
to. He wouldn't be Nikki, otherwise. Nikki had to make
everything right.
And Lidye wanted to know more about that creature
beneath Rhomatum.
Which interest at least answered one of the infinity of
questions roiling about his brain when he awoke this morn-
ing: If Anheliaa had known about Rhomatum's resident . . .
god, she hadn't told Lidye about it, hadn't taken her to
meet it. But Nikki had been there with him. Nikki knew
as much as Nikki needed to know. Somehow, he suspected
that if it became important that Lidye meet it . . . him . . .
the creature . . . he would draw her down to his lair himself.
{Yes-s-s...}
The echo in his mind faded, and as it withdrew, it re-
moved from him the palsy residual from his confrontation
with Nikki, and left warmth in the palsy's stead. Warmth,
and a reminder that, when he cared to come, he would
be welcome.
Likely he wouldn't tell Nikki about that either.
Ringmasters spoke of "introducing" prospective appren-
tices to the rings. After that, each individual seemed to find
his or her own way of coaxing the rings to their bidding.
He wondered if they knew how literally that term might
be taken.
A knock on his door, a blessedly blank presence on the
far side.
"Come," he said, and he stood eagerly when Raulind
entered the room. "Save me?" he pleaded, with a gesture
toward the ruined cravats on the bed, and Raulind silently
blessed his throat with a fresh tie, then gestured toward the
chair beside the open window.
Mikhyel sat passively. Raulind smoothed the tangles
from his hair, then braided it in the complex pattern that
would both hold his slippery hair all day and not give him
a headache. It had taken Raul a week of trial to develop
that pattern, and in the ten years since, not a month of
days had gone by that they hadn't performed this particular
morning ritual.
"Your brother left this morning," Raulind spoke at last.
"Quite early."
"Deymorin?"
"Obviously, sir." Gently chastising, reminder that Raul-
ind knew precisely who had entered and left his employer's
bedroom only moments ago. "He and the lady Kiyrstine."
The holding pin of the hair clip slipped past his scalp,
and Mikhyel knew it was safe to move. He twisted around.
"What are you saying, Raul? They've gone to the stables
every morning for two weeks."
"A sizable bundle preceded them to the stable."
Mikhyel felt his mouth twitch.
"And did my brother say what this bundle was?"
"I believe, sir, he indicated it was, if you will, fertilizer."
d  e%  9
"This is Shtolis," Bharlori said, tapping the youngest of
the new employees on the head. And with a nod to the
others, "And Khonno, Frivori, Asthif, and Berghis."
Five new employees, all male, all somewhere between
sixteen and twenty. They were necessary, Bharlori ex-
plained, because Bharlori had plans. Bharlori's was ex-
panding, and they needed to be ready.
That they could use the help went without saying. Strang-
ers continued to pour into Khoratum, and they all seemed
to drift eventually to Bharlori's, either as customers or, like
this lot, hillers from a distant valley who had come to Khor-
atum to take advantage of that local growth. These five
cousins, brothers, and friendhad come to the city, Bhar-
lori explained, as a group. And they carried with them a
group's brash confidence, eying the girls with open interest,
and swaggering when they walked.
And as one, they laughed when Bharlori pulled Thyerri
to the front and introduced him as the tavern's prime enter-
tainment, and as one scowled when told they were to be
ready at all times to cover his tables.
Apparently oblivious to the dissension he had just seeded
within the ranks of his employees, Bharlori cheerfully or-
dered Sakhithe to show the "new boys" where they'd sleep,
telling them all to "squeeze tight" for the next few nights,
promising as he retreated to his office, that they'd have
more space . . . soon.
"Looks like it's back to hard beds," Sakhithe murmured,
and she cast Thyerri a resigned grin, before leading the way
to the back room they all shared.
Extra pallets had arrived the day before, and blankets
and pillows. Thyerri and the girls, not realizing they were
intended for new employees, had quite happily distributed
the largesse among themselves, doubling their padding and
their comfort for a single night.
Which meant they now had to separate pallets and blan-
kets, and arrange them about the room, the girls' to one
side, the new employees to the other. Besho, having fallen
immediately in with Shtolis, threw his pallet beside the new
boy's. Thyerri, without giving the matter a second thought,
placed his between Sakhithe's and Khani's.
"What's this?" Asthif asked. "Are we welcome as well?"
"What's wrong with you, Thif?" Frivori sneered, "That's
girls only."
Thyerri blushed and gathered his blanket.
"It's all right. Thy," Sakhithe said firmly. "You can stay
right there."
Thyerri just shook his head and set his blanket among
the new pallets, then returned for the pallet. As he picked
up the pallet, Frivori kicked the blanket aside, knocking
free the purse that held his share of the dance money.
Frivori snatched the purse up and tossed it in one hand.
"And what sort of 'entertainment' do you provide, Thyerri-
boy?" The sneer remained.
"He's a dancer," Mishthi said, and the sneer widened.
Thyerri said nothing, but dropped the pallet and held out
his hand expectantly.
Frivori's thin mouth stretched in a tight smile, and he
crouched slightly, holding the purse out like a lure. "Come
and get it, Dancer-boy."
"I'm going to get Bharlo." Sakhithe headed for the door.
"Wait, Sakhi," Thyerri said, and Sakhithe stopped,
looked around at Thyerri, then nodded.
Frivori's grin widened.
"Okay, Dancer-boy. Let's dance."
Chapter Eight

"You're hiring whom?" Deymorin whirled from the win-
dow, where he'd been contemplating the neighboring build-
ing's  marble   facade,   to   contemplate   his   obviously
demented brother.
"You heard me," Mikhyel responded, serene and un-
touchable behind the massive desk. Borrowed, as this office
was borrowed. "Neutral ground," the demented brother
had called it. Neutral, not for his sake, or even for Mikhy-
el's, but for a piece of scum who, if Deymorin had had
his way three weeks ago, would be fertilizing the leythium
growth chambers.
Mikhyel had been gone from the house before Deymorin
had returned from burying Annheliaa that morning. Gone
from the house and at his office, finalizing plans, main-
taining his determination to leave within three days.
But he was moving too fast, making dangerously precipi-
tous decisions.       "
"Khyel, forget about the tour."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"You never wanted to go anyway."
"What I want is hardly the issue."
"Then let me handle the tour."
Mikhyel laughed. "You'd hate every moment. Besides,
you already have a job."
"Must I state the obvious? I can't let you go. Not after
last night."
"Thanks to last night, I finally know exactly what we
need to accomplish."
"You know nothing. That creature merely confirmed
your own damned suspicions."
"He wasn't lying to me, Deymorin."
"How in hell do you know?"
"He had no reason to lie, and every reason to tell the
truth."
Deymorin drew a steadying breath. "All right, brother,
explain."
"He is of the ley, Deymorin, in ways Anheliaa couldn't
even have imagined. The web is damaged. That means he
is. His interests are ours . . . at least for now."
"So you're going to act on the opinion of a rock?"
"That's not even remotely funny, Deymorin."
"I didn't intend it to be."
"And what do you suggest we do? Challenge him to a
duel? I'm acting on the information I have, Deymorin. That
information accounts for the observed symptoms. It's a
starting point, nothing more."
"And what will you tell the ringmasters? That a burning
lump of leythium imparted the secrets of the universe to
you?"
"I'll tell them it comes from Anheliaa."
"Anheliaa's ghost."
Mikhyel shrugged. "They don't need to know the se-
quence of events. The point is to convince them to trust
long enough to try. If it doesn't work, we'll try something
else. But if it does, ;/ my information is right and if I can
get the ringmasters to agree to direct their energies simulta-
neously toward Khoratum, we could have the web returned
to full strength in a matter of days. That should surprise
Mauritum and anyone else watching us and give you ample
time to secure those borders."
"And if you're wrong?"
"It's all we've got to go on right now. If I'm wrong, if
the web doesn't improve, at least we tried. We go then on
what more we can learn."
"All right, Khyel, all right. I'll concede on that part of
your plan. But this other notion"
"I don't know why you're complaining, Deymorin. It was
your idea."
"My idea? To hire Ganfrion as your personal body-
guard? Hardly."
"You said to get someone who understood the shadows
of the cities to guard my back."
"Ganfrion isn't exactly what I had in mind!"
"No? Perhaps you should read his file. Might change
your mind."
"I've better things to do with my time." Deymorin balled
his shaking hands into fists. "Have you forgotten what that
animal did to you in the Crypt?"
"Irrelevant."
"lr" Deymorin threw himself into the chair opposite
Mikhyel's. "Nothing is more relevant."
"Circumstances being what they were"
"Circumstances be damned! It's your frame of mind
today that's in question."
"I know exactly what I'm doing."
"Do you?" Deymorin tried to force all the caution and
concern he was feeling into the front of his mind and down
Mikhyel's mental throat. "And what about blackmail, dun-
Mheric of Rhomatum Tower? What about simple, nasty
rumor? Everything we hope to accomplish depends on
your image."
"I've faced that particular specter for fifteen years,
Deymorin. Mheric saw to that."
Deymorin leaned forward, elbows on knees, laced fingers
hanging between. "I'm worried about you, Khy. You've
been pushed so close to the edge"
"Several times, recently."
"Exactly. And you've changed"
"We all have. Deymorin, if you'd just look at his file"
"I don't give a damn about a Crypt-bait's resume. He's
an assassin and a rapist, that's all I need to know."
"Actually, he's not an assassin."
"Not? You're the one who said"
"No, he said. He lifed. Read the file, Deymorin."
"I don't need to read a damned file. I saw him. I saw
you with him. And now, you expect me to entrust your
welfare to him?"
"No, not at all."
"Well, that's a relief."
"You've no part in the decision. Which has not yet been
made, incidentally."
"He's not likely to turn you down."
"He's not yet been asked."
"Fine."
Deymorin shoved himself out of the chair, and headed
for the door.
"Rhomandi!"
He stopped.
"Don't do it."
{What happened to my privacy?} Deymorin demanded
silently and had the satisfaction of seeing his devious
brother wince.
{Not where it intersects my interests.} Mikhyel's response
came at a far more civilized volume, and Mikhyel continued
aloud. "This is my decision, Deymorin. You keep away
from him."
"You should never have told me, then."
"I should have left you with hearsay, perhaps? I wanted
to know you knew, Deymorin. I didn't want you thinking
I was keeping significant plans to myself. I hoped you
would do me the courtesy of reading the filebefore ques-
tioning my judgment."
Deymorin clenched his jaw on the retort that rose. Mi-
khyel's detached expression didn't change, but he stood up
and moved to Deymorin's abandoned spot by the window,
gazed outward for a moment, and then turned, a shadow
figure against sunlit marble. "I'm alive because of him."
"I doubt that."
"Everyone knew, after Brolucci's men came for you."
Mikhyel paused, as though expecting comment, and when
Deymorin refused to oblige him: "He claimed first rights.
Made them exclusive rights."
"Damned if I want the details. I've reason enough with-
out them to question your sanity in even contemplating in-
cluding him in your entourage. If you want a man to warm
your bed, we'll find you one. But"
{My bed is, and always will be, my own!}
"Not this time, it's not. I've said nothing, Mikhyel. I be-
lieved you when you said you weren't interested. I've
blamed Mheric and I've blamed Anheliaa for turning you
into a monk; I've mourned your lack of a relationship of
the kind that has brought so much personal joy to me. But
if you want someone like that,  I've got to question your
fitness for"
His voice froze. And Mikhyel's emphatic but formless
objection, laced heavily with resentment and anger, pierced
his  head.  Deymorin  flared  back,  and  Mikhyel's  hold
crumbled.
"All right!" Deymorin said through teeth clenched
against the pain and frustration resonating between them.
"Make your point or let me go."
"He didn't touch me."
"Bullshit. You forget, I saw you, felt him with you when
I picked you up. You were a bloody mess."
"I was alive. Three days after you got me out, Ganfrion
nearly wasn't."
"And I'm to feel sorry for him? So he shat in his own
lair, and his creatures turned. Has nothing to do with you.
You don't owe him, Khyel!"
"Owe him? No, I don't suppose I do. But I can use him."
Deymorin forced his hands to relax, moved a step closer,
wishing he dared touch his brother, to get past all the per-
sonal inhibitions. "What happened . . . after I left?"
A shrug. "I fought . . . well, resisted. You'd have been
amused."
"I doubt it."
Another shrug. "They were. Ganfrion stepped in before
it  became  anything  more  than  mauling  and  shoving.  He
stopped it. Laid claimat some personal cost. It ended. He
took me into his bolt hole, then left me alone."
"So he's got good survival instincts."
"If you believe that, you don't know the prisons as well
as you thought."
"And you do."
"Even before I spent a night in the Crypt. I've sent men
there, Deymorin. I knew. It was my job to know."
"So why'd he do it? Why protect you, of all people?"
"Why didn't he kUl you? He had the chance."
"That's what this interview is about, then?" Deymorin
asked. "Scruples?"
Mikhyel tipped his head.
"And if his answers satisfy you, you'll hire him?"
"If he's physically able, yes. I was a bit late getting him
out. I might just send him to Barsitum."
Deymorin, still far from convinced, probed underneath
for enlightenment and met rebuff. He scowled, thinking he
was going to do some investigating of his own into Gan-
frion of Sparingate Crypt, but doubted he'd gain anything
other than unwilling acceptance of the logic behind Mikhy-
el's actions today.
He was learning slowly that Mikhyel never made arbi-
trary decisions, even one as radical and grotesquely absurd
as this one.
Mikhyel's mouth twitched, and acknowledgment warmed
him from within. Deymorin resisted that warmth, sus-
pectingbecause of that warmththe origin of the thought
that inspired it.
"At times," he said slowly, "I can truly sympathize with
Nikki. Getting too damned subtle, brother."
The warmth vanished, along with the twitch.
"Watch your backside, Mikhyel dunMheric," Deymorin
said, and jerked the door open. "Rhomatum can't afford
to lose you now."
d 8 ~
The door closed with a soft thud; Mikhyel sighed deeply
and relaxed the fists he held clenched at his back.
He'd been expecting a bill for the glass.
If only Deymorin had taken the time to look at the file.
Certainly, Sparingate was a repository for the worst ele-
ments in the webit was part of the price Rhomatum paid
for being the capitalbut this particular villain had a most
interesting background. Scholar, mercenary, assassin . . .
the details of the fate that had driven the man called Gan-
frion ever deeper into the morass of human existence were
only alluded to, but those specifics might make the differ-
ence, might allow the man a . . . Mikhyel mentally reviewed
the file, and decided it would be at least Ganfrion's ninth
chance at an honest life.
But there had been no assassinations. No unwarranted
evil deeds, for all Ganfrion would like him to believe other-
wise. Deeds of dubious legality, without question, but with
a common thread of equity, justice in the purest sense.
Ganfrion might be a man who believed in causes and
fought for them. Mikhyel wasn't interested in altruism. He
wasn't interested in blind obedience. He believed in his
own cause. In a tower rife with Farricci guards and with
remnants of Brolucci's interestsin a country wracked with
civil rivalries, he wanted a man with one loyalty, and a
home in no city.
He turned back to the window, leaning his shoulder on
the side frame to look past the neighboring building and
out across the rooftops of Rhomatum. It was a singularly
beautiful viewat least, to him it was beautiful. He had no
referent, had seen no other city. Another few months and
he'd have seventeen referents, but even if there were other
beautiful  cities,  their  beauty  couldn't  detract  from
Rhomatum's.
"Well, well, well, Suds, a final audience with the prince
before the beheading?" Bold tone, brash words, but the
voice of a man nervous, uncertain, caught in a milieu not
of his choosing.
Mikhyel turned from the window, slowly, deliberately,
and faced the man he'd last viewed from the topmost stair
in Sparingate Crypt. He'd not heard the door open, lost in
his thoughts the way he'd been. Neither had he heard
Paulis' announcement.
And even now, Paulis was not in the room, as he'd
been ordered.
"Off after a glass of water. Suds."
He slid his attention from the door to Ganfrion, standing
at his ease in the middle of the office.
"I was just . . . parched. I'd forgotten how . . . dry the
surface air is."
"Dry," Mikhyel repeated, and when Ganfrion coughed
obligingly: "Of course."
Came a frantic knocking at the door, and Mikhyel bade
Paulis enter.  The bespectacled  clerk entered, flustered
and angry.
"Did you find his water?" Mikhyel asked calmly, into
Paulis' verbal stream of self-condemnation, which stopped
the stream on a puzzled squeak.
"Water?" Mikhyel repeated.
Paulis snapped his mouth closed and went back out, to
return immediately with a silver pitcher and goblet on a
silver tray. Mikhyel raised his eyebrows, and Paulis blushed
bright red.
"Sorry, sir. It was all I could find."
"No matter. You did well, Paulis. .Thank you. You may
go now."
The black look Paulis cast Ganfrion sat as oddly on his
boyish face as the mustache he was trying to cultivate. Gan-
frion, who, with a cut above one eye and puffed and
bruised lower lip was likely the most disreputable sort
Paulis had ever encountered, merely nodded, simple civility
for which Mikhyel was duly thankful.
"It's all right, Paulis," he said. "We're . . . old friends."
Paulis' revised look was one of reverent awe, and too
late Mikhyel realized the new heights to which that casual
claim thrust him. Not only was Mikhyel dunMheric able to
draw on the resources of the Syndicate and the City, but
he had contacts among . . . men of dubious honor as well.
The thought lent an appropriately insane note to the up-
coming interview.
Mikhyel nodded Paulis to leave, then turned back to the
window, waiting until the door closed, then turned to
study Ganfrion.
He nodded to the chair; Ganfrion remained standing.
"To whom have you talked?" Mikhyel asked at last.
"Why, I've talked to a lot of people, Suds. I've spent a
lifetime talking."
"No doubt. How many people know what passed be-
tween us in the prison? Have you talked, man? Because if
you have, you're no use to me. And if you lie about that
fact, I shall find out and you will regret it. Now, I ask again,
to whom have you talked?"
A slow smile just short of a sneer twisted the man's
upper lip. "No one. Suds. I'm no fool. If the lads knew I'd
consciously kept Mikhyel dunMheric from their hands that
first night, I'd be dead. Are you happy?"
"And yet, I understand you were removed from the
prison in less than pristine condition."
Ganfrion shrugged. "You got away. I remained. The lads
had to take out their frustrations somewhere."
Mikhyel nodded briefly. "I suspected as much. Your hold
there was precarious. Now, I had to wonder, once I was
out and had time to piece the facts together, why you acted
as you did. Why you took such a risk."
"Why? For your pretty gray eyes, Suds. Why else?"
His back stiffened, he frowned, but he controlled the
anger and instead nodded again to the chair. Ganfrion
shrugged, sauntered first to the side table where the Syndic
whose office this rightfully was kept wine at hand to soften
his opponents.
It was a challenge, of the simplest sort, and Mikhyel let
it pass, accepted the goblet Ganfrion handed him, and even
raised it in a silent salute before sitting behind the desk.
Mikhyel made a show of sorting papers that weren't his,
leafed through a bound report that was, and signed a blank
piece of paper before returning his attention to Ganfrion.
The man had settled at last, his booted legs crossed. No
shifting about, no apparent tension, just a sipping assess-
ment of the wine that ended when he caught Mikhyel's
eyes on him.
"Pritian Valley, ten years tops. Very mediocre. Briandi
had better find himself a better bribe than this."
"Briandi?" Mikhyel repeated. "Why do you mention
him?"
"Come, come, dunMheric. It's not your office. Not your
style at all, and much too far Downhill." Ganfrion lifted
his goblet. "Pritian Valley wine, dunGorshi law texts, Persi-
tumin pulled-work" he indicated the intricate amirest
cover of the chair he occupied, "and a note on the desk
to contact Syndic dunSkahtkhi. Who else?"
Astute observations which simply confirmed Mikhyel's
suspicions about the man.
"What node?" he asked.
"Briandi? Don't you know? Not much of a Rhomandi
statesman, are you?" Ganfrion paused, laughed into the
silence Mikhyel left hanging between them. "Originally,
dunMheric?"
Mikhyel dipped his head, acknowledgment of Ganfri-
on's capitulation.
Ganfrion shrugged. "Take your pick. Most, at one time
or another."
"Where were you born? To what City do you owe
allegiance?"
"Born? That was a long time ago, my friend. A long . . .
long time ago." He laughed. "Who knows? Perhaps I was
hatched."
"Have you loyalties now?"
"Only to freedom."
"Freedom? Not gold?"
"One's not much good without the other, dunMheric."
"And both? How procurable are your loyalties?"
"Prison-bait? Come, dunMheric, let us not mince words."
"I'm not so inclined. You were uncommonly good at
avoiding Sparingate before you crossed Anheliaa's path."
"Is this a private trial? Going to put me away forever
thanks to that?" Ganfrion nodded to Brolucci's file on
himself.
"You've a villainous history. Those who have hired you
treated you like a villain. Are you?"
Another shrug, small, contemptuous. "I'm a believer in
fair trade. They were villains, both sides. They treated me
as one of them. I returned the favor."
And a man raised with better expectations than life had
granted him.
"A man who would survive can't always choose his pre-
ferred weapons; he has to be ready with a variety of an-
swersin any debate."
"You would know. Suds."
"You fought with the options available, there in the
prison. You chose your path then. Now I invite you to
another."
"I trusted Rhomatum Tower once before."
"I'm not my aunt."
A slow smile.
"No, you most definitely are not."
"I'm prepared to arrange your freedom. I'm prepared to
do more for your future."
"Why?"
"Why isn't Deymorin dead?"
The smile pulled, lopsided and wry. "I am that most un-
fortunate of creatures: a discriminating assassin."
"Meaning?"
"I prefer to judge my prey before I eliminate them."
"And you judged Deymorin the lesser of two evils?"
Ganfrion shrugged. "If I'd so judged, he'd be dead, Suds.
Evil is evil. I don't quibble over degree."
"Fair trade?"
"Fair trade."
"I thought as much. Your . . . business associates turned
you in?"
Another shrug.
Not a man to defend himself. Not one to make excuses.
Take the cards as they fell and play them for the moment.
And yet . . . "Why didn't you recognize him?"
"In the Crypt?"
Mikhyel dipped his head.
Ganfrion shrugged.
"Dark? There'd been imposters already? Take your pick.
Maybe I did recognize him, and didn't give a damn."
"And myself? That first time in the Crypt"
Ganfrion shifted in his seat, and the smile turned sour.
"Brought it on yourself. Suds. Should have played along.
Let me stake a claim right off. One-on's easier."
"Perhaps."
Narrow dark eyes glimmered through a fall of ragged
hair. The scarred mouth twitched. "I like my privacy. Suds.
Take you off in a corner, all by ourselves . . . skinny thing
that you are, I rather suspect I'd've lost interest fast. No
one the wiser."
"Why?"
"Obvious. I wanted out."
"You didn't know who I was. Not at first."
Another shrug.
Mikhyel tapped the file. "You've a record, Ganfrion.
Preferences. Were those others you've claimed too skinny
as well?"
Ganfrion was a big man, large-boned and iron-hard be-
neath his prison-ragged clothing. But the hand that cupped
the wineglass was mostly clean, the nails no worse than
prison life would have them. He wore his hair short-
cropped, hanging ragged to his shoulders, like most Persi-
tumin, and the rest of the Northern Crescent. But that
might well be an attempt toward personal maintenance, de-
mands of prison life.
There were scars on the backs of his hands, and a scar
traced his cheekbone to disappear into his mustache, and
pull his mouth into a permanent sneer. Dark eyes stared
at him from under heavy black brows.
"Beard's coming back, then. Suds?"
"As you see."
"Interesting. I was raised in the Khoramali, Suds. I don't
like to see the hillers persecuted. You've the look about
you . . . without the beard."
"And afterward? Once you did know? Once Deymorin
was gone? You could have let them have me. You didn't."
Ganfrion scratched his temple idly, then up under his
tangled hair with greater purpose. Scraping the grime thus
accumulated from under his nails, he wiped his hand clean
on his patched breeches and leaned back.
"Don't kid yourself, dunMheric, nephew of Anheliaa
dunMoren. I was tempted. At first. I thought you were
Anheliaa's. That being the case, the boys would have been
a fitting end for you."
"You decided otherwise. Why?"
A long pause, and another of those careless shrugs.
"I was once part of Pasri dunHaulpin's personal guard,"
Ganfrion said at last.
Mikhyel flinched. It was a name he hadn't thought of
in years, and wondered how he'd missed it in the file on
the desk.
"I thought you'd recognize the name." The scar twitched.
"I didn't tell old Bro about that. It's an association I prefer
to forget myself. DunHaulpin's preferences were hardly a
secret about the barracks. Rumor held the Rhomandi se-
cured dunHaulpin's signature on the Bartishi venture using
his son as collateral."
The Rhomandi. Mheric, at the time of the Bartishi plan.
This time, Mikhyel controlled his reaction.
"Barrack rumor also said that same son used the same
bargaining power to secure dunHauplin's loyalties to his
own cause in the months following Mheric's death. Among
the barracks, this was generally considered one of the most
audacious bargains ever perpetrated."
Mikhyel said nothing.
"Rumor implied it was Mheric's eldest, that of Mheric's
sons only Deymorin Rhomandi would have the cold-
blooded balls to stand up to dunHaulpin that way." Ganfri-
on's lip lifted in a half-smile that held nothing of its former
sneer. "Having met Mheric's sons, I decided that perhaps
rumor had judged too soon."
A pause, for a swallow of wine, and head-tilted study of
Mikhyel's face.
"Why did I step in? I honestly can't say for certain. Re-
spect, perhaps, for the lad who got the best of dunHaulpin
at last. Self-preservation, more likely. I don't think I'd want
that cold-assed determination pitted directly against me
in prison or out."
The details of Ganfrion's reasoning weren't important.
The end result was.
"Anheliaa is dead," Mikhyel said flatly.
"I don't think I want to hear this."
"I'm quite certain you do not. However, she is, you
know; and it's worth your life if that information leaks out
of this room."
The sneer returned. "Oh, you are your aunt's nephew."
"On the contrary. Anheliaa is dead. She's no longer a
threat or a future for you. I want practical, self-serving men,
not blindly loyal men who will lose their common sense the
first time someone badmouths a Rhomandi."
"Your acumen surprises me."
"I'm not a fool, Ganfrion. I know the Rhomandi are not
the most popular family in the web these days. I hope to
change that general opinion, but that will take time. And
it will take knowledge. I want more than a personal guard.
I want someone who can spot assassins, and can find out
who those assassins work for and why they want me dead.
I want to know, on the streets, who wouldn't care if those
assassins succeeded in their attempts."
"Why? To eliminate the problem?"
"At its sourceyes. And if that source is Rhomandi ig-
norance, then the Rhomandi will become less so. You
might be that man, if you choose. If you prefer otherwise,
I shall simply have you isolated until such time as the infor-
mation you hold is no longer inflammable, and then you'll
serve out your sentence. In a different ward."
Ganfrion drained his glass and poured another, taking
the decanter back to the chair with him.
"And your brother? How does he feel about this notion
of yours? Where does he come into this gambit?"
"Deymorin isn't hiring you."
Narrow eyes assessed him above the glass rim, then
dropped to stare into the wine.
"I was pulled a week ago,"  Ganfrion said.  "Your
doing?"
"I would have sooner, but I had no power."
"Soon enough." The sneer broke on a bark of laughter.
"Bastisti's balls, man, I'm still alive. What more do I
need?" Then, with a dark glower, and a set jaw: "Why?"
"Your silence kept me alive in prison. Your common
sense kept your hands to yourself at the last. I appreciate
a healthy sense of self-preservation, I appreciate logic over
passion. Revenge would have gained you nothing. Self-
control . . . well, it might."
He paced the room slowly. "I'm about to embark on a
fool's venture, man of no city. I'm going to visit every node
in the web, to prepare the leaders for the news of Anhel-
iaa's death, to unite the ringmasters, and to rouse the citi-
zens to defend their borders against Mauritum."
"Mauritum?" the man repeated, intrigued for all his at-
tempts to disguise the fact. If Mikhyel was correct in his
assessment, Ganfrion had an active intelligence, too lively
to handle the boredom of prison for long. "Why? . . . Of
course. Anheliaa. No one to mind the store, Rhomandi?"
"As you say. I need men I can trust, men who can infil-
trate areas of those cities that I cannot, who can hear and
investigate those rumors and factions closed to me. The
Rhomandi have grown out of touch"
"Grown? Man, they've never been in touch. All old Da-
rius ever wanted was a node to call his own. Once the
Rhomatum satellites were capped, he didn't care shit who
sat on them or what they did with them. And his damned
offspring have been no better."
"I want to change that. I can find out what their leaders
think. I want to know how the . . ." He smiled to himself,
thinking of that moment in the prison latrine and the
thoughts he'd had. "How the man on the streets thinks
about the web, Rhomatum, the Rhomandi."
"You'll never survive, Towerman."
"That's where you might prove useful. Convince me,
Ganfrion of no node. Convince me you'd be useful to me."
Chapter One

There was a new poster on prominent display on the post-
ing wall outside Bharlori's Tavern. Even so, Thyerri very
nearly missed it in his rush for the door.
He was late, very late; his fellow employees were not
going to be happy with him. But it had been too longfar,
far too longsince the goat trails and high meadows had
called. When, early that morningfor the first time since
the Collapsethe mountain winds had whispered in his ear,
he'd chased that ancient enchantress deeper and deeper
through the false dawn, into the rocky crevasses, farther
and farther from the City and his growing responsibilities
there.
He'd thought at first it was Mother calling him. Ever
since the night the mountain had come back to life, he'd
waited for her summons, but for all the mountain's in-
creased vitality, Mother's voice had never echoed in his
dreams.
As he'd chased the wind this morning, he'd called and
called and calledto no effect. But his cries had been as
much a song of joy as a plea for attention, a song to assure
Mother that this child at least had found a home.
Not the home he'd dreamed of years ago when the rijhili
first raised the dance rings, but a contentment that Thyerri
would never have believed possible only a few short
weeks ago.
Because Thyerri no longer merely survived; Thyerri
danced now, whenever he felt the urge. And as word of
his dance had filtered through the city, Bharlori's business
had taken yet another forward surge as rijhili, hungry for
entertainment, flocked to this newest diversion.
Sometimes he danced alone, sometimes with Sakhithe.
And sometimes he danced with other hiller dancers who,
hearing of the coins being flung about, came to display
their skills.
But those other dancers rarely returned. Sakhithe in-
sisted it was because they couldn't stand the comparison,
that once they saw Thyerri dance, they realized a level they
could never achieve, and pride kept them from taking his
leavings.
Thyerri didn't know, didn't really care. Thyerri cared that
Bharlori, who had given him this job, was happy. Sakhithe
was. And if Bharlo's new help were occasionally jealous,
and if Sakhi had had to find a loose stone in the kitchen
floor under which to hide his purse from those jealous eyes,
it was a price worth paying.
Shifting shadows and warming air had warned him of a
day more than half gone. His return to the city had been
arrow-straight and breakneck, leaving scratches on his arms
and legs where he'd chosen to leap into a tree's embrace
rather than take the long route down a steep hill.
He darted past the sleepy guard on duty at Khrishim
Gate, and dodged between the late afternoon bartering
crowd along Farmer's Row South, waved at Zeiin, carrying
baskets for  Cook,  and  sprinted  the  final stretch to
Bharlori's
Only to find his passage blocked at the tavern entrance.
A small knot of men had gathered beside the posting
board, and none were inclined to notice a dirty hiller want-
ing past. Thyerri skidded to a halt, made a dart for the
alley, only to find his way blocked by a second group.
"So, the cub has emerged from the lair at last," one
valley voice said, and another:
"And Rhyys is going to sharpen up the rings to cele-
brate, eh?"
Rings?
Thyerri strained to see past the massive bodies, all
dressed as if it were the dead of winter instead of a fresh
spring day.
" 'Bout time we got to see this fancy-dance."
"Says here they're gonna pick a new radical. What hap-
pened to the old one?"
"Dead," a grim and goulish voice declared. "On the rings
when the web crashed. Sliced 'er right in half. Blood all
over the sand."
Which wasn't the truth. Betania, the last radical dancer
of Khoratum, had quit the dance when her sexual interests
exceeded her desire to dance. The web had gone down in
the middle of the last competition, before a new radical
had been declared.
It had been Mavis who died on the rings the day of the
collapse. But she had been a competitorjust like Thy-
errinot the radical.      "-
"What's Rhyys plan to do? Kill another? We haven't got
lights half the time. How can they trust the.dance rings?"
"Just adds that much more spice, Prillin," someone said.
"Half the appeal up here is the blood count at the end."
"Oh."
Thyerri wanted to say that it wasn't true, that no one
went to the competition to see someone hurt, but in truth,
he didn't know. He knew that "half the appeal" for the
true competitors was laughing in death's face. But that was
the thrill and the challenge of the dance itself. He couldn't
imagine what the spectators derived from watching.
Himself, he hated to watch. Watching only made him jeal-
ous, made his body writhe with the desire to flit among the
rings in the dancer's stead.
"When's he due here?" someone asked.
"Threealmost four weeks. We're dead last, lads. Places
us, doesn't it?"
Thyerri wondered who was coming and why, caught a
glimpse of the schedule as bodies shifted. A list of seventeen
nodes. Khoratum was at the bottom. Persitum wasn't listed
at all.
Thyerri wondered whether that lack was oversight on the
part of the printer, or deliberate exclusion, wondered
whether that dire threat voiced in a private upstairs parlor
had been carried out, wondered if Persitum was gone from
the Rhomatum Web.
Considering the energy that had surged through the
mountains that night two weeks ago, it certainly seemed
possible that catastrophic changes had occurred in the web.
Perhaps Persitum's loss was the reason for this "cub's"
upcoming visita cub of such importance that Rhyys was
willing to risk ringdancers' lives with problematic dance
rings in order to impress him.
Thyerri himself would take that risk, if only Rhyys would
let him compete.
But the renewed vitality within the mountain would seem
to indicate a healthier web, not a diminished one.
Mother would know about the state of the web, of course,
but Mother wasn't talking to him. As for the other, this
visiting person of importance . . . for the first time since
the Collapse, Thyerri longed to be back in Rhyys' court,
where speculation would be rife.
The bodies between himself and the poster shifted again
and painted eyes stared right at him. Gray eyes, rimmed
with green. Eyes painfully familiar to the person Thyerri
had once been. Eyes that reached between that past life
and this one and gripped Thyerri's soul and refused to re-
lease it.
Eyes of the sort that stared back at Thyerri from Sakhi's
cracked mirror.
Zeiin's Tamshi eyes, for certain. Eyes that could enthrall,
that could, according to Zeiin, capture a soul to their bid-
ding. But the thin bearded face was that of a valley-man.
Middle-aged or older, grim-faced and crafty. Not the face
he expected to see, certainly not the expression. A rijhili
with Tamshi eyes was coming to Khoratum. Perhaps even
to Bharlori's Tavern.
And then he saw the name: Mikhyel Rhomandi dun-
mheric. Thyerri shivered, and forced his way past the men
crowding up behind him, forced himself away from those
eyes, no longer caring why that man was coming here,
wanting only to be far away when he arrived.
~ d ~
In the distance, a floating sheep wilted and sank.
Elsewhere on the section of the Shatum Leyroad visible
through the carriage window, other balloons, some crea-
tures, some simple, brightly colored mushrooms bearing
company logos, bobbed in the steady breeze.
Not so long ago, the sight of the cargo-hauler lift balloons
had been a constant curiosity; now, five nodes into his trip,
Mikhyel found himself in agreement with Deymorin: as
eyesores, they were amazingly effective.
He had noted at least three shipping companies that he
was considering prosecuting for patent misuse of ley-energy
in a time of limited availability. The garish, elaborate con-
structions had undoubtedly required as much, if not more,
hot air to lift themselves than they ever supplied to the
relief of the wagon axles.
An avarice you silk-sheep would undoubtedly protest.
He'd seen too much of that on this trip as well. Every
time a registered balloon collapsed in transit, the web was
liable. There were guarantees. Hauler permits were issued
on the assumption of available power. When that power
proved insufficient, and a leythium heater failed, someone
had to cover the damages.
And right now, that someone's name was increasingly
Rhomandi.
"Master Khyel" Raulind's voice drew him back to the
interior of the coach. "Regarding your promise to the Ve-
nitumin House of Lords, will you write your brother, or
shall I?"     '
Mikhyel winced. "I'd better write to him, Raul, though
I appreciate the offer."
Raulind nodded, placing the note from yesterday's meet-
ing on the stack of notes destined to consume Mikhyel's
evening.
Venitum. Not the largest of the nodes they'd stopped at
thus far, but the only one to provide him any real concern.
Not that Venitum hadn't had reason for their antagonism.
Venitum was a small node compared to Giephaetum or
Shatum, but within its small umbrella, its dense leythium
crystals glowed with unrivaled intensity.
Venitum was a city of metalworkers. The best weapons
were made there; artists from all over the web sent their
waxes and their plasters to the rather inaccessible mountain
node for final casting. Wax and plaster entered the city, the
finest jewelry and larger-than-life statues came out. Thanks
to the failing web, their production and so their economy,
had ground to a near halt in recent weeks.
And for a node that imported all their food and clothing,
extended problems with the energy flow could well prove
devastating.
When Mikhyel had explained the problem with the Khor-
atum line, Juminari, the Venitum Ringmaster, had advo-
cated  dropping  Khoratum  altogether,  had,  in  fact,
expressed a real desire to return to the pre-Khoratum days
when the lightning belt had kept the Kirish'lani raiders at
bay. Only a promised visit from the Princeps of Rhomatum
to discuss Venitum's special security needs had reconciled
the master smiths who ruled in Venitum to the other Rho-
mandi proposals.
Deymorin, who was, even as Mikhyel had made that
promise, headed for the coastal holdings several days' jour-
ney to the west of the Southern Kharatas and Venitum.
Deymorin was going to be so pleased.
"Ganfrion says some of the most seasoned fighters in the
web are the farmers on the east side of the Khoramali,"
Raulind said in Raulind's most imperturbable voice.
"Ganfrion says?" Mikhyel echoed. "And since when
have you been talking to Ganfrion?"
Raulind's calm  demeanor  didn't  flicker.  But  then,
Raulind's calm demeanor never flickered. "Frequently,
m'lord Mikhyel. Ganfrion knows the Khoramali and sug-
gests perhaps those farmers could be assets to the border
patrol in this region."
Mikhyel laid his pen down, and crossed his arms on the
table. "You fascinate me, Raul. And why would the farm-
ers leave their farms?"
"Perhaps you would do better to discuss that with Gan-
frion, m'lord. I merely repeat what he said to me, and might
well misrepresent the situation."
"If Ganfrion has useful information, Ganfrion can come
to me," Mikhyel said, and reclaimed his pen.
"Then perhaps you should speak to Captain Ori," Rau-
lind said.
And that was all he'd get out of Raulind. But that was
enough. Ori, captain of his guard, and a man he'd hired on
Deymorin's recommendation, didn't approve of Ganfrion.
"I might just do that, Raul."
"As you will. Master Khyel. Now, about this request for
increasing the Harriisidumin hot baths?"
And so, having made his point, Raulind moved ahead.
Raulind was proving endlessly versatile these days, par-
ticularly since the staff Mikhyel had brought along had re-
luctantly declared themselves unable to work in the moving
carriage. They did their best to make up the deficiency
when they stopped for the night, and had offered to work
around the clock while at the nodes, but Raulind's ability
to work, as did Mikhyel, en route, was making that well-
intended sacrifice unnecessary.
"Acceptance pile," Mikhyel answered. "And urgent. I
know there are disbelievers, Raul, but the Barsitumin baths
have saved my life twice. I have to assume others find them
as effective. Because the ley baths don't work for everyone,
doesn't mean we have the right to deprive anyone for
whom they might work."
"My sister was equally fortunate, though at Harriisidum,
of course. I queried only because I feared that personal
experience might cloud my judgment in the matter."
Not to mention he'd been a Barsitumin bath attendant
before he'd moved to Rhomatum. Even so . . . "At your
foggiest,  Raul, you're fairer-headed than  any Syndic I
know."
A back-handed compliment Raul knew full well how to
interpret. The valet dipped his head in phlegmatic acknow-
ledgment, and noted the order on the auto-accept cross-file.
After that, there was silence, as it had been mostly silent
in the carriage for days. Mikhyel worked on his personal
notes, rewriting them for clarity, expanding them before his
memory impressions faded; Raul took the letters and re-
quests accumulated at every stop, rewriting those he
deemed illegible, and then added them to a summarized
listing, filing the original for later referral.
But Venitum was behind him now, as were Harriisidum
and Incarodum and Merdum, and even as Mikhyel dealt
with the accumulated past, thoughts of upcoming days at
Shatum and the thickest of Nikki's reports intruded.
They'd be stopping soonwithin the hour, if he judged
correctlyfor all it was still light out, and for all they were
running ahead of schedule and might actually have made
Shatum before midnight. But he had rooms reserved at the
Eagle's Nest, and looked forward to a quiet evening of
reflection and review of Nikki's report, a good night's sleep
and an easy stage into Shatum tomorrow.
So far, the tours of the Node Cities had been little more
than formalities. Save for that momentary dissension at Ve-
nitum, all the ringmasters had been quite amenable to his
proposals . . . provided Talin Pasingarim, the senior Ring-
master of Shatum, agreed to them. And the various leaders
all thought the border watch was a marvelous notion . . .
Provided the Shatumin Twelve agreed.
Without doubt, Shatum would set the tone for the entire
trip. But he'd known that all along.
Shatum was the second oldest Node City in the Rhoma-
tum Web. Only Rhomatum herself was olderexcepting,
of course, Persitum. But, historically speaking, Persitum
was part of the Mauritum Web, and since Persitum had
dropped so precipitously from the Rhomatum Web, Sha-
tum could now claim her second-born status without
qualification.
Shatum was also second largest, and that was true even
including Persitum. Not second in power-umbrella radius
in that sense, Giephaetum was slightly largerbut in popu-
lation. And in that sense, Shatum would soon outstrip Rho-
matum herself, whose citizens voluntarily limited their
population growth.                            ,)
Most importantly, Shatum, as the primary inteilehange on
the sole sanctioned trade route between the Rhomatum
Syndicate and the Kirish'lan Empire, was the undisputed
leader of the Southern Crescent of Nodes, a fact Anheliaa
had considered carefully in choosing Lidye dunTarim as
her successor in Rhomatum Tower.
And thanks in no small part to that decision, Shatum,
fifth of the seventeen scheduled stops for the Rhomatumin
entourage, would be the first major test of Mikhyel dun-
mheric's persuasive abilities.
Not that he had any particular reason for concern, only
the natural caution one maintained when heading into ne-
gotiations with master merchants. The Alliance of Twelve
Guilds would agree to Rhomatum's proposals because the
proposals made good common sense, but they would drive
a hard bargain. Of that, Mikhyel was certain.
Mikhyel had decided it was a very good thing Anheliaa
had had the grace to depart this world before he'd had to
embark on this tour. The ringmasters were much relieved
to have the steady leeching from Rhomatum at an end, and
his ability to reassure them that the worst was over and
that a healthy Shatumin woman was in charge in Rhoma-
tum seemed to set all minds at ease.
At least, all these Southern Crescent minds. He had to
wonder if the Northern Crescent would respond quite so
favorably.
A twinge in his left hand advised him to set the pen aside
before the twinge became a cramp. Kneading the tired mus-
cles of one hand with the only slightly less tired muscles of
the other, he leaned his head back against the cushions and
closed his eyes against the light.
He worried at times that the lightning blasted trip to
Boreton had caused permanent damage to his eyes. He
wasn't conscious of diminished capacity, just oversensitivity,
and he wondered if the dark-tinted protective glasses some
of the Venitumin factory workers had worn would help.
Of course, he'd look rather silly, walking down a market-
place with his eyes hidden behind two blackened circles
of glass.
A rustle of papers from the table's far side; Mikhyel
cracked his eyelids, found Raulind watching him, a look of
advised concern on his face. Mikhyel twitched an eyebrow;
Raulind nodded, and returned to his cataloging.
Mikhyel"smiled and let his head drift to the side, swaying
with the ftsy movement of the coach.
Considering how much he'd dreaded leaving Rhomatum,
he was finding the trip very much to his liking. He had a
defined schedule, a defined goal at each stop, and a defined
procedure between times.
He also enjoyed the absence of his brothers. Both of
them. Distance had cleared them at last from his mind. At
each node, couriered letters had reassured him regarding
the situation in Rhomatum, as well as the developing situa-
tion on the coast.
Deymorin should be well on his way to Mandriisin's
estate on the coast,"which was to be his base of operations
for the next month; Nikki was pursuing the dam; the rings
were stable. . . .
Overall, he had little to concern him. For once.
The link between himself and his brothers that had so
completely ruled his life for a time seemed remote now,
almost a thing of dreams. If he tried, he could conjure the
memory, recall the sensations.
There was a different cramp in his left hand, and his
fingertips burned from the bite of guitar strings. Not his
fingers: Nikki's. Nikki the poet, Nikki the singer, whose
calluses had vanished from disuse.
And Deymorin, the sway and lurch, the stretch of leg
around solid muscle and bone, the creak of leather . . .
Deymorin on horseback. Such were his associations of his
brothers.
Associations, or had they returned to his head? He began
a more concentrated search for them, sensed Nikki's frus-
tration, heard the sudden discord of a loose string. And
Deymorin
An explosion of power beneath him, a surge that had
nothing to do with the carriage. Mikhyel jumped; the table
tipped; and Raulind grabbed the stacks, saving a day's
work.
Mikhyel pulled the cord that would signal the driver to
stop the coach. A moment later, pounding hoofbeats pulled
up beside them in a clattering spray of gravel.
Thud of feet, a cheerful greeting, and a moment later,
Deymorin's face filled the window and Deymorm's cheerful
greeting filled the coach.
Chapter Two

The city spreading out from this Tower-Hill observation
deck shimmered with almost painful intensity beneath the
Agoran Plains sun. Pale stone and concrete, whitewashed
stuccoevery square foot within the power umbrella had
been developed, and every square inch reflected that relent-
less sunlight.
Along the western horizon. Lake Yakhimarrha shim-
mered with deceptive purity.
Shatum was a city bursting with prosperity.
Shatum's founders had been grain farmers, who had been
drawn to the fertile Agoran Plains, and shipbuilders, at-
tracted to the protected harbors of Lake Yakhimarrha. For
such as they, large families had been an asset.
In subsequent years, a flourishing textile industry and the
fact that Shatum lay on the one reliably storm-safe overland
trade route had assured the southern node's affluence, as
well as the current strain on her resources.
Shatumins seemed fond of their crowded streets, and
didn't seem to notice when the odd eastern breeze wafted
the stench of the sewers through the crowded markets, sew-
ers that did little more than hold the city's waste, waiting
for the overtaxed leythium growth chambers to accept it.
City engineers added constantly to those growth cham-
bers, excavating beneath the city to create pockets where
the crystals could grow. Enterprising citizens leased space
in those chambers, growing and tending the crystals to their
own specifications, controlling the growth of the crystal to
form everything from engine cores to exquisitely fine lace.
And still, the waste produced by the ever-growing popu-
lation outstripped their ability to dispose of it.
Much to the disgust of the privately-owned resorts scat-
tered along the shores of Lake Yakhimarrha, a handful of
districts simply washed their sewage out into the popular
vacation spot. The water quality of the lake was (according
to Nikki's notes) the focus of much bitter debate within the
halls of Shatum's bureaucratic chambers these days.
All for want of a little self-control in their bedchambers.
Mikhyel shook his head in disbelief and deserted the
train station's observation window to claim a newly-vacated
front row seat in this elevated waiting room. The chair's
previous occupant had joined a half-dozen others waiting
at the door at the back of the room, anticipating the arrival
of their train, trusting, as these Shatumin seemed inclined
to trust, the schedule posted on the chalk b6ard beside
that door.                                         ii
And indeed, only moments later, the chime that an-
nounced the vehicle's arrival rang from the dock below,
and the passengers gathered at the back of the room
pushed their way out the door and clattered down the steps.
But the train that was about to pull in wasn't the train
he awaitedthe inner sense assured him of thatso he
remained where he was, affecting an indifference he in no
wise felt.
Within the hour, Mikhyel was scheduled to face the
Guild Alliance of Shatum, the most influential force in the
Southern Crescent, an already difficult, delicate task made
infinitely more difficult by Deymorin's unexpected addition
to his entourage three days ago.
"Courtesy stop," Deymorin called his unannounced
change in plans. An eight-day detour from his planned
route to say Hello to his brother's wife's family.
Gross interference, Mikhyel called it.
Mikhyel pushed himself to his feet, and returned to the
window, compelled to check, even though that inner sense
told him Deymorin was notas he'd promised he would
be when he'd left an hour agoon the train that was pull-
ing in.
Deymorin, whose mere presence here in Shatum dictated
he be included in the upcoming meeting, was late. Deymorin,
who could have bowed out gracefully simply by leaving
yesterday, or even this morning, was going to single-hand-
edly destroy this vital first impression on the Elders of the
Twelve Guilds.
Leaning his forehead against the cool glass, Mikhyel
closed his eyes against that painful light, and called silently,
imperatively. The images he received back, vague impres-
sions of control panels and steam-engine schematics, were
only marginally reassuring. But Deymorin was on his way.
Deymorin was aboard one of these machines, somewhere
out among the chaos of Shatumin streets, and Deymorin
would be here in time, or so he silently claimed.
But then, Deymorin trusted these steam-driven vehicles
and their exacting schedules.
The previously announced train pulled in to the dock
below, venting steam rising in puffs above the engine, and
the people milling below surged forward, some to board its
open-sided- cars,  and  others  to  greet  the  passengers
disembarking.
They'd imrrived in Shatum late in the evening, two nights
ago. Since then, their every movement, every schedule had
been dictated by these mechanisms. Official tour of the
Shatum Tower, dinner with the newly-elected Princeps, Re-
kharin dunPwirriin, or the celebrated Shatumin Opera,
those events had, beginning and end, coincided with the
arrival of one of these strange vehicles at the nearest dock.
Everyone seemed dependent upon the schedules, and for
all the streets were crowded, few individuals seemed to
walk farther than the nearest station. A cultural adaptation
that, to his eyes, had been less than beneficial to the popu-
lations' health.
Rhomatumins walked. Some took the pedal-cabs, partic-
ularly following a shopping expedition, but for simply get-
ting about, they trusted their own feet. Rhomatum was, by
and large, a sleek and slender city.
Here in Shatum, the prosperity that threatened its waste
disposal equally threatened its fabricated seams.
A grimly diverting thought wondered how long and how
hard Lidye, coming out of this environment, must have la-
bored to make herself attractive to Rhomatumin eyes, and
what would happen to her slender form, now the contract
with the Rhomandi was complete. He hoped, for Nikki's
sake, that the transformation would prove permanent.
Exactly on schedule, the bell rang three times, and with
a puff of steam, the train pulled free of the dock and van-
ished down a side tunnel.
They reminded Mikhyel of snakes slipping surreptitiously
from one hiding spot to the next.
From this second-story, upper Tower-Hill vantage, he
could detect no evidence of Shatum's twelve leylines. Un-
like RhomatJim, where those lines were kept clear for the
floater-cabs' brightly colored balloons, here, they'd been
built over, spanned with businesses and homes. The trains
needed no such air space above them, and frequently
slipped under and Within buildings.
According to Nikki's notes, thirteen of the eighteen satel-
lites now operated similar systems.
But not Rhomatum. He'd read the proposals to introduce
the new technology into the capital city. He'd been mildly
intrigued, probably he would have supported the promoters
had they come to him, but he'd had other, more'lmmediate
concerns, and the floaters and transport lobbies had proved
overwhelming. The Rhomatum City Council Kadad refused
to accept the proposal for debate, and so his opinion had
gone unheard.
According to those reports, one such steam-powered en-
gine could transport five times the cargohuman or other-
wiseof one of the floater-cabs, twice as much as the
balloon-assisted cargo-haulers that operated on the lines
between nodes. But the Syndicate of Nodes was based in
Rhomatum, and subject to those same, organized pressures,
and thus far none of the proposed internode rail systems
had found support either.
He was sorry now that he hadn't pursued his initial inter-
est. Despite his personal aesthetic reaction to the trains,
despite his reservations about their effect on the people
who relied too heavily on them, their efficiency was undeni-
able, and with the current reduction in available ley energy,
efficiency might be precisely the incentive for the Syndicate
at least to give the steam engines a trial.
He made a mental note to have Paulis look into it while
they were here, to track down the current usage patterns
and the efficiency ratings, and comparatives to the pre-
collapse numbers.
Always supposing, of course, that Deymorin didn't take
over this trip entirely.
His left hand tightened into a fist around the folio's
shoulder strap. A .ring glittered in the bright sun. A Rho-
mandi ring. A copy of that one lost at Boreton; duplicate
of one Deymorin wore and a third on Nikki's left hand.
Deymorin had presented his brothers with those rings
the morning Mikhyel had left Rhomatum. A gesture of soli-
clarity and equality, or so Deymorin had claimed that morn-
ing in front of the collected household.
He relaxed his fist, twisted the ring around his finger with
his thumb, wondering why he felt less an equal and more
a sworn manMikhyel gorDeymorin. There could be
worse fates, but he preferred honesty in oathtaking.
He believed in freedom of choice.
Deymorin's generous gesture, coming without warning
and in front of witnesses had left him without that option.
Thanks to that underneath sense, he knew that such a sub-
jugating qath had not been in Deymorin's surface thoughts
as he plaqed the ring on Mikhyel's hand, but the under-
neath ser~ did not necessarily penetrate to Deymorin's
deepest thoughts, and the granting of a family ring was
the oldest expression of that singular relationship between
two men.
Deymorin knew the history of the gesture as well as Mi-
khyel. Better, he'd wager.
Suspicionsof a sort he'd hoped never to harbor again
about his brother. Mikhyel sighed, raised the ring momen-
tarily to press against his lips, and wondered, given the
choice, how he would have responded.
He let the hand drop.
A puff of steam rising from beyond the Muradashi Build-
ing heralded the arrival of another train, one that inner
sense declared to be Deymorin's. Releasing his uncon-
sciously held breath, Mikhyel shifted the briefcase shoulder
strap to a different bruise and dropped down onto the
chair, his knees simply giving out with his relief.
"What if he's not on this one either?" a guttural voice
asked from the row behind him.
"He is," Mikhyel answered, without turning back.
A snap of paper underscored Ganfrion's disbelieving
grunt.
Mikhyel debated explaining the unconventional link be-
tween himself and Deymorin to his unconventional body-
guard. The question had been moot until Deymorin had
showed up, but he found he had an unreasoning desire for
Ganfrion's good opinion.
Or perhaps it was simply a desire to ruffle the inmate's
arrogant conceit.
Not that personal opinion should make any difference. As
long as Ganfrion accepted his paycheck, Mikhyel dunMheric
was the most sagacious individual in the universe. The realiza-
tion that one day Ganfrion might not show up for the pay-
check caused Mikhyel to keep his peace about certain
strengthsand weaknessesin the Rhomandi arsenal.
Another puff of steam and the cheerful, light bell an-
nounced the imminent arrival. The bulk of those waiting
gathered their belongings and headed for that back door.
When they'd arrived late last night, the train had carried
them from the stables outside the perimeter wall to the
Hilltop Inn where they had spent the night in regal splen-
dor, a last-minute change of venue he suspected he owed
to Deymorin's presence,                        .ii
Not that he'd spent much time in the large ahfl comfort-
able bed, having been far too busy preparing for this up-
coming meeting.
But looking out across those tightly packed roofs, splen-
dor was not the norm, here in Shatum. Like Rhomatum,
Shatum had had a power-umbrella increase when Khora-
tum had been added to the web, new territory into which
their Families' younger generations had expanded eagerly,
expansion that now had their populace scrambling, so
Nikki's  report  said,  to  accommodate  their  energy-
disposessed homeowners, and their next generation.
He was certain, if that was indeed the case, that he'd
hear all about it in the coming hours.
"Stay where you are," Mikhyel murmured to the rustling
paper in the next row back, and joined those gathering at
the window.
Impatient passengers poured from the open-sided cars as
the train coasted to a halt, but Deymorin was not among
them. Mikhyel refused to be anxious. Four of Deymorin's
men, inconspicuously dressed and seemingly at ease, had
been the first to step free of the forwardmost car; the sense
told him Deymorin was near and well; beyond that, he kept
his mind resolutely isolate.
Eventually, after the reverse wave of boarding passengers
had cleared the dock, when Mikhyel was the last individual
left standing at the window, Deymorin did appear, swinging
free of the engine, a wide grin on his face.
Mikhyel relaxed, knowing now not only where his
brother had been, but why his mind had been so unobtru-
sive: Deymorin and Nikki shared a fascination with ma-
chines not even that inner link could inspire in Mikhyel.
As his grinning guardsmen fell in on either side, Dey-
morin waved a farewell salute to the engineer, skip-walking
backward like an adolescent. The small engine answered
with a burst of steam and a cheerful whistle as it pulled out.
Deymorin skipped about and took the lower stairs two
at a time, throwing his head back to catch Mikhyel's eyes
and broadcasting a cheerful mental announcement. But the
sense turned dark and ill-tasting, Deymorin's hand fell, and
his grin vanished into a black scowl, before he disappeared
into the shadows below.
"All hail Prince Deymio, savior of Rhomatum, leader
of the combined forces of the Rhomatum Syndicate. Who
stopped Mauritum with sweets and toys." It was the gut-
tural voice again, this time at his shoulder.
"I told you to stay back," Mikhyel said, knowing Gan-
frion for the source of Deymorin's black humor.
Ganfrion shrugged. "I finished the paper." He folded the
sheets with an economical flip, and tossed the paper to
Mikhyel's abandoned chair. The room was empty now, save
for themselves and a person of indeterminate age snoring
quietly on a corner couch.
"You may go now."
Ganfrion slouched about, leaning against the window,
arms crossed. "I better wait until the farm-boy gets here."
Despite his better sense, Mikhyel bristled. "Deymorin's
no farm-boy."
"No?" Ganfrion's narrow, dark eyes rounded on him. "He
followed me last night. Suds. Subtle as a bull moose in a glass
house. Call him what you will, soldiers won't follow him."
"Deymorin's men would follow him to hell and back."
"Farmers." Ganfrion's scarred upper lip lifted. "I'm talk-
ing soldiers. Suds. Mercenaries. Swords, guns, and death
for hire."
"Men like you."
"Men like me."
Deymorin appeared at the door, scowling.
"You are dismissed," Mikhyel repeated firmly. He steadied
the shoulder strap and headed for the door, determined,
should Ganfrion press him further, to turn him over to
Deymorin's charge, to let him see what kind of leader
Deymorin was or was not.
That way, he'd be free of them both.
He'd hired Ganfrion in part because the inmate re-
minded him of Deymorin; it was, he thought in retrospect
as he brushed past Deymorin and headed down the hall, a
very stupid reason.
~ ~ 8
For once, Deymorin thought sourly, Ganfrion displayed
a modicum of sense. The jail-rot remained at the window
where he'd been standing too damned close to Mikhyel
and nodded almost civilly to Deymorin, who dipped his
own head a calculated degree, and followed Mikhyel.
His men were waiting in the hall, their eyes flitting be-
tween himself and Mikhyel, who was already halfway
toward the staircase that led to the station's main entrance.
Deymorin hurried after Mikhyel, all too aware of the angry
silence closing his brother's mind off from him.
He'd read Ganfrion's file (compiled through his own
sources), and, he would admit, with his node-wandering his-
tory, and underworld contacts, Ganfrion could have been
a useful adjunct.
To another man's entourage.
Pacing Mikhyel as they passed from one building to the
next, he caught the flicker of eye, the half-twist of Mikhyel's
dark head that indicated he was under covert inspection.
Laughing, he held out his hands, first palm up, then down.
"Greaseless, I assure you, brother. Would you like to
check behind my ears?"
Which neither gained him the laughter he hoped for nor
eased that inward tension. Mikhyel's jaw set, his face
turned firmly to the front and grim.
"Trust me, Mikhyel."
"The way you trust me?"
"Of course I trust you."
"So much so, you insisted on attending this meeting."
"I didn't insist, they obviously expected it. I thought it
would be rude not to."
"You weren't supposed to be here at all."
"I thought you'd appreciate the support."
Mikhyel said nothing, and Mikhyel kept that mental dis-
tance that had a vague tendency to chill Deymorin's heart
with an ice that could spread clear to his fingertips if he
allowed it go unchallenged.
"Ganfrion's not coming?" Deymorin asked, fighting that
chill, seeking the root of this argument.
"No."
"I read his file."
"I know."
And Mikhyel didn't care what Deymorin thought. Not
now. That came through clearly, just in his silence.
"You should have On with you. And a couple of his men."
"I had Ganfrion."
"And you told me that Ganfrion was not one of your
guard. Yda were quite specific on that point."
MikhyeB flung him a look that swept past him to his men.
"How largt: a guard do you think I can flaunt before the
locals take offense? This is Shatum, brother. Not Mauritum.
Just in case you've forgotten."
Deymorin set his jaw on the retort that rose. The issue
wasn't that simple, but Mikhyel knew that. Mikhyel knew
there were those throughout the web who would happily see
the end of the Rhomandi era in Rhomatum. Wasn't that why
he'd hired Ganfrion in the first place? To ferret out that infor-
mation and discover its roots? He should let his spies do their
job and in the meantime, keep a sensible protective layer
between himself and people he damnwell didn't know.
"Is that why you were in the engine? Alone?" Mikhyel
asked, out of his thoughts.
"I had my men with me." He nodded to Belinh and
Ghestrovii walking to their front.
"As did 1. Until you arrived with yours."
"And if we get separated? They'll come with me, Khyel,
regardless of what I tell them."
"And were they with you last night when you were trail-
ing Ganfrion?"
His teeth grated, one on the other. Mikhyel knew damn
well he didn't trust Ganfrion. The fact that he'd followed
the inmate into some of the darker shadows of Shatum was
his business. Besides:
"I can" Take care of myself, he caught the words be-
fore voicing them, but it didn't take the link for Mikhyel
to complete the sentiment.
"I see. Different rules for the Rhomandi than for his
brother."
"I had my men."
"And who in addition to Ganfrion spotted you? Perhaps
you should reexamine your own wisdom, Rhomandi."
Deymorin pressed his lips tight. Mikhyel was angry. Mi-
khyel was making deliberately provocative statements.
More than likely Mikhyel was nervous about this meeting.
Unnecessarily, Deymorin was certain. These past nights,
long after Deymorin had flung himself exhausted into bed,
he would wake to images in his head of candlelight and
notes and maps spread about a table, and Mikhyel's long-
fingered hands, the newly cast Rhomandi ring glittering in
the flickering light as the hand bearing it turned a page.
No, his concerns now had nothing to do witl Mikhyel's
persuasive abilities in the civilized arenas his eloquent and
elegant brother was accustomed to treading. It Was this no-
tion Mikhyel had taken of probing more deeply into the
underground factions within the nodes. He feared that Mi-
khyel's strange new obsession would lead him into situa-
tions far beyond Mikhyel's ability to survive.
Mikhyel called him a hypocrite, and cut him off cold
when he tried to discuss it. But there was a helplessness to
Mikhyel that frightened him. A vulnerability that went be-
yond his physical frailty. Deymorin was haunted by images
of Mikhyel lying crumpled on the ground at Boreton, be-
side his bed, limp in the arms of that animated corpse, in
the garden with Nikki flailing at him. . . .
And that vision in Mikhyel's head of Mheric Rhomandi's
crop-wielding hand bearing down on him. Mikhyel denied
the link, rejected the possibility that Mheric's actions had
so deeply affected him, but Deymorin recalled the prison,
Mikhyel's passivity with Ganfrion and five other
"Damn you!" Mikhyel hissed at him, and Mikhyel in-
creased his pace, pulling ahead of Deymorin's limping stride,
and Deymorin made no attempt to catch him up. His leg
throbbed like a rotted tooth; he'd twisted his back trying to
see the underside of the engine's control panel, and without
Kiyrstin available to work her ten-fingered magic, he saw no
reason to aggravate it for a brother determined to ignore him.
{Deymorin Rhomandi dunMheric, if you can't get your
mind on the meeting, get the hell out of Shatum!}
By the time his head stopped ringing and his vision
cleared, they had arrived at the conference chamber.
Chapter Thre

IntroductiPJls  were  a  droning  formality,  a  matter  of
Princeps Ttekharin dunPwirriin apologizing for the sudden
change t schedule, and explaining how the Rhomandi
would enlighten them all as to the reason for that change.
Nine men and three women, chosen advocates of the
twelve Shatumin guilds. Primary among those guilds was,
of course, the Leythium Guild that included all handlers
of the ley, from the growth-chamber attendants to Talin
Pasingarim, the senior Shatumin Ringmaster, who was, nat-
urally, their advocate at this meeting. Lawyers and accoun-
tantsin this city that was the major trade conduit for the
Kirish'lan Empire, those guilds were second only to the
Leythium Guild.
Except, possibly, for old Kharl Varishmondi, standing
next to the window, staring out at his beloved Lake Yakhi-
marrha. The patriarch of the Varishmondi shipbuilders,
who formed a guild unto themselves, the old man's opinion
undoubtedly carried more weight than any five others,
should he care to make that opinion known.
Kharl had been a frequent visitor to Darhaven when
Mheric was alive. Since Mheric's death, Deymorin hadn't
seen him.
Beyond that, if he wanted to know the names, Deymorin
had the list, Mikhyel had seen to that, but he was here to
observe only, moral support for his brother, and once the
introductions were complete, he was more than willing to
nod pleasantly, and sit down, tacitly declaring Mikhyel in
charge.
Mikhyel remained standing, neither by word nor glance
acknowledging his gesture.
Resentment flared, until he noticed the silent looks being
passed about the table, and realized Mikhyel could not af-
ford to register gratitude, could not even think gratitude.
Mikhyel would concede to no one in this roomincluding
Mikhyel himselfthat so important a moment was being
abdicated to the lesser Rhomandi.
Mikhyel o~ed with a general statement of appreciation
for them gatnering on such short notice and with so little
explanation, and an apology for any inconvenience their
changed schedules might have caused them.
In a delivery that never hinted of rehearsal, Mikhyel
shifted smoothly into a personal greeting to each guild ad-
vocate, including in that greeting some recognition of the
guild's work in general and the advocate's persooaal accom-
plishments in particular. Deymorin resisted the temptation
to stare, knowing that three days ago, Mikhyel hadn't
known a yardarm from a beater bar.
If ever Deymorin had doubted the wisdom of sending
Mikhyel on this tour, it vanished then. Even had Deymorin
tried to make similar use of Nikki's notes, he'd never have
matched Mikhyel's near-intimate delivery.
Neither could he match Mikhyel's sense of timing. While
the first mentioned still preened, those yet to hear their
own tributes were leaning slightly forward, and all of them
surreptitiously eyed their fellows, evaluating the relative
prestige of their acts, making sure their fellows were
equally  cognizant  of  their  efforts  as  this  perceptive
foreigner.
He could appreciate that talent now, in a way he couldn't
when they'd matched verbal blades before the Syndicate
in Rhomatum.
Even old Varishmondi turned slowly from his window,
as Mikhyel's litany reached him at last. His gray head tilled
as he made a shaggy-browed assessment of Mikhyel, then
slowly, deliberately, the big man's backbone relaxed, his
arms crossed and he leaned his broad shoulders back into
the window frame, one leg rising to prop in casual ease on
the sill.
Mikhyel tipped his head in acknowledgment, then, with
another smooth feint, shifted his attack.
"I also apologize for the lack of information you have
been given. That was, I freely admit, at my request, so
blame me, not your honorable princeps. I thought impa-
tience might be better than speculation based on insuffi-
cient information. I wanted to be available to answer those
speculations as they arose."
"Is Anheliaa dead?" Abrupt, rude, without preamble,
the question came from one of the advocates. Which,
Deymorin wasn't sure.
But Mikhyelstaring straight at a man half-again his
sizeobviously did know.
Mikhyel, in fact, answered as abruptly, "Yes."
A forthrightness that obviously rocked the large man,
who biinked and sat back in his chair.
"If I may, dunMheric?" a more reasonable voice inter-
jected, and Mikhyel nodded. "When did she die?"
"The-neighteenth day of the third month."
A maftient's silence, then a third voice commented, "The
day th storms subsided." The ringmaster, Deymorin
thought, Pasingarim. "The day the power returned."
And another: "The day Persitum dropped from the
web."
Mikhyel stood quietly as those observations took root.
Then, he said, "I will be happy, honorable advocates, to
answer your questions, but if you will allow me a few mo-
ments to lay the groundwork . . ."
"One question only." Pasingarim again. "Who has been
master in Rhomatum Tower since Anheliaa's death?"
"Lidye Fericci romNikaenor."
The individuals about the table searched that name for
significance. Personal name, family, and wife of Nikaenor.
Acknowledgment of self, of her Shatumin family, but allied,
irrevocably, to the House Rhomandi.
At last the ringmaster said, in a tone that augured no
argument, "Proceed, Mikhyel dunMheric. We shall hold
our piece."
And for the next two hours, Mikhyel held them riveted
hell, he had Deymorin riveted, and he'd been there. He
explained the historical rift between the brothers, the ef-
forts of Anheliaa to promote that rift in order to control
the web to her own purposes. And he described the grow-
ing unrest in the Outside territories of Rhomatum as An-
heliaa's purposes ran counter to their needs.
That admission drew the attention of the two Shatumin
Outsiders on this panel: Food Production and Weavers. Be-
tween their own operations and imports from Kirish'lan,
Shatum provided the bulk of the grain, cotton, and linen
for the entire web. Those guilds had to maintain a constant
balance between local production and import goods, and
could well sympathize with their counterparts in the Rho-
matum Val~ '.
Mikhyel im>.ved on to the events of the previous fall, and
Anheliaa's attempts (well known to these leaders of Lidye's
home city) to find a new master for the Rhomatum Rings.
"As you also know," Mikhyel said, "Anheliaa hoped to
revitalize web relations through our marriages, hence Ni-
kaenor's marriage to your own esteemed Lidye dunTarim,
and my own, still pending, union with Nethaalye dunErrif
of Giephaetum Node."
"And what of your other brother," Peri Fericci dunBren-
nin. Lawyers advocate, and Lidye's second cousin called
out. "What of the man who sits silently beside, ,you, the
Princeps of Rhomatum who refused the lady Lidye's hand?
To whom was he pledged? He, who was too fine for a
Shatumin woman?"
Deymorin frowned, and sent a silent query to Mikhyel,
who answered with similar confusion:
"Mistress Lidye was my brother Nikaenor's choice. Ad-
vocate dunBrennin."
"Not by our first agreement! Anheliaa promised us the
Princeps of Rhomatum for Lidye."
{Anheliaa's secret agreements,} Mikhyel's voice whis-
pered in Deymorin's mind. Aloud, Mikhyel said, "The con-
tract read otherwise, Lord Advocate. Neither I nor my
brother was privy to whatever private verbal agreements
you made with my aunt. The signed contract was between
Nikaenor Rhomandi dunMheric and the Shatumin Twelve.
The practical contract is between Nikaenor and Lidye, and
both those parties are, I assure you, quite satisfied."
"That does not explain why Deymorin Rhomandi re-
fused Lidye!"
"If I may, Mikhyel?" Deymorin spoke for the first time,
and Mikhyel nodded, but qualified with a silent warning
against temper. "What Mikhyel has failed to tell you, is
that Anheliaa's methods of petition began not with logic
or reason, but with force. Who among you would agree to
marriageor any other life-contractunder violent coer-
cion? It was not the lady Lidye's hand I rejected, it was
Anheliaa's proposal."
A statement of half-fact that was close enough to the
truth for this meeting.
"Are we to infer, then, that your youngest brother was
weak in his acceptance of Lidye?" dunBrennin asked.
"And that this weak man is left in power in Rhomatum
while you two wander about making pretty speeches?"
"Infer, rather," Mikhyel slid in smoothly, "that Anhel-
iaa's methods improved after they failed so utterly with
Deymorin. More than that, Anheliaa actively sought, it is
my firm belief in retrospect, to drive Deymorin out. Anhel-
iaa feared that, should we three brothers reconcile, her
reign was at an end."
He paused, and all those seated at the table leaned
forward:
Mikhyel's  mouth  twitched.  "Gentlemen,  we  have
reconciled."
"And Anheliaa's reign is at an end."
"Even before she died. Yes."
"Even though you could, none of you, control the rings."
"There comes a time when tyrants must be stopped. An-
heliaa was mad, honorable advocates, there is no other ex-
planation for her actions. I bear the responsibility for
keeping that madness from the Syndicate for as long as I
did. But I saw no choice. She failed to settle on another to
succeed her, and to have her true nature generally known
might well have instilled panic and anarchy throughout
the Syndicate."
"You sought to protect us from reality," Varishmondi's
deep voice filled the room. "As your father did before you.
You, who were all of . . . what, thirteen? . . . when he died,
knew better then the Syndicates what was best for the web.
Is that what we are to believe?"
There was turmoil underneath as Mikhyel struggled with
his own past uncertainties regarding his fitness for the task
he'd accepted in his youth. But the face Mikhyel turned
toward Varishmondi was cold, hard, and absolute.
"At thirteen, no," Mikhyel answered firmly. "By the time
I reached seventeen, yes. Absolutely. I knew the danger of
crossing Anheliaa Rhomandi better than any one living.
There was no other way to both end her tyranny and pro-
tect the web until she accepted the lady Lidye as her
successor."
Varishmondi's mouth tightened, but whether in humor
or anger, Deymorin would not wager a lump of coal.
Turning his attention to include all the advocates, Mi-
khyel continued, "YouIu~llow Shatumin's ability to control
the Rhomatum Rings and to insinuate herself into Anhel-
iaa's good graces gave me options I had not had in ten
years."
That pleased them. And Varishmondi, never taking his
eyes from Mikhyel, settled into his designated seat at last.
"About your brother's exile into Persitum . . ." the ring-
master interjected, referencing an event Mikhyel had men-
tioned but not yet explained in detail.
Deymorin believed that oversight had been made by de-
sign and opened his mouth to protest, only to find his voice
frozen in his throat.                             -
"Yes, Ringmaster Pasingarim?" Mikhyel answered.
"Is it true? Has Anheliaa, in fact, perfected the legendary
art of instant leyportation?"
"I wouldn't call it perfected," Mikhyel said smoothly,
and that paralysis in Deymorin's throat eased, leaving him
little doubt as to its origin.
"But she can do it."
"Could."
"And did. To youboth."
Mikhyel faltered. Mikhyel had kept reference to himself
minimal, maintaining, Deymorin was certain, a buffering
distance between himself and the events he was describing.
"What was it like?" the ringmaster asked, possibly out
of genuine curiosity, possibly smelling blood.
What was it like. . . . No one had ever asked him that.
It was fallingendlessly. And it was sudden pain. And
fear. And it was Kiyrstin, which rendered all the other asso-
ciations harmless.
But the thoughts that breached the barrier between him-
self and Mikhyel were very different. There was no Kiyrstin
to temper the ordeal. Falling as well, but fierce light, burn-
ing, a sense of being pulled apart, stretched from one hori-
zon to the other.
And horror. Horror that made his brother's naturally
pale face turn a sickly shade of white. And Deymorin
feared for him, feared for the control he'd held over his
audience, who watched him now with hawklike intensity.
Deymorin, throwing surreptition to the wind of necessity,
gripped Mikhyel's elbow, and through that hold, sensed
Mikhyel's mortification, his struggle for control, his anger
at his own weakness, and the knowledge he'd been outma-
neuvered; and Deymorin sent back bolstering reassurance,
and an image of the ringmaster rude enough to bring the
color back to Mikhyel's face, and a near-hysterical silent
laughter.
"Unpleasant,  Ringmaster  Pasingarim,"  Mikhyel  an-
swered firmly. "Most unpleasant. Not an experience I'd rec-
ommend. If we are fortunate, the secret died with her."
And not a sentiment, from his expression, which the hon-
orable Ringmaster of Shatum shared, for all he let the mat-
ter drop.'
But Deymorin continued to worry, his confidence in Mi-
khyel shaken. And, indeed, Mikhyel's eloquence did not
return in full, and his hold over his audience appeared
markedly diminished. While they listened, it was not with
the enraptured attention they'd shown before.
"We've heard rumors," the princeps said, "that link the
honorable Princeps of Rhomatum with an invading force
out of Mauritum."
"Hardly an invasion, sir," Mikhyel said. "And his associ-
ation was accidental, a result of his precipitous expulsion
from Rhomatum."
Mikhyel went on to explain how Deymorin's exile had
placed him in the hands of a Mauritumin scouting party
that had brought with it a machine capable of destroying
Rhomatum Tower. Wood creaked as weight shifted in the
elaborately carved chairs, and disbelief permeated the
room.
But Mikhyel looked pointedly at the ringmaster and said,
"The machine controlled lightning. I remind you of the
Aslimarin incident."
All eyes followed Mikhyel's, and the ringmaster, his own
veracity now challenged, nodded.  "Such a machine is
known. Aslimarin was a small subsidiary of Orenum. Thirty
years ago, one of these . . . lightning generators . . . was
presented to that tiny bud's ringspinner. The demonstration
destroyed the bud, and nearly everyone involved in the
demonstration. Such a machine set into action within a ring-
chamber the size of Rhomatum could indeed cause a chain
reaction that might destroy the Tower, if not the entire
web. But," the ringmaster qualified, casting Mikhyel a chal-
lenging gmnce, "it would have to be employed within the
chamber itself."
Mikhyel tipped his head. "They planned to gain access
to Rhomatum Tower through Deymorin."
"Willing participation?"
It was not Mikhyel's most diplomatic explanation: anger
didn't begin to cover the emotion that flared in the room,
this time aimed directly at himself.
"Not willing, no," Mikhyel said, facing that anger without
flinching. "Deymorin thought, and still maintains, that the
technology has theoretical validityfor the Outside. With
proper controls. That, however, is for the future;Vhe point
at issue is that it was a deliberately aggressive-move on
Mauritum's part"                          :
"But if, as you suggested, that aggression was in response
to Anheliaa's failing health and the potential vacuum in
Rhomatum Tower, the fact that the lady Lidye is obviously
in control there should eliminate both their temptation and
our need to arm a defense."
"Rhomatum is under control now. How would you judge
the quality and health of the web. Ringmaster Pasingarim?"
The ringmaster slouched in his chair, frowning, but he
didn't contradict Mikhyel's analysis.
"The damage has been done, honorable advocates. In
the end, it was not necessary to access the Tower. In the
end, Anheliaa sacrificed her own life in order to bridge the
gap to the machine and destroy it, before it could destroy
her rings. But even so, the web was degraded. The web
needs time to renew itself. How long that will take is be-
yond our reckoning. In the meantime, Mauritum knows our
weakened state and may well try again. We must look to
the old sources to protect the border."
And what, Deymorin started to ask, had happened to
Mikhyel's prime concern, the united efforts of the ring-
chambers to renew the Khoratum line? But the question
froze in his throat and:
{Separate issue, Deymorin. With the ringmaster alone.
Don't give them an excuse to wait on the border patrol act.}
"And those in the Mauritumin party?" The ringmaster
persisted. "What happened to them?"
"Most were killed in the firestorm that destroyed the
machine," Mikhyel answered.
"And the others?"
"Innocents who, by sheer luck, happened to be separated
from the others."
"Innocents. Like Garetti's wife?" said one voice.
"Garetti's whore, more like," came from another.
The freeze began again in Deymorin's throat, only to
melt in the flare of Deymorin's anger. {Damn you, Khyel!)
Mikhyel turned green and swayed; Deymorin clenched
his jaw and sent an additional silent, though gentler, warn-
ing to his brother, that he'd better clear this one up
immediately.
"I sea/rumor has, indeed, preceded us," Mikhyel said,
finally, tut his voice was hoarse and ragged. "However,
rumor only speculates. Without the lady romGaretti's assis-
tance and cooperation, we'd none of us be here. She has
continued to share with us the extent of her knowledge
regarding contemporary Mauritum and Mauritumin poli-
tics. Unfortunately, her knowledge did not extend to the
planned invasion of the Rhomatum Web. She was as taken
by surprise as we were."
"So she claims"
"Truth," Deymorin stated flatly, coldly, and all eyes were
once again on him. This time, he was content to note, with
a touch of fear.
And on that conversation-ending note, Mikhyel opened
his briefcase, heretofore lying unregarded on the table be-
fore him. He took out bound volumes, and moving about
the table, placed one before each advocate, squared pre-
cisely with the table's edge.
Deymorin didn't get one.
{Copies were made, brother. One for each member of
each meeting we'll be conducting. Yours are in your
luggage.}
At Mandriisin's. Deymorin thought as loud and outraged
a silence as he could imagine.
Mikhyel, unmoved, said to the advocates, "This contains
all I've told you and more. I have included unedited deposi-
tions from all members of the Syndicate special investiga-
tion committee. As you will discover, through the lady
romGaretti's efforts, and those of my brothers, the Mauri-
tum threat was, at least for the time being, blocked.
"There is, however, no reason to believe they will stop
at that one subversive act.  No reason to believe they
haven't already spies drifting among us. Anheliaa is dead.
There is no acknowledged successor. No one properly
trained. Anheliaa had delusions of immortality that blinded
her to the inevitable until too late."
Mikhyel paused. The flip of papers slowed and stopped.
Advocate eyes returned to Mikhyel.
"And without Anheliaa," Mikhyel continued, "without
the full power of the rings, Rhomatum is helpless against
the forces of Mauritum, the entire web ripe for takeover.
Or so Garetti believes." Mikhyel lifted his copy of the re-
port. "Honorable advocates, I suggest we prove Garetti of
Mauritum woefully uninformed."             /.
Chapter Four

"So, my fellow conspirators, have we at least a verbal
understanding?"
Mikhyel gathered the unsigned contracts into a pile and
placed them in the center of the table that nearly filled the
small room. Elsewhere, a Shatumin celebration feast was
in progress, in a grand hall filled with light and laughter,
music and dance.
And food. A great deal of food. And drink.
He hoped to all the nonexistent gods that Deymorin was
leaving the wine in his cup.
"To the extent that we can make promises, dunMheric,
yes." Shamrii dunKharec held out her hand and Mikhyel
gripped it. "We will speak to our respective seniors, and
advise them of the situation. Luck of the radical, we'll have
your contracts signed and back in your possession before
you leave."
Here, ambience was limited to muted leylight and the
strong scent of brewing pachii.
"I regret the necessity of dealing in such a back-room
manner," Mikhyel said. "However, under the circum-
stances"
"No need to explain further, dunMheric," Kharlo dun-
Uchra said, and he gave a light laugh. "We've all of us had
to deal with obstructive seniors before."
"My brother," Mikhyel countered firmly, "is not obstruc-
tive. Neither, let it be understood, is he my senior where
it  regards  these  matters.  Not  legally,  not  personally.  He
is Princeps, but on these documents, his signature cannot
override mine. This is a legally binding agreement between
the two of us. He does, however, tend to operate on a
system of personal integrity that does not hold up well in
a court of law."
"Meaning he's a trusting sod."
"Meaning he, himself, would never go back on the spirit
of a promise."
"Meaning our seniors might," dunKharec said.
Mikhyel just lifted an eyebrow.
DunKharec laughed. "You're absolutely correct in .that
assessment, dunMheric. We'll get you those signatures.
Would that you'd been Anhehaa's adviser when the first
Khoratum contracts were signed."
"I've  no  argument  there,  madam.  But  these  new
agreements should clear some long-muddied waters. The
main thing is, we must look to the future, near as well as
far. We cannot afford to be operating at cross-purposes for
personal gain. The Rhomandi fortune is now dedicated to
the security of the web, but beggaring the Rhomandi will
not ensure that end. If I can rely on you all to keep me
apprised of the situation here in Shatum"
"You are as naive as your brother, sir."
"On the contrary, I hope for integrity on the part of
those I deal with. I hope that problems will be dealt with
as they arise, not after the fact. If those I expect to deal
with me honestly fail to do so, I have, as you may well
imagine, other sources of information."
"As have we, dunMheric."
"I would be disappointed if it were otherwise."
Mikhyel smiled, nodded, and left the small room. Outside
the door. Ringmaster Pasingarim's second awaited him.
~    ~    fgt
Mikhyel was missing the party.
Even as he smiled and chatted with the various dignitar-
ies and their families, Deymorin searched the edges of the
great hall for signs of the true guest of honor.
He'd last seen his brother following the meeting, and
parted from him on the understanding that they would
meet here. Mikhyel was awake and nearand wellthe
inner sense assured him of that much, but little else. And
now, the bulk of the organized festivities were over, and
the attendees were settling into serious debauchery.
"So, Rhomandi, did you ever get your sea voyage?"
"Kharl!" Deymorin rose from the low couch to greet the
Varishmondi with something approaching real enthusiasm.
"Please, sit down." And as they settled opposite one an-
other, on the u-shaped couch: "No, more's the pity. Lake
sailing is the best I've ever managed."
"Well, still plenty of time." The big man leaned forward
to help himself from the common trays on the low round
table between them.
The odd couches had been set in a rather freeform pat-
tern around three sides of the room, leaving the center
clear for the various performers who had come and gone
all evening. The food trays presented a constantly changing
array of choices, and the wine never stopped flowing.
Ten 3?ears ago, he'd have been in real trouble; many of
the guests tonight hadn't yet learned their lesson.
But Kibarl had. Kharl was quite sober.
"I'm relieved you're speaking to me," Deymorin said, by
way of opening.
"And why wouldn't I speak with the son of my old
friend, Mheric?"
"From the way you looked this afternoon. I'd have
judged the friendship died along with my father. We
haven't seen much of you in Rhomatum these past years."
"I'd not been invited."
"I wasn't aware my father ever extended an invitation."
"Our understanding was an old one. I had no reason to
believe Anheliaa's nephews would welcome my presence."
"Anheliaa's nephews. Ah, we have created a false image.
My apologies, Lord Varishmondi. Let me extend, here and
now, a standing invitationto Rhomatum or Darhaven."
The Varishmondi dipped his head in easy acknowledg-
ment. "My thanks, Rhomandi. And I extend the same to
you." A sip of wine, a casual, "False image, you said. And
your brother, this afternoon, implied similar internal fric-
tion. Am I to understand that the two of you are not of
her expansionist tendencies?"
Deymorin gave a short laugh. "I should think my stand
on that was made clear years ago. I disapproved of the
Khoratum expansion."
"Ah, yes. For the sake of the farmers who lost their land
with the expanding umbrella, as I recall."
"That, mainly, yes. But Khoratum is done now, an ac-
complished fact. I think we must protect what we have, get
it running smoothly, and discuss the future when the past
is secure."
"And your brothers are of similar opinion?"
"Definitely."
"Your brother, Mikhyel, is not here."
"I expected him to be. It's possible he's not feeling well.
He's been on the road now for several days."
"He did seem rather . . . shaken at times this afternoon."
Deymorin answered cautiously, "He's been ill. The ley-
portation that your ringmaster so blithely inquired about
puts an . . . unusual strain on the body. And since his
ordeal, there's been the Collapse, and Anheliaa's death . . .
he's had no real time to rest."
"And yet, you have been under similar strain . ' . ?"
"Mikhyel is not, as you can see, the most robusf'of men.
That he is still on his feet is, at times, a marvel to iqe. And
I stand in awe of his abilities to handle a meeting such as
he faced this afternoon."
"He always has . . . spoken well. You've both grown up
quite effectively."
The joys of dealing with one's father's old friends. Dey-
morin felt the smile on his face grow rigid, and he reached
for the wine carafe to refill both their goblets.
8 ~ ~
With Ringmaster Pasingarim's cautiously worded advise-
ment to his fellow ringmasters safely pressed in his pocket,
Mikhyel made his way at last to the banquet hall.
While he'd been reluctant to begin this tour, sessions
such as the meeting just concluded increasingly reconciled
him to his fate. The intricate maneuverings, the second-
guessing of his opponents . . . he'd spent a lifetime prepar-
ing for this night and he now reveled in his sense of
achievement.
He paused in the shadows, reluctant to enter a room
where music and swirling skirts and strongly-spiced food
overloaded a sober man's senses.
Deymorin was sprawled on one of the low Shatumin din-
ner  couches,  opposite  (Darius  save  them  all)  Kharl
Varishmandi.
"They're talking about you. Suds," Ganfrion's voice,
pitched for his ears only, arose out of even deeper shadows.
"Tell me something I don't know," Mikhyel muttered,
without looking back.
"How about, they're wondering who's been running
Rhomatum all these years."
"Who's wondering?"
"Take your pick. Kitchen. Stables. Board rooms. Word
is you lost it today. Word is you recite from a script. Word
is,  big  brother's  here  because  baby  Mikhyel  needs  him.
Word is, baby Miwayel nearly lost it this afternoon. Word
is, the two of you together still don't match Anheliaa. Word
is, you were Anheliaa's parrot, not a brain."
He closed his eyes on the dizzying swirl, realized, when
that didn't stop the images, that his discomfiture came from
his brother's wine-scewed vision, and cursed.
"You-might say that," Ganfrion murmured. "DunHaul-
pin used to say Mheric's brat was the best trained monkey
he'd ever seen."
In the four years between his mother's death and Mher-
ic's, Mikhyel had served many functions for his father: ser-
vant to romPetikh's fancy teas, performer (sometimes
complete to having strings attached to his limbs so that
Mheric could manipulate him like a puppet) ...
"DunHaulpin used to say you couldn't possibly under-
stand what you were saying."
Orator for dunBisin's overwritten plays. He'd been good
with words. Mheric and his friends had thought it amusing
to  hear  a  child  spout  rhetoric  he  couldn't  possibly
comprehend.
But he had understood. He'd understood the words he
used, and he'd understood the words underlying the laugh-
ter of the men and women watching. And he'd used that
knowledge to his own advantage after Mheric's death, just
as he'd later used the oratory skills addressing the Syndi-
cate and the Council.
"Have to wonder who all dunHaulpin talked to."
Nothing new in that. As he'd told Deymorin, he'd fought
those rumors his entire career. But perhaps he was only
now facing them for truth. Varishmondi had been his fa-
ther's friend. Varishmondi had seen the puppet spout those
ill-written lines and make them convincing.
"You convinced dunHaulpin differently," Ganfrion's
maddening voice continued. "How're you going to convince
this lot, eh?"
"Go tap your kitchen maids," Mikhyel muttered back,
slipping into the room.
Deymorin caught sight of him immediately and waved
him over to his side. As he approached, Deymorin laughed
and swung upright to give him sitting space on his couch.
"Kharl, this is my brother, Mikhyel," Deymorin said,
wrapping an arm around Mikhyel's shoulders. "Fry, this is
Kharl. He's taking us sailing tomorrow, so be nice."
Khari Varishmandi was not drunk. Kharl Varishmandi
was looking at him, wondering what kind of man would
put up with such treatment in public.
Mikhyel stiffened, humiliated, tempted to tell Deymorin
exactly what he thought of his behavior. But to challenge
him openly would solve nothing and might possi~jQ\jr under-
mine the good he'd accomplished in the past few hours.
Deymorin's mind was hazed with drinkexactly as he'd
feared would happen. He'd seen it often enough in the past.
He'd thought Deymorin had outgrown such behavior.
Obviously, he'd thought wrong.
But to chastise Deymorin now would gain him nothing,
and would almost certainly hurt their cause. The men and
women in the hall, most of them at least as drunk as Dey-
morin, were not likely to remember anything clearly in the
morning, so rather than cause a scene, he smiled, and
greeted the Varishmandi patriarch and said he would be
delighted to join him on a tour of the lake tomorrow.
~ ~ ~
"Did you see that creature at table five?"
A rude sound responded out of the darkness that was
Thyerri's new bedroom.
"She elbowed m' privates ever' time I had f squeeze
past 'er!" Shtolis' youngish voice continued. "Pinched me
comin' an' goin', I tell ye. Had me soundin' like Mishthi
by th' time she left!"
"She wanted you, Shtolis," someone said, in a low, sug-
gestive voice. "She needed your hot, young"
Another rude sound. A loud pretense of someone being
sick. A laughing comment about faces and being flat as a
cold balloon.
Thyerri tried to ignore them all.
The new sleeping room was one of the smaller halls in
Bharlori's newest investment. True to his promise, Bharlo
had expanded into a neighboring building. His new room-
mates were the five hillers Bharlori had hired to wait tables.
The girls had their own quarters.
Thyerri wasn't certain he liked the arrangement, he'd
grown rather fond of Mishthi's silly chatter. And the easy
sharing of warmth to which he'd become accustomed was
out of the question with the strangers who now shared
his nights.
Male strangers who filled the room, in the dark moments
before sleep, with coarse language and coarser imagery.
"Wha~t;ss your problem, boy?" The low voice againFri-
vori, Thyerri thoughtand mocking. "Her money's as good
as any beauty's. Better, likely, 'cuz there'll be more of it.
And they're all the same in the dark."
Loud protests interrupted, and Thyerri pulled his pillow
over his head, trying to block out the sounds.
His new roommates only served to remind him of the
distance between himself and those who should be his
peers. As a child not much younger than Shtolis he'd
roamed the mountain meadows, more wild than the goats
and sheep he chased. He'd watched them mate, seen count-
less births, but never equated those natural acts to his
own life.
Radical dancers never spoke among themselves of love
or lust or children. It was bad luck and stupid. One thought
only of the dance, rarely even of one's physical differences,
except to compare the relative value of muscle and bulk,
and to wish for that person's wrists, or another's flexibility.
Waiting tables, he heard the talk of the men and women
he served, and he learned to avoid the inevitable bids for
his attention. But he never thought beyond the sheer logis-
tics of avoiding probing, clutching fingers while balancing a
tray and without antagonizing the customer.
He knew, in a distant way, the effect his dancing had on
the viewers, and why it had become so popular in the late
hours of the evening here, and why he'd become so signifi-
cant to Bharlori that the owner had posted signs warning
against groping the dancers.
But it had all been a distant, detached knowledge, for all
his new roommates believed otherwise, and for all they
grumbled about bedroom favorites when Bharlori failed to
chastise him when he was clearly in the wrong.
Fortunately, there had always been work enough to ex-
haust the strongest body until the need for sleep could muf-
fle the most raucous laughter.
Until recently. Until that damnable poster appeared out-
side the tavern. These nights, in those dim moments before
sleep, with the poster and the upcoming competition re-
minding him of all that could never be, and his own recon-
ciliation with his present life asking why he persisted with
impossible dreams of the past, those other images, images
with Tamshi eyes, seeped inexorably past the newly redis-
covered mountain music, striking chords of an altogether
different melody within his body.
~ d ~
Music echoed in Mikhyel's ears as he fell into the groom-
ing chair, exhausted. Evidently Deymorin hadn't gone to
bed as he'd said were his intentions.
Mikhyel groaned and tried to blank his mind of every-
thing except the rhythmic stroking of Raulind's brushes
through his hair.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Raulind asked.
"It's Deymio."
"You feel him now?"
"I think so. He's actually very quiet, for a change. Per-
haps I should get him drunk more often."
"Oh, dear."
"I can't understand what's gotten into him."
Years ago, it had been Deymorin's greatest fault. He was
friendly, enthusiastic, and could be induced to overindulge.
When that happened, his companions had had an exceed-
ingly easy, exceedingly wealthy, mark.
And here in Shatum, it was all those behaviors back
again, but in a grown man.
"I'd convinced myself he'd grown past it all; evidently, I
was wrong."
A long silence filled with even strokes of the brush, then
Raulind said, "As I hear it, Deymorin wasn't the only man
acting out of character today."
Mikhyel frowned. Then leaned forward to look at
Raulind, whose calm demeanor gave him no more clue than
his words.
But he didn't need more clues. Raulind was right. Dey-
morin had feared Mikhyel would crack, and Mikhyel had
obligingly cracked. He had feared Deymorin would regress
to old behaviors, and Deymorin had regressed.
"I think," he said, settling back into the couch, "that
Deymorin and I had best part company."
"That sounds wise, sir," Raulind said, setting the brush
aside. "Would you like the window open or closed
tonight?"
~ ~ ~
Pale eyes, green-rimmed and black-lashed, flickered
close, expanding, shapeshifting to an all-consuming haze of
mist and spring-green.
There was warmth, a presence at his back: welcome ease
for muscles aching from long hours twisting and turning
through crowded rooms, from laden trays held high, above
harm's way.
Thyerri sighed and stretched, curling slightly about his
pillow, exposing his lower back more fully to that friendly
warmth.
Silken strands slithered over his shoulder and across his
chest to tangle under his arm and downward, like a spider-
web. The tendrils gained bone and muscle, became long
fingers that stroked his chin and down his neck, where they
intercepted moist warmth nuzzling his shoulder, then tread
delicate patterns down his breast and across his ribs.
Thyerri sighed again, and buried his face in the pillow,
too tired to object, even when the fingertips flattened into
heated palms that pressed upward, crossing over his stom-
ach and chest, drawing him closer to the unknown presence
at his back.
Though helpless in sleep's lassitude, he wasn't frightened.
A response occurred, deep, deep within. Recognition.
Yearning. A sense of . . . need, of . . . desire. Those palms
stroked downward in a clean thrust that veered at the last
moment, around his groin to tickle his inner thighs with a
light, fingertip brush.
He groaned and shifted. But those fingers shifted with
him, teasing, tempting, then drawing back, building the ten-
sion within until his pulse pounded.
The presence at his back began to move, lifting him with
it, leading, falling away and leading again, until their two
bodies danced as one, danced to a rhythm as primal as the
rings whirling in the Tower uphill.
A subtle shift, a pause, an unexpected thrust, and the
presence was within him as well as without. The tension
eased slightly, only to leap to greater heights as the rhythm
resumed, an ever-increasing tempo. He was sobbing, mind-
lessly reaching, seeking. . . .
Release. Exquisite and complete. An ecstasy matched
only by the dance itself.
9 9 8
Mikhyel awoke with a start, wondered for a moment
where he was, remembered in the next and as chill air
touched his sweat-dampened back, that he was in the Hill-
top Inn, courtesy of the Shatumin Guilds.
And in the room next door, his hypersexed older brother
was dreaming about his equally sensual woman; dreams
that, had Deymorin a shred of common consideration, he'd
keep in his own damned head.
Or wherever such dreams lurked.
Mikhyel drew himself wearily upright, seeking the sleep-
ing shirt he'd somehow cast aside. Deymorin again, he
imagined, as he drew the fine linen around his shoulders.
At least Deymorin was quiet now, sated . . . he hoped.
Mikhyel shifted to another area of the large and comfort-
able bed, beat the pillows into a more welcoming configu-
ration, and drew the covers high, beginning the night over,
wishing, in passing, that he had his own lascivious dreams
to penetrate and disrupt Deymorin's sleep as Deymorin
had disrupted his.
Except that Deymorin would thank him, then tease him
mercilessly about the source.
Out of his admittedly limited experience, he sought a
mental picture of the woman he would deliberately inject
into Deymorin's dreams. Something the antithesis of Kiyr-
stin. Reed-slender. And quiet. Fragile.
Shy. Mikhyel grinned into the pillow warming his nose.
Better yet, inhibited. That would do it. Frustrate his brother
to awareness. Keep him awakeuntil he departed Shatum
in utter desperation.
Then maybe, just maybe, someone else might get some
sleep. Mikhyel groaned, slammed a fist into his pillow, and
threw himself to the other side.
If only Demorin would leave tomorrow, go about his
own, equally important business. Both of them here only
confused the issue, made people wonder who to address,
whose the authority. If he thought it would do any good,
he'd send a message via that silent communication, shift
Deymorin's thinking toward leaving.
But he'd tried that last night; Deymorin had not been
amused.
Arms encircling his ribs. A scent that said {Kiyrstin . . .}
Mikhyel cursedand buried his head in the pillow.
<gt    8    <gt
The first faint light of dawn touched the walls, and
limned the bodies lying peacefully on their pallets.
Alone. All of them. As Thyerri himself was alone. Un-
questionably alone. Curled about his pillows, his hands
clamped between his thighs.
Slowly, he straightened his back. His hair, captured under
his arm, pulled free, a thousand tiny pinpricks in his scalp,
then slithered along his chest: the spiderweb of his dream.
He drew his hands free of the blanket. They were sticky,
glistening in the dawn creeping in the windows, and he
knew them for the hands of his dream.
Horrified, he began to shake. He struggled to free him-
self of blankets and pillows. He stumbled over sleeping
bodies, raising shrill protests that he ignored in his blind
dash for freedom.
Gray eyes, green-rimmed met him. Mocked him. He
ripped at the eyes, the poster came away in pieces and
drifted into the mud.
Running, then, down streets littered with a city's detritus,
filthy, as cities were; blindly seeking the anonymous tran-
quillity of his mountain, certain those around him would
know the instant they laid eyes on him, would know the
depths to which he had plunged, the shame, the failure,
that were his.
Wet. Cold. It was his mountain surrounding him, filling
him as the icy chill of glacier melt swept over him, wash-
ing the taint downstream. Changing nothing. Nothing
could obliterate the facts; nothing could deny what he
had done.
Nothing could unmake what he had become.
Tears swept down the mountain along with those other
fluids. Tears for the dancer who'd never been. Tears for
the dancer who never could be. Tears for the dancer ban-
ished forever in an insidious, carnal dream.
Chapter Five

Deymorin jerked the girth strap tight and flipped the stir-
rup iron down.
"Walk him a bit, and try again," he ordered the groom.
"He's an accomplished puffer." He gave the gelding a slap
on his hard rump, and headed inside for a final draft to
bolster his spirits before facing a day in the saddle at a
slow carriage pace.
The Rose Garden was one of the better cross-ley inns,
lying, as it did, equidistant between Shatum, Mekh'narum
on the coast and the spa node of Barsitum. Spacious, with
a dozen or more large rooms to let, visiting servants' quar-
ters, three private parlors, a crystal-appointed dining hall,
servants enough for three large households crowding the
halls . . . it was almost as uncomfortable as Rhomandi
House during Reformation Week.
And one couldn't forget the small, glass-enclosed rose
garden, from which the inn derived its name: a little touch
of home for those traveling between nodes.
All windows were heavily draped against the outside, of
course. But then, The Rose Garden's clientele didn't want
to see those exquisite snow-capped peaks outside their win-
dows of a morning. They didn't want anything to remind
them that they were beyond the boundaries of their little
rose-covered havens within city walls.
But Mikhyel had been right in scheduling The Rose Gar-
den as their stopoveras he'd been in all other arrange-
ments he'd made for this trip. None of the cozier inns of
the sort Deymorin patronized could have handled the en-
tourage Mikhyel brought with him. Certainly they couldn't
have accommodated the unexpected addition of Deymorin
and his guard.
Mikhyel was waiting just inside, the portmanteau he used
for these single night stops packed and ready on a low
bench near the door, his folded cloak draped over it.
"We need to talk," Mikhyel said.
Deymorin raised a hand toward the sitting room, fol-
lowed Mikhyel in, and closed the door.
"Your men are saddled and ready?" Mikhyel asked,
abruptly.
Deymorin nodded.
"To go where?"
"Well, let's see, what is next on the list?" Deymorin
made a show of remembering the schedule, hoping to ease
past that cold wall. "Shatum, Fedranum, Mekh'narum . . .
Barsitum? I believe that was it."
"Fine." Mikhyel threw himself into a chair, plucked a
paper from a nearby table, and snapped it open. "Have a
good trip."
"And where are you headed?" Deymorin asked the
paper.
"I've no idea. It makes no difference."
"Difference? Of course it does."
He reached for Mikhyel's wrist, seeking that deeper un-
derstanding; Mikhyel, with an indignant curse, jerked out
of reach.
Deymorin held up his hands.
"Khyel, I'm sorry. But would you mind telling me what's
going on?"
Eyes that glittered more green than gray beneath angrily
lowered brows met his. "Do I really need to say it? Dey-
morin, get out! Go! Do your job, or do mine. Or do them
both, if you're so gods-blessed-talented and I'll go to . . .
to Darhaven and sit on my tail sipping brandywine for the
next six weeks or six months or six years. Whatever it takes
for you to stop hovering and start minding your own
affairs!"
Mikhyel threw the paper to the floor, thrust himself out
of the chair, and paced the room.
"Khyel, I've just been trying to"
"Help? Obviously. And thanks to you, everyone in the
Southern Crescent now believes I require that help. Every
Councillor, every Syndic, every advocate, every damnable
innkeeper believes I'm incompetent."
"That's nonsense. I've stayed in the background. When
asked, I've told them"
"It makes no difference what you do or do no.t tell them.
You're there, big as lifewhich in itself is damned unnerv-
ing. But Rings, man, you're the Rhomandi, Princeps of
Rhomatum"
Deymorin opened his mouth to object, but Mikhyel con-
tinued. "Look at what happened at Fedranum! Poor old
dunGardhiin spent the entire two days apologizing for not
being prepared for you!"
"I told him"
"/ was supposed to be touring his plants, talking to the
foremen"
"You did go along."
"So did dunGardhiin's secretary. And a boy to fetch and
carry for him. Tell me, Rhomandi, which function was I to
fulfill for you?"
"Neither! As you damnwell know!"
"Do I?"
"This is nonsense." Deymorin slapped his gloves into his
hand and headed back for the door. "Get your bag, brother.
We're wasting time."
"Good-bye, Deymorin."
He swung around. Mikhyel was staring out the far win-
dow. Pointedly not coming.
"What do you want out of me, Khyel?"
"I've been trying to demonstrate that we're a team. Hell,
I've been trying to show them all I'm not the incompetent
I appeared when I fought the Khoratum expansion."
"No politician remembers that daycertainly not the
way you dwell on it! You're as good or as bad as your last
effort,  Rhomandi,  and your current proposals  are very
much to the advantage of everyone we've met. Besides, the
Southern Crescent cities were always your spiritual allies in
that battle."
"I had no allies in the Syndicate." Deymorin pointed out,
the old bitterness rising. "They're all node men and all any
of them care about is whether they have their lights, and
their toys and a guaranteed rain-free evening for their pool-
side party!"
"And you lost that gods-be-forever-damned debate be-
cause you never got it through your thick head that not all
cities were Rhomatum! Shatum never wanted Khoratum
capped. They knew it would make Rhomatum immeasur-
ably more powerful, and the ringmaster doesn't exist that
trusts   another   ringmaster,   especially   Anheliaa   of
Rhomatum!"
"Then why the hell did they sign Anheliaa's fucking
contracts?"
"I don't damnwell know]"
Mikhyel had stopped pacing to face him. They were
shouting at one another now, as they hadn't for years.
"I don't . . . damnwell know," Mikhyel repeated in a
quieter tone, and he began pacing again. "It makes no
sense. It never has made sense. Anheliaa promised some-
one something somewhere. I was hoping to find some clue
in Shatum. I kept waiting for someone to ask specifically,
but there was nothing. And there should have been. The
Southern Crescent historically depended on the strength of
the storm belt to help keep the Kirish'lan raiders at bay."
"Raiders, hell," Deymorin broke in. "Shatum wanted to
be the solitary overland funnel for the Kirish'lan traders. I
was fighting for the rights of farmers and timbermen; the
Shatumin Ringmaster wanted the graft from the trading
caravans, guaranteeing crossings. Once the storms eased,
free traders began making solo passages, taking their
chances and more often than not surviving, and cutting into
Shatumin profits."
"What difference did it make? Their goal was the same
as yours. You both wanted Khoratum left open. You've never
understood the difference between motivation and ac-
tion"
"What good is the one without the other?"
"It gets the damn job done."
"While compromising a man's soul."
Mikhyel spun about in mid-stride to face him. "Dey-
morin, there's a world of difference between a man's soul
and the moral compromises he makes for the sake of a
nation."
Deymorin frowned. Then asked, quietly, "Khyel, what
the hell are we arguing about?"
Breaths, deep and trembling, fluttered the lace at Mikhy-
el's throat.
Deymorin held out his hand, offering that solution, and
Mikhyel's hand lifted . . . reached . . . then jerked back.
A rejection more painful than a fist to his face.
"We're discussing the efficacy of your presence during
my negotiations," Mikhyel said firmly. "Yours is a . . . a
difficult presence to transcend."
"Is .that why you damned near choked me in Shatum?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Nikki warned me to be careful of that power of yours.
Just how much did you learn from Anheliaa, little brother"
You damned near froze my throat solid. If you want me to
let you talk, you can damn well ask in a civilized manner!
Otherwise, I don't see a lick of difference between your
tactics and Anheliaa's except you don't need the fucking
rings to do your dirty work for you!"
"Neither do you," Mikhyel said, his face as blank as vir-
gin marble. And Deymorin remembered that same meeting
in Shatum, recalled Mikhyel staggering in mid-sentence,
wasn't certain whether it was Mikhyel supplying the mem-
ory or not.
"If that answer matters to you, Deymorin, we might as
well give up now. I'll not be accounting for myself and my
actions during an invasion of my territory, and a disruption
of my preplanned attack. I'll not apologize, not for what I
say or do with determination, not for the collateral conse-
quences of this curse we carry."
" 'Collateral consequences.' Is that what you call damn
near choking me?"
"I didn't know, Deymorin. I just knew I needed you not
to talk."
And what he didn't say . . . that the attack had been
both ways. He told Deymorin not to condemn him. What
Deymorin should note, Kiyrstin would say, was that Mi-
khyel did not condemn him for nearly knocking him cold
in mid-argument, and then ordering him to get them both
out of the situation.
"What was I supposed to do?" Mikhyel asked. "Stop in
the middle of a meeting to chastise abject stupidity? What
was I going to say? Shut up, fool?"
"Yes."
A two-beat pause, then a flat, "Shut up, fool."
"Is  that  a  joke?"  Deymorin  responded  hopefully.
"Should I laugh?"
"Deymorin, what does it take to get through to you?
What must I say to get you out of my life and on with
your own?"
"I'm just trying to"
"What makes you think I need help? And what's to stop
all those people from assuming I need you there when you
cut my meat for me at the dining table?"
Deymorin tried a teasing grin. "Well, you weren't eating
enough to keep a newt alive."
Mikhyel uttered a frustrated curse and threw his hands
in the air.
"What was I supposed to do?" Deymorin asked. "You
think I've wanted to dance attendance on you? You've
been one step short of a cliff edge ever since Anheliaa died.
You're the one who put your faith in a killer. You're the
one who's been attracting animated corpses. You're the one
who nearly cracked in Shatum at the mere mention of An-
heliaa and Boreton! You're the one who's been stumbling
over your words like a pubescent whose voice hasn't
changed. I don't know what's happened to you, but"
"You've happened, big brother\"
"But"
"And when you're quiet in my head. I'm making excuses
for what you're saying aloud]"
"Now wait just one damned"
"I doubt you'll like their assessment of you any better
than mine. Bad enough to face them as the proxy of the
mythical eldest Rhomandi. Now I'm speaking for you with
you sitting beside me, with your friendly, all-encompassing
grin and massive presence, everybody's best friend."
"What's wrong with that?"
Mikhyel scowled at him, lips pressed together. When he
answered, it was one, short word. "Provincial."
Deymorin lifted his chin, refusing to snap.
"Learn to talk less and observe more, big brother'. You're
too damned open. Too obvious. You get them happy drunk,
they smile and say exactly what you want them to say,
agree to anything you propose, and you find out nothing.
Settle nothing. Get nothing on paper. Maybe you can oper-
ate on a handshake and a promise Outside. In the City
limitsany City limits1 guarantee, they'll deny it as soon
as they're sober."
"They didn't."
"Because / got it on paper. With their secretaries as wit-
ness. Before they were sober."
"And while I was pouring the wine."
Mikhyel shrugged.
"But that doesn't gain you the respect you need, is that
what you're saying?"
"Nor you, Deymorin. We're supposed to be presenting
a viable partnership. We're supposed to be reassuring them
of Rhomatum's continued strength. We're not doing very
well so far."
Old suspicions. Old schisms. And old habits. As he con-
sidered Mikhyel's words, he wondered at his own recent
behavior. He'd not been in the habit of overindulgence for
some years.
But he hadn't been drunknot at Shatum. Not until
Mikhyel showed up. And then he'd swallowed as fast as
Varishmandi had poured. Because Mikhyel had expected it.
They'd acknowledged his interference with Mikhyel's
thoughts, but they'd not considered the effect of Mikhyel's
expectations over his actions.
Even so, he had to wonder whether his own actions were
the result not so much Mikhyel's expectations, but of old,
old patterns, the old challenges to each other's behavior
that had driven a wedge between them for years.
A niggling pressure in his head: acquiescence from Mi-
khyel. He grinned wryly.
"It may be a good thing I wasn't around all those years."
"Maybe it is."
Time and separation had allowed them both to mature.
It would take more time and careful exposure to eradicate
those entrenched and mutually destructive habits and
expectations.
But in cold blood, he knew Mikhyel was right. And that
was his thought, and none of Mikhyel.
He held out his hand, clasped Mikhyel's arm wrist to
wrist in the intimate farewell of closest trust, and realized
as his fingers touched, easily encircling Mikhyel's thin fore-
arm, another reason for his reluctance to leave his physi-
cally delicate brother.
Like the tingling in the air before a storm, Mikhyel's
frustration permeated his skin through that pulse-to-pulse
touch.
"Rings, Deymio, I can't imagine how I ever survived
without you."
"I can't  help worrying,  Khyel.  You're not halfway
through this trip. You're already showing the effects of too
little sleep and not enough food"
Mikhyel avoided his gaze, but touch revealed a wry
choice that was no choice at all. Of a stomach unwilling to
hold anything down.
"Funny, I never took you for the nervous type."
"Nervous? Not really. Terrified might begin to cover it.
But I always am, Deymorin. I spent the entire night before
I faced you in Council over the Khoratum affair, throwing
up. It's never gotten any better."
And Deymorin had never seen a colder visage than his
brother had worn that day.
"It keeps my wits sharp."
"So that's your secret."
Mikhyel grinned at last. "Only one of them, brother.
Only one." He released Deymorin and jerked his head
toward the door. "I promise you, I won't starve. Raul won't
let me. Now get out of here, will you? I want to make
Barsitum before midnight."
"If they don't get you there"
"Don't worry. Ganfrion knows this country well."
Deymorin paused at the door, one glove on, the other
balanced in his hand. "I can't believe you made a deal with
that man, Khyel."
"He's exactly what I need."
"You really trust his honor?"
"His honor? No, not in the least."
"Khyel, dammit"
Mikhyel laughed. "Get out, Deymio. If my judgment
proves at fault, well, I'll leave you Ganfrion in my will."
Deymorin eyed him a moment, stretched an imperative
hand, which Mikhyel accepted without hesitation. What
came through to Deymorin now was anticipation. Determi-
nation. Even a hint of excitement. And most importantly,
confidence in himself and his abilities.
Deymorin chuckled. "About time, fry. Keep in touch."
And with a parting jab at Mikhyel's shoulder, he was out
the door.
~ 8 ~
Mikhyel stood on the veranda rubbing feeling back into
his shoulder, while Deymorin and his men mounted and
sorted themselves into pairs. Deymorin's horse seemed in
a particularly foul mood, bucking and twisting under him,
and good-natured shouts filled the airlaughter, and offers
of a grandmother's pregnant mare.
Deymorin sat quietly, as if the world erupting beneath
him were an everyday occurrence, and only Mikhyel, of all
those watching, knew the jolt of pain that accompanied
each stiff-legged impact.
Deymorin had been too long away from his Kiyrstin's
hands: his old back injury was flaring. But the creature
finally settled, and Deymorin lifted his hand to Mikhyel in
farewell, his grin unabated, and rode out the stableyard
gate at what appeared a most energetic bouncing step.
With every jogging stride, Mikhyel's sense of Deymorin
faded.
"About time."
It was an almost-echo of Deymorin's words, and Mikhyel
turned half-about to discover a body nearly as large as
Deymorin's blocking the entrance to the inn.
"You're a spineless ass when he's around," Ganfrion
continued,  staring  at  the  double  column  exiting  the
stableyard.
Mikhyel stiffened. Deymorin had his reservations about
Ganfrion; Mikhyel had his own.
"Tell Captain Ori to get the men mounted," he said,
brushing past him. "We're leaving immediately."
"Why, sure, Suds."
Mikhyel swung around; Ganfrion took a step backward
and snapped to a somewhat startled attention. He touched
fingertips to forehead, breast, and sword hilt in a martial
salute, the origin of which Nikki had damnwell better have
included in some brief, and was down the stairs and out in
the stableyard shouting orders . . .
Leaving Mikhyel to wonder what he'd done right.
Ocarshi smoke hung in the air above the low, heavily-laden
table. Thick and cloying, the smoke coated eyelashes and
lungs as it coated the brocades and velvets and sheerest
gauze draped about the room and covering the individuals
sprawled on tasseled cushions within lazy arm's-reach of
the table. Their forms masked in voluminous robes, faces
hidden behind elaborate paint and jewelry, only the hands
that reached for the pipes, the source of the noxious smoke,
revealed an occasional, unequivocal, male structure of bone
and muscle and coarse hair.
Thyerri smothered a gooey cough and picked his way
among the bodies to replace a depleted platter. The ines-
capable smoke dulled his reflexes and impeded his balance.
It even seemed to muffle his hearingor perhaps it actually
altered the sound as it came off the lute strings and clogged
the flute's holes.
The thump of the drum was simply listless and disinterested.
When it wasn't tangling with his arms, his hair, free of
its braid and held off his brow with a length of gold-shot
silk, alternately smothered and blinded him at every twist
and dip of his head. The knee-length silk fringe hanging
from his vest caught on every rough surface and exposed
more than it concealed every time he inhaled.
He supposed he should be thankful the official mandate
for the evening's festivities had allowed him a loincloth for
decency. Sakhithe and Mishthi had to depend on their own
movements to protect their modesty. Their vests were
shortMishthi's heavy breasts had a tendency to peek out
the bottom when she stretched her arms across the table
and their fringe was suspended from a wide hip belt.
Thicker fringe, but nothing underneath. Sakhithe had been
practicing for days hoping to avoid both groping hands and
prying eyes.
But it had been master the skill or lose her job. Bharlori
had made that clear to them all from the beginning: this
was the night to set Bhariori's above every other eating
establishment in Khoratum.
Loose hair, revealing garments . . . he and the other
attendants looked like the inventory of the Agoran Plains
slavers of Partiniac fable. Not coincidentally the hall had
been dressed to parody those fantastical merchants' richly
appointed tents, whose tasteless opulence was said to over-
whelm their clients' good sense and put them in a spend-
ing mood.
One had to wonder what the man who had ordered this
evening's festivities intended to sell to his guests. Not that
it was any of it Thyerri's business. His business was to serve
the food, itself prepared to specifications that had made
Cook blanch.
Those same written specifications had guided them for
decorating the hall, a five-day task it had taken these pa-
trons less than an hour to pollute so thoroughly the props
would have to be discarded after tonight's festivities.
But Bharlori wouldn't mind the senseless waste. Bharlori
had boasted earlier that for compensation already received,
lightning could strike his entire establishment tomorrow
and he would still see a profit. And, he had added sternly,
he expected gratuities for the evening's service to double
that profit.
Thyerri had shivered and wished those words unsaid. It
was the second time Bharlori had tempted Rakshi. But
Thyerri's fears were too late, the statement had already
been cast into the wind.
And it appeared, perhaps, that Rakshi was disinclined to
take advantage of so innocent a challenge: thus far, and
well into the evening's rituals, for all the oily smoke and
burning lamps and candles that might have threatened the
fringe and gauze, only food and drink had spilled; and while
he doubted any of the guests were awake enough to register
the fact, their service had been impeccable.
The platter Thyerri sought even now to replace was far
from empty, but the pattern of fruits and sauces had been
mauled from the passage of uncaring sleeves. If he could
rescue it, the fruits could be washed and reused in the re-
placement tray.
Bodies sprawled at every conceivable angle about the
table. To reach the platter in question, Thyerri was forced
to kneel and stretch across one of the guests, a technique
he'd mastered early in the evening, but which now had the
added challenge of not disturbing the man's ocarshi dream.
Nails stroked his ribs, in a casual, half-considered gesture.
Thyerri's hair-obscured glance intercepted distended pupils
within half-lidded eyes.
"Do I know you?" the guest asked, and behind the mask,
the skin tightened, as if trying to draw drug-hazed eyes
into focus.
Thyerri hesitated to answer, hesitated even to move away
from the hand, for fear of disrupting the drugged languor.
However unpleasant the man's touch, its very negligence
made it insignificant.
As for knowing, this man was masked and painted, as
were all the guests, either in keeping with the evening's
theme or for real purposes of secrecy. In all the hours,
Thyerri had heard no names.
But he did know. As an apprentice dancer, he'd lived in
the Khoratum Tower, eaten in the great dining hall, been
paraded among the city leaders and visiting dignitaries from
other nodes. He recognized many of the voices behind the
masks, and Rhyys dunTarec's nasal tones and coarse, blunt-
fingered hands were unmistakable.
For himself, as was the way with failed radicals, he'd
taken a new name, dyed his hair an even, nondescript vel-
vet black, but Rhyys could rememberif Rhyys cared to
remember him. Rhyys had many reasons to remember the
person Thyerri had been, but Rhyys would never admit to
knowing anyone like Thyerri of Bharlori's Tavern.
He certainly didn't want Thyerri of Bharlori's spreading
it  about  that  Rhyys  of Khoratum  Tower  had  demeaned
himself by attending a party in such a place. Rhyys never
came to Lesser Khoratum. Rhyys had often enough made
it  perfectly  clear  nothing  would  induce  him  to  come  to
lesser khoratum.
But something had gotten him down here, and one need
look no farther than at one's own outrageous garb to know
what that something was.
It was, of course, all nonsense. But the drapes, the pil-
lows, the ocarshi, even the affectation of the finger-forks
each guest wore on the index finger of the right hand, all
were imports from the south, and all were very much in
keeping with Rhyys' fantasies, every detail lifted from the
murals Rhyys had had commissioned for the Tower's great
hall.
Someone who sought to curry favor with the Khoratumin
Ringmaster had masterminded the evening's festivities.
Someone who, like Rhyys, preferred anonymity.
Rhyys, apparently in no particular hurry for his answer,
followed Thyerri's exposed ribs with his fingertips, the
finger-fork's double tine, intended for spearing and dipping
delicacies from the platters, traced a pattern upward, slip-
ping past the loose vest to explore by touch alone the bare
skin of his chest.
"Ah, the illusion ends," murmured the Khoratum Ring-
master. "How sad."
"M'lord?" Mishthi asked, and her voice trembled with
the fear of disappointing this important customer. "In what
way? We followed the instructions"
"Child, you've done quite adequately." Rhyys' hand flat-
tened on Thyerri's chest, idly twisting a nipple between two
knuckles. "Outside, all is as it should be. It's the under-
neath, the hidden wonders. You should be prepared, decor-
ated for pleasure. Ours, and yours. ..."
Tines replaced the knuckles and pressed, with that same
detached negligence. Thyerri waited, unflinching, as liquid
warmth oozed from the point of contact. The dark eyes
behind the jeweled mask flickered into focus, staring with
new interest at Thyerri's face.
The pressure increased. Tears filmed his vision, but he
refused to blink, as he refused to move or react, and even-
tually the tines, denied their objective, relaxed and scraped
their way down to rest on his bare thigh.
Decimated platter in hand, Thyerri shifted his weight
back over his heels.
"I asked you a question, boy." Cognizance began to
color Rhyys' voice.
Burning with anger and humiliation, Thyerri ignored
him, but the man grasped his hair, using that hold to jerk
him back down, while hauling himself upright. Blunt fingers
squeezed Thyerri's face, the finger-tines bit into his cheek,
drawing blood a second time.
"Do I?"
"I" He struggled to speak against that muscle-warping
grip, knowing he dared not speak the truth, dared not chal-
lenge the farce as his heart desired. His tongue had severed
a dunKarlon from Bharlori's guest list; he did not think
Bharlori would as easily forgive severing a dunTarec.
"I can't say, m'lord mask," he whispered at last. "How
could I know?"
A short bark of laughter blew ocarshi-fouled breath in
his face. "But of course," the man whispered back, and he
pulled Thyerri to him for a rough, penetrating kiss. The
platter fell, smearing the remnants of sauce and fruit across
the tasseled, brocade pillows, and Rhyys himself.
With a hissing curse, the ringmaster thrust Thyerri away;
he fell backward into the arms of another man, who caught
and held him prisoner. But the ringmaster simply shook
the remnants from his robe and shouted at them to remove
the platter and clean up the mess and to bring more wine.
Mishthi scrambled over with cleaning rags and Sakhithe
brought wine; Thyerri escaped, platter in hand, out the ser-
vants' entrance, down the dimly-lit hall, and across the alley
to the tavern's kitchen where he threw the porcelain platter
at the stone hearth. It shattered, terrifying Khorey, the
stove-boy, rousing Cook's wrath, and doing little to eradi-
cate the anger and tension seething in Thyerri's gut.
"I don't care"' he shouted at Cook's screeches about
crockery in the soup, and he crossed to kick the large caul-
dron simmering beside the fire, setting it swinging wildly,
scattering soup-drops in all directions. Cook screeched
again, and Thyerri shouted: "Send it to Rhyys! By Mother's
grace, he'll swallow it and choke!"
Cook's screeching ended abruptly. She stared at him,
slack-jawed. The stove-boy hunkered outside after more
wood, and the transients hired to cover in the tavern so
that he and the other regulars could be humiliated, took
one look in the kitchen and scampered back out to the
floor.
Cook, Besho, Khorey . . . they'd done nothing to him,
did not deserve the anger he longed to discharge, and so
Thyerri stood there, quivering, the emotions piling up in-
side him, disgracing himself further with each passing
moment.
His hand felt wet. He examined it as if it belonged to
someone else. Blood. And slivers, gained in his wild flight
from the hall. And as he watched, that hand made a fist
and struck the fire-heated stone, and struck again. Stone
already stained with his blood.
Cook caught his hand, exclaiming in a different tone, but
he jerked free, and ran for the door and the clear air of
the alleyway.
Wide eyes reflected the light from the doorway: Khorey
the stove-boy, cowering beside the woodpile. A frantic
scrambling toppled the pile, and the boy darted past him,
back to the light and warmth of the kitchen, shedding wood
with every third step.
Mortally ashamed, Thyerri retreated to the pump, and
plunged his hands deep into the cool water.
He'd acted the fool in more ways than he could count.
Rhyys knew he'd run away. Instead of facing his attacker,
he'd run, and attacked others who'd come to trust his
easy nature.
What do you want, boy? To run? To hurt?
To kill?
He shuddered, knowing at that moment how close he
was to wanting that end for Rhyys. Rhyys had determined
his competition days at an end. Rhyys had ruled his life for
years, had controlled his training and his time on the rings.
And Rhyys chose those who would have another chance
to compete.
And now, Rhyys controlled a new arena, in ways he
could never rule the competitors, whose success ultimately
depended upon their individual pride and ability. Some-
thing had changed. Rhyys was heady with powera power
that ranged beyond Khoratumand getting worse, if to-
night was any indication.
But there was nothing Thyerri of Bharlori's kitchen could
do to change Rhyys dunTarec, Ringmaster of Khoratum,
except not give him satisfaction.
He lifted the icy water to his cheeks, chasing the blood
away, hating the remembered touch of those fingers, hating
the tingle that ran through him as his fingers washed the
cuts on his cheek and the vest brushed the hardening
mounds of flesh on his chest.
The dreams came nightly, now, and the most casual wak-
ing touch roused myriad sensations he despised. Though he
hated Rhyys for this deliberate assault, he hated his own
body more, for the hard nubs on his chest, the tingling
skin - - . the tightening in his groin.
He swore, and plunged his hands again into the freezing
water, this time to drive away the salty tears. There in the
shadowed privacy of the alleyway, he unlaced the vest to
examine the shallow cuts at his breast.
"Thyerri! Are you out here, boy?"
Bharlori, sounding anxious and a bit frustrated.
"They're asking for you, lad. Best finish your business
and get back."
"I'm not going back." Thyerri lifted a handful of water
to his chest, caught his breath at the sudden intimate chill,
and scrubbed with the flat of his hand to both warm the
spot and erase the memory of Rhyys' fingersand to pun-
ish his own flesh.
"What are you talking about? Of course you're going
back in. They've hired our services for the nightinto to-
morrow, if they so choose. // they're happy and content.
Perhaps they'll ask you to dance. Think what that could
bring in from this lot. They've no idea what things cost
outside their Towers. They've paid handsomely from the
start. Dance well, and you may never have to work again!"
Thyerri jerked the laces tight, and turned to face his em-
ployer. Bharlori fell back a step as the light hit his face.
He brushed past Bharlori without answering. No amount
of bonus pay could exculpate the abuse he and the others
had had to endure already. It would be months before the
taste of that searing kiss had left his mouth.
Inside, he appropriated a wineglass destined for that
damnable party and drained it, coughed as the unfamiliar
sensation flooded his palate, uncertain which was worse,
the taste of the alcohol or the taste of Rhyys.
"You will go back, won't you, Thyerri lad? Do this, and
by the gods, I'll make you my partner. You're my luck, you
know that, don't you? Everything turned face-about for me
after you began working here. And your dancing"
By the gods . . . Thyerri raised his hand to stem the flow
of words. His fate was sealed. Had been from the moment
Bharlori had issued that first challenge to Rakshi weeks
ago. Bharlori had said no one would hurt Thyerri while
he was alive. Bharlori had said, lightning could strike his
establishment and he would still turn a profit from this
night.
And a failed radical dancer was no one's good luck.
A wise man never celebrated before the transaction with
fate was complete.
He bent his head in acknowledgment of his employer's
orders, and relieved a passing boy of the wine jug that was
destined,  as  was Thyerri  himself, for the  outrageous
assemblage.
~ ~ 8
Mikhyel eased himself into the welcoming warmth of the
Barsitumin leythium pool and settled next to Raulind, in a
curve of stone worn human-shape by centuries of continu-
ous use. The faintly phosphorescent froth oozed around
him, bubbling into his very pores, eliminating the aches and
weariness of the past days.
Barsitum and Harriisitum, Barsitum's sister node in the
Khoramali Range to the east, were unique among the Rho-
matum Web nodes. Above ground, all plant life thrived.
Below, the liquid leythium banned no one, and healed
some of those who came to bathe in them.
It wasn't the first time Barsitum's baths had worked their
magic for Mikhyel; he'd spent several months here, follow-
ing his thirteenth birthday, and much of that time had been
spent in this very pool.
Raulind had been here, too, that first time, one of the
monks who tended the pools, as well as those who came
to take advantage of the healing leythium. Afterward, re-
sponding to some unspoken agreement between them, he'd
accompanied Mikhyel to Rhomatum.
He'd never returned. Mikhyel had never thought to ask
if he'd given  up his  monkish  vows.  Certainly he'd  been
welcomed warmly by the monks, but so had Mikhyel been
greeted, and those they brought with them.
He would swear the monks recognized Ganfrion.
But then, Ganfrion might well have come here before.
The brothers charged little for the use of the node and
turned no one in need away. According to local legend,
those not in need who tried to abuse the brothers' generos-
ity found themselves overcome with guilt, kept awake in
fear of their dreams, and soon they departed of their own
free will.
Mikhyel had always believed that legend to be one of
the more effective pieces of mass hysteria ever perpetrated.
After having met the creature beneath Rhomatum, he had
rather a different perspective.
And he wondered who or what ruled here beneath Barsi-
tum Tower.
That the creature beneath Rhomatum was unique, Mi-
khyel did not for an instant believe. Deymorin had spoken
of "Mother." The creature had spoken of his "children"
and asked Mikhyel to tell them their father loved them.
He leaned back into the swirling liquid and . . . called,
with that inner voice. There was no answer of the sort he'd
come to expect, but the leythium surrounding him glim-
mered, and an increased sense of well-being seeped into
his skin.
Curious.
"Welcome." Raulind's serene voice recalled him to the
pool. "Have you come to join us?"
Mikhyel slitted his eyes open, let his eyelash-hazed vision
slide toward the path leading into the pool.
Ganfrion.
He shoved himself upright. "What do you want?"
Ganfrion's stance shifted ever so slightly, assuming the
careless insolence it had, for a moment, lacked. The dark
eyes that had been drawn and (Mikhyel realized in retro-
spect) a bit uncertain, raked him now with exaggerated
interest.
"Nothing I can get here, Suds. I like a bit more meat on
the bones I chew. Raul, thanks, but no thanks. I fear this
pool would not prove salutary to my ignoble flesh. I'll seek
something a bit less rich farther down line."
Ganfrion slung his bathing towel over his shoulder and
strode away, down a passage, the soft leylight gleaming on
numerous scars beneath the dark hair on his arms and legs,
a long scar across the large muscles of a less-hairy back.
He was limping.
"It's good that he get time in the baths," Raulind said.
"He's suffered recently, I believe."
"As long as it's not mine."
"Has he, then, correctly judged your attitude? Should I
depart to a lesser pool?"
"You know better."
"Do I?"
Chapter 5ever

"The time to move is now. The web is dissolving beneath
us. If in fact Mikhyel dunMheric is forming a secret union
among the Southern Crescent Nodes, it could only be to
force the Northern Crescent into accepting this Shatumin
witch as the Rhomatumin Ringmaster."
Relieved that, from Rhyys' comment, his actions were no
longer the center of attention, Thyerri slipped through the
shadows to a corner vantage where he could monitor the
levels in the wineglasses without himself being noticed.
"Lidye of Shatum cannot control Rhomatum, much less
the entire web," Rhyys continued, lecturing as Rhyys was
inclined to do. "All our understanding of the ley suggests
that, and the current chaos in the power stream supports
it."
"And yet, our ringmaster claims the web has stabilized
since Persitum dropped out. That the depletion of our node
has eased. If, in fact, Anheliaa is dead or dying, as our
southern informants suggest, would that not indicate Lidye
of Shatum is capable?"
"If that were the case, there would be no reason for all
this maneuvering on the part of the Rhomandi. These are
the acts of desperate men. We must take Rhomatum before
the southern radicals gain control of it and through it, de-
stroy every node in the web."
"And if not this Shatumin woman," a red-painted face
asked, "if not the Rhomandi, then who? The Shatumin has,
at least, the benefit of Anheliaa's training, if not Rhomandi
blood. Whom, of Rhomatumin birth, would you set in her
place? Inept is better than no control, isn't it?"
"Hardly," Rhyys answered, in the patronizing tone every
dancer had learned to hate. "A figurehead all the nodes
can respect and trust would mean the ringmasters working
as a unified force to create a stable perimeter. The merest
technician has been known to monitor the Rhomatum rings
since Khoratum's capping."
"But that was before Persitum cut us off," red-face
pointed out.
"Precisely." The smooth, new voice emanated from the
deep shadows at the table's far end, where a dark-cloaked,
hooded figure reclined, a black moth among gaudy butter-
flies,  a mysterious  figure that was invariably  included in
Rhyys' commissioned fantastical paintings. "But with the
right master in Rhomatum, who is to say Mauritum will
not open its borders to Rhomatum? Perhaps even greet
the Syndicate with open arms? With Persitum stable, with
Mauritum and Rhomatum united into one great state, who
can imagine the heights to which we might rise?"
"Pretty words," another nameless voice said, "but the
problems began when Mauritum invaded. The resultant
chaos ebbed when Persitum dropped from the web. Is it
such a stretch of imagination to hypothesize that Mauritum
was the source of the malignancy deteriorating the web?"
"So," the moth replied, "from this, I take it you believe
the reports out of Shatum."
A cloth-draped head dipped in acknowledgment.
"And do you also believe, as does this Southern Alliance,
that the Rhomandi are clay to be shaped and fired to
your liking?"
To that, there was no answer ventured.
"At your peril, sirs, at your peril," Rhyys, never one to
remain out of a conversation for long, said. "I say Shatum
will fall victim to her own naivete."
The moth lifted the ocarshi pipe to the shadows beneath
his hood. The food before the shadow-figure lay virtually
untouched, his drinking had been moderate, but his ocarshi
pipe had never left his hand. Not surprisingly, considering
the ugly scars on the fingers cradling that pipe, the only
visible skin within the shadow. Ocarshi clouded a man's
mind, masking pain with insidious pleasure.
"You sound very certain of that, Khoratum." The words
drifted out on a cloud of oily smoke, but the moth's voice
was steady, the words clear. "And yet the Shatumin reports
of Mikhyel and Deymorin dunMheric have little in common
with those individuals you have described."
It happened that way sometimes. Common belief held
that ocarshi attacked a man's pain first and his wits after,
that if a man in pain could balance consumption, he was
overall clearer-headed under the drug's influence.
From the cloud around him, evidently this man's pain
was great.
"The Rhomandi are playing us for fools with this talk
of Mauritumin invasions," Rhyys said, "Since they've been
forced to abdicate the Tower to a non-Rhomandi, they
must diminish the importance of the web, if they are to
maintain their power within the Syndicate. They are creat-
ing fears of outside invaders in order to unite the Syndicate
militarily under their leadership."
"From what you say," the moth interposed smoothly, "it
seems possible, perhaps even probable, that this machine
the Rhomandi blame for the collapse was not brought in
from Mauritum, but was a Rhomandi ploy to destroy the
webor at least gain time. Another generation, perhaps,
with the web in chaotic ebb, to breed another Rhomandi
master?"
"Quite." Rhyys' mouth stretched in a wolfish baring of
teeth. "If Mikhyel dunMheric plays the fool, it is to lure
those he would control to a false sense of superiority. Re-
gardless of what the Shatumin say, Mikhyel dunMheric is
not and never was a puppet for Anheliaa. She feared him."
"But if something damaged those much-vaunted wits?"
The moth persisted. "There were rumors of illness, you
said, even before the Collapse."
"I would not operate on such an assumption. Even were
that the case, they have allies Anheliaa feared. She feared
Deymorin's Outsider friends and she feared Mikhyel's in-
fluence within the Council Hall. Were it the youngest these
reports spoke of, Nikaenor, I'd believe them. Anheliaa de-
clared Nikki Princeps precisely because he was a fool and
she could control him long enough to gain control of his
offspring. That's what she planned two years ago, it's what
she repeated to me the day of his wedding."
"And why would Anheliaa want a fool in charge of her
city? Why would she choose an incompetent to control her
precious web?"
"Anheliaa wanted the Shatumin as a broodmare for a
Rhomandi child, nothing more. She planned to live long
enough to raise that child as her replacement."
"She took her time about it."
"She'd planned for the eldest to marry years ago and
produce an heir for the Tower. She finally had to force the
issue last fall. At Nikaenor's wedding, she believed she had
succeeded in separating Nikaenor from the others. That
Deymorin and Mikhyel left Nikaenor in charge at home,
indicates a solidarity of purpose among the Rhomandi
brothers and with the Rhomatum Council that would in-
deed ignite Anheliaa's greatest angerand fear."
"Fear? Why should Anheliaa fear anything?"
"She risked death capping Khoratum to seal the web
against them and their ley-blind influence. She'd risk death
again rather than release control to them while she was
alive, and she'd risk no few other lives to keep the web
safe from them after her death. Do you think it an accident
that Anheliaa chose wives for them who could both keep
the Rhomatum Rings spinning and ally House Rhomandi
with the greatest Houses of Shatum and Giephaetum? She
knew the rift beginning in the web. She knew there was
greater danger from within than from without. She could
feel it in the rings, and wanted to ensure the nodes would
remain loyal."
"And yet, Nethaalye returned home unwed," another
voice cried out angrily. "Anheliaa chose a Shatumin as her
heir, and insulted the Northern Crescent. Is this the act of
a woman intending to solidify the web?"
"Your cousin returned home on her own, Giephaetum,"
Rhyys sneered. "Had she had more sense, she'd have
stayed there and ministered to a Shatumin witch, if that
was required to stay in Rhomatum Tower."
"Damn your"
"I thought we were here to celebrate our solidarity," the
moth's voice, still soft, managed nonetheless to overpower
the other two. "Might I suggest we avoid insulting one
another?"
The Giephaetumin leaned back, eyes closed, breathing
heavily. Rhyys drained his glass, then gestured angrily for
its replenishment.
"You are right to chastise," the Giephaetum said at last
and with a nod toward the moth. "It is the Rhomandi we
must depose, not one another. Not even Shatum."
"And if the Rhomandi are correct?" red-face asked. "If
Mauritum is making a move to control the Rhomatum
Web, wouldn't it make sense for us to unite against
Mauritum?"
"Under the Rhomandi?" Rhyys sniggered. "The breed
has died out. We must take Rhomatum now, unite the web
under a powerful leader. That will stop any notions Mauri-
tum may have. Which I do not for a moment entertain.
Mauritum will support us. The Rhomandi have always been
the source of opposition to Mauritum. Anheliaa was the
final Rhomandi gasp for survival, and now she's gone. The
time to move is now. If Giephaetum joins with us, if we
can bring Persitum back in, we'll have by far the majority
of the web and the Southern Crescent won't stand a chance.
They'll know that. They'll bend to wisdom and join us, and
we'll choose who rules Rhomatum. We'll choose a princeps
with the power to rule the rings, not cater to special
interests."
"And who would you set in that exalted position, Khora-
tum? Yourself?"
"Hardly. / am master of Khoratum. But there are
those"
"Who?"
"The ringmasters of the satellites will choose."
"Ah. Then you intend for the ringmasters to rule us."
"I didn't say"
"Any such appointment will, I am quite certain, be sub-
ject to Syndicate  approval, Orenum,"  the moth cut in
smoothly. "And, ultimately, I should imagine Rhomatum
herselfthe rings, not the citywill make the choice. You
speak in past tense of the Rhomatum Ringmaster, Khora-
tum. Do you, then, believe that part of the rumor?"
"Painful as that loss is, I believe she must be." Rhyys'
voice caught, and he dabbed at his eyes with a stained
finger towel. "I thought I would know for certain when she
fell from the web, but it seems otherwise."
Thyerri stared into the locarshi smoke that was said to
hold images of lost ones to one who would see them. It
was also said that when a person died and was immersed
in the ley, their soul became a part of the web. But perhaps
that was only to appease the grieving souls yet living.
The smoke made his eyes burn. He biinked them free of
cleansing tears, only to realize everyone was staring at him.
"What did you say?" Rhyys asked, and Thyerri realized
he must have spoken aloud.
He bent his head and answered quickly, quietly, "Forgive
me, honorables, I meant no disrespect. I was only think-
ing"
"I asked what you said, dolt, not why you said it!"
Thyerri's hands clenched on the double-handled ewer.
"It's the ancient wisdom, sir. If the scent of Anheliaa re-
mains in the web, it might be because her body has been
consumed, but not her soul." He kept his voice low, hoping
it would not betray the contempt he felt.
"Anheliaa's . . . scent?" Rhyys rose slowly to his feet,
and Thyerri looked up, realized his mistake when he
couldn't look away, wouldn't deny the challenging gaze.
"Why do you describe it that way?"
Thyerri backed away, seeking the limits of his territory,
discovered the table much too close.
"Please, m'lord, Thyerri didn't mean anything by it!"
Sakhithe ran between them. "He's of the hills and they talk
that way all the time. Please, m'lord, don't be"
Rhyys turned his glower on her; she blanched and stag-
gered back a step, but caught herself and stood her ground,
lifting her chin defiantly. Thyerri put her gently behind him,
facing Rhyys alone, resigned to whatever fate was his. He'd
known since Bharlori first boasted about his fortune that
tonight was doomed.
"Sit down, dunTarec," a slurred voice ordered. "The
boy's just spouting hiller nonsense."
Rhyys turned on his company. "Don't tell me what to
do, dunErrif. That's exactly what it's like. Anheliaa's scent
is still in the web. Tell me how a damned servant knows
such a thing!"
"The girl explained that. Besides, I thought we were cele-
brating tonight."
"A point well taken, Giephaetum," the moth murmured.
"So, do we celebrate Giephaetum's alliance? Will your sire
join the Northern Crescent against the Rhomandi?"
"He arrives tomorrow, sir, to partake fully of this Radical
Dance Festival our host is sponsoring. You can ask him
yourself."
Casting Thyerri a final intimidating glance, Rhyys threw
himself back into his pillows, snatched the ocarshi pipe
from his neighbor's hand and took a long pull, holding the
potent smoke in his lungs for several long seconds, eyes
closed, before expelling it very slowly, pausing to reinhale
through his nose that which he had exhaled from his mouth.
Thyerri turned his face to the shadows to mask his revul-
sion. Addicts came in many forms. Those like the moth,
who indulged to keep pain at bay, dancers who had lost
the dance, to keep the memories at bay. Rhyys' life con-
tained no such pain, either physical or mental. Those like
Rhyys simply gloried in the expanded sense of power the
smoke gave them.
"To the alliance!" Rhyys' voice rose, and a chorus of
voices answered him, and goblets crashed and shattered
throughout the room.
"Another round!" The shout filled the room. And as
Thyerri and the others hurried to replace the discarded
goblets: "To innocent dupes!" Which roused laughter and
a response: "To Mauritum!" And: "To the Rhomandi
coastal watch."
The laughter and the toasts grew increasingly outrageous,
and for a time, Thyerri and the others were kept busy re-
filling cups and chasing after more wine. For everyone but
the moth. The man in the dark cloak sat back, raising his
cup, but not drinking. And soon, he ceased making even
that gesture, turning instead to his pipe.
"Where are those dancers Bharlori promised?" some-
one shouted.
Another voice added, "Tell him to send in the boy.
Tobinsi said he's better than a Varkisin window whore."
Thyerri stiffened. Bharlori had said nothing about prom-
ises, and he had no desire to perform for this drug-stupid
audience.
But before he could slip out, Mishthi, in an attempt to
bring them back into grace with the man paying the gratu-
ity, dropped to the floor beside Rhyys, in a cloud of silver-
and-rose silk, and whispered breathlessly: "We are the
dancers, m'lord. And Thyerri, he's the most wonderful of
all."
Thyerri swallowed his protest, and took another step
toward the bead-obscured passageway.
But Rhyys seemed interested only in Mishthi. Rhyys
cupped her chin in one hand and turned her this way and
that. "I'll take your word for it, girl." He released her and
sat back. "Stand up. Let's have a look at you." She hurried
to obey; he traced a circle with his finger through the air
and she turned slowly. "Well, let's see what you can do."
He waved his hand at the musicians. Mishthi searched
the room, smiled when she saw Thyerri and rushed to his
side, hands held out.
"No," he said flatly and strode openly toward the door-
way. But two large men barred his escape. Two men attired
as outrageously as he, only in steel and leather, and bearing
swords and knives they undoubtedly knew how to use.
He whirled, outraged. "I'm no slave, Rhyys dunTarec,"
he hissed, not caring if he destroyed their illusions. "I dance
when I please."
"Not tonight, my feisty little friend," the velvet voice
from under the hood answered him. and something in that
tone chilled Thyerri in a way Rhyys could never have done.
"I don't understand," he muttered, and though the
quiver in his voice shamed him, he couldn't cure it. "Bharlo
said"
"Bharlori sold you for the night, child. For tonight, you
are, for all intents and purposes, our slave."
"Bharlori!" Thyerri shouted and bolted for the door. A
bold move that might have worked, had it not been for the
gods-be-damned fringe and his ocarshi-dulled reflexes. One
guard caught a handful of fringe, a well-timed jerk made
him stumble into the hold of the second, and in another
heartbeat, he was immobilized between them, facing a deri-
sive, laughing Rhyys.
"Bharlo!" he shouted again, and Rhyys snarled and
back-handed him across the face. But Thyerri only fought
harder, letting the man-mountains support his weight, kick-
ing at anything his sandaled feet could encounter, con-
vinced if he made enough noise, Bharlori would come and
end this farce once and finally.
"Settle down, boy. I'm here." Bharlori's voice, weary and
chagrined.  "Please, m'lord, release him. He'll behave.
Won't you, Thyerri?"
"No . . ." he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. "I
mean, yes, of course, I will. I just want to leave." His voice
trailed off as he realized that his freedom was not Bharl-
ori's first priority. The pressure on his arms eased, and he
could have escaped. Instead, he stood there, shaking in
anger and betrayal.
"Is it true, then?" he asked in the whisper that was all
the voice he could find.
"Just to dance, lad. It's a game. Play it well, and I'll
make it worth your while, I promise you."
For a moment, Thyerri had no voice at all. Then: "And
my pride? (Can you buy that back for me as well?"
Bharlori frowned, then turned to Rhyys. "Please, m'lord,
may I talk with him in private a moment?"
"You know what it means if he doesn't come back?"
"Of course, m'lord."
Rhyys shrugged, and turned away. "Make it fast, ale-
slinger."
Bharlori's frown darkened, but he took Thyerri's elbow
in a numbing grip and pulled him into the passage.
"Ale-slinger?" Thyerri's anger exploded in the word.
"Are you just going to take that from"
"Understand, boy. Pride is a luxury only the powerful
can afford. You and I, we have no power, therefore we
have no pride. Survival, a modicum of comfort. That's what
the likes of us hope for. If you refuse now, it's over for
both of us. These men came here because of you. The repu-
tation your dancing has given Bharlori's Tavern. Now, ei-
ther you deliver, or we're both ruined."
Betrayed twice in a single evening. He shuddered, fearing
what the third might be. A pattern had begun, budded in
that careless challenge to Rakshi, and he feared nothing
could halt its fruition.
Bharlori searched his face, then turned away, slumped and
broken. Bharlori, who had given Thyerri a home, a haven,
when the rest of the world rejected him, who had fed him,
clothed him, and given him back his dance. His soul.
Thyerri placed a hand on the old man's shoulder, in-
tending to head down the passage in his stead, then hesi-
tated as Bharlori's paw covered it. And Bharlori's face was
bright with relief.
"It's just a dance, Thyerri."
Thyerri stared at him. "Just a dance? Bharlo, I'm a dancer."
But the words meant nothing to an old man, who had
worked hard all his life, had played more than fair with his
employees, and saw a means now to secure all their futures.
Thyerri clenched his jaw against the anger, or perhaps it
was tears that threatened, and slid his hand free.
~ Q ~
(The cloaked figure slunk toward him. Dark, enigmatic. . .
(Deadly. Instinct warned.
(Fate, closing in, reflected  in a thousand iridescent
mirrors.)
"M'lord? Khyel!" A hand on his shoulder gently
wakened him.
He jumped: a spasm that encompassed his entire body.
Raulind. Not . . . fate.
"My apologies, sir," Raulind said, his voice very low.
"You fell asleep. Would you care to go to bed?"
He nodded, his throat too tight for words. He let Rau-
lind's hands guide him from the pool, stood passively while
Raulind set the robe about his shoulders.
But as he left the pool cavern, as he rounded a curve in
the path, something drew his attention back to the pool . . .
And a figure. Dark-cloaked. With glints of green where
the eyes should be.
"Raul?" he whispered. "Do you see him?"
"Dreams, master Khyel. Come to bed."
Mikhyel biinked, and the figure was gone.
He shuddered, and let Raulind draw him up the stairs.
Chapter Eight

The musicians saw him first.
They'd been trying to shift the mood with the sultry Kar-
lindra, an amorphous melody that had the women oozing
about the floor, Thyerri picked it up, reluctantly, feeling
nothing, his heart deaf to the flute's breathy seduction.
But the flute mocked him, weaving its tones in and
around his awkward, listless movements, sending a flut-
tering trill across the room to infiltrate his arm and turn
muscle and bone to rippling water; the drum insinuated a
muted but insistent rhythm, and Thyerri was lost. He could
no more stop his body from responding to that musical
temptation than he could stop 'his heart from beating.
The music shepherded him gently around the room's pe-
rimeter; he eddied in and oozed back out of the central
mound of cloth, pillows and bodies, like a stream seeking
passage.
He teased the edge of the mountain, but he didn't wend
among its living folds. He wasn't a torrent, to deluge them
in sensation and run downhill. He was a spring-fed stream,
irresistibly eroding, certain, in the end, to find his own way
to wherever he wanted to go.
And as he turned, dipped and slipped away, all other
motion within the room slowed and stopped; all eyes
shifted toward him.
Power. Pride. Bharlori had said those weren't his. But
what was this, if not'power? What drove him now, except
pride?
And as he tempted and refused, demanded and denied,
he sensed a shifting response in his own body, a heated
desire akin to those hated, late-night dreams. Akin, but not
the same. This desire, this arousal was of the mind, not of
the body. Driven by anger, not lust.
Thyerri had never danced in anger before. And out of
anger grew cold intent. Determination to prove to Rhyys
and that shadowed moth that they didn't own him, could
never own him, and certainly could never control that
which made him alive.
And that was his power, he realized as he swayed back-
ward over that hooded moth, sending the strands of his
hair to infiltrate the shadow beneath the hood: he was alive
as they would not, could not be. And his body mocked
them, his movements grew increasingly complex, contorted
in ways he knew were awesome, yet beautiful.
You can't buy this, his actions cried out. You've commit-
ted your life to lesser pursuits, you've stifled yout.body and
your soul with petty goals, and you'll never be what I am.
Never have what I have. Never feel what this body can feel.
Desire permeated the room. Self-loathing did. Strangely,
rather than assuage Thyerri's anger, his petty triumph fed
it.
To use his talent to cause pain and arouse desire was
to prostitute it as surely as those window-whores they'd
compared him to. But it was Rhyys' self-hate and Rhyys'
bitterness tearing Rhyys apart, and Rhyys had denied him
the life he'd been born to live, had forced him to waste
that gift the Ley Mother had given him. Rhyys had brought
him to this. If prostituting his dance could destroy Rhyys,
it was well worth the sacrifice.
But it was himself he destroyed, something deep within
him cried, not Rhyys, not the moth nor any of these others.
They already knew their fetid depths. They were consumers
of life, not creators, and they were content with that role.
Proud of it.
On that realization, he drew himself upright, a writhing
undulation that ended in a snap and extended clear to his
fingertips. Tightening his body, he caught the drumbeat be-
tween his hands and reformed it, finger-snapping it into a
faster, more complex rhythm.
And without his conscious willing, that rhythm took the
form of the challenge dance of the half-mad folk of Gosh-
tari Valley. A challenge, man to man, woman to woman,
man to womanor just oneself against the gods. Power
against power. Skill against skill. Daring against daring.
Thyerri had heard the rhythms frequently as a child, had
seen others dance, proud and tall, silhouettes against bon-
fires. He'd never danced those rhythms, though the musi-
cians  had  teased  him  nightly  with  its  tantalizing
complexities. But his feet and his body responded now with
instincts evolved out of the mountains themselves.
A whirl. A stomp. A sudden pose that held the music in
suspension. He drove the music. He controlled the room.
This was no seduction, the most drug-blind man in the
room knew that. The mood changed, darkened. The view-
ers were still captives of his visual spell, but the men recog-
nized the challenge, and as men, responded. Their hands
created new rhythms, tried to seize control, to punish, but
Thyerri's feet stole it back. Their voices tried to break his
concentration, grasping hands tried to trip him.
He denied them all.
Until at last, hands and voices conceded, and he con-
trolled the room, utterly and without compromise. He had
won, honestly, as the gods measured such things.
And even as his mind reveled in that realization, his own
human frailty brought him down. Muscle and bone had
limitations the spirit did not always acknowledge. He knew,
a heartbeat away, that the end had come, whirled into an
open spot and with a shout of sheer triumph, collapsed.
Exhaustion, total and debilitating. The vitality flowed out
of him, leaving him empty, and he was consumed with a
lassitude horribly reminiscent of the dreams, a satiation that
distorted his victory, warped it away from his purpose.
And in that distortion he knew, as he lay there, twisted,
joints screaming from the contorted position, unable to
move, the only sound in the room his own harsh gasps
after breath, that what he'd just done was terribly, horribly,
unforgivably wrong.
~ ~ ~
Shame engulfed him. Guilt, overwhelming guilt, unfo-
cused and painful.
Mikhyel groaned and rolled upright on the sleeping
pallet.
"M'lord? Are you well?" Raulind's voice, from the shad-
owed depths.
"I'm . . . fine," he murmured, for all he wasn't certain
that was true.
Overhead, the curved ceiling of the Barsitumin caves
glowed silver, light reflected off the bathing pools. There
were no buildings in Barsitum. Not even a Tower, The rings
were in the deepest cavern, the monks, and all their visitors
slept within the caves.
The mother's womb, the brothers called it.
He shuddered.
"I don't, you know," he said to Raul.
"Don't what, sir?"
"Think I'm better than you. Or Ganfrion."
"I know, sir. So does Gan. Go to sleep, sir. Morning
comes early for the brothers."
~ 8 ~
"Interesting," the velvet voice caressed the air of the
room, and stole back f~*e moment. "Is this a common talent
among your hill-folk?
A choking sound that might have been Rhyys, a rustling
of cloth and clinking of pottery and metal as the guests
strove to return some normalcy to the moment.
Thyerri made an effort, managed to straighten one leg,
but no more. He curled over, crossed arms pressed to his
aching middle, terrified at what he might have done to his
own body in that mindless battle.
Once, legend held, challenges had been to the death.
"Remove him," Rhyys' nasal tones cut through the ring-
ing in Thyerri's ears, and before he'd registered the sounds'
meaning, the huge vices he associated with the man-
mountains' hands had jerked him upright. They dragged
him to the perimeter, where he tried to take his own weight
as they released him, but his numb legs failed, and he went
down again.
He'd have curled there, gladly, and slept, or passed out,
but Sakhithe was beside him, urging him to sit up and drink
something he couldn't identify, his mouth being as senseless
as the rest of him.
Somewhere in the room, Rhyys was shouting for the mu-
sicians to play and the women to dance. "Something enter-
taining this time," he added sullenly, and Sakhithe, with a
whispered, "Sorry, Thyerri," left him.
The guards had dropped him near the servant passage
and the only chilling draft in the close air of the room. He
curled into a ball and tucked his face into his elbow, shiv-
ering, trying to forget what he'd done, knowing the fact
that he had done it, the fact that he'd allowed his darkest
inner self to drive his dance proved what he'd feared every
morning since that first dream.
A radical dancer could never lose control like that. Lives
were lost that way. A radical dance captivated an audience
and glorified the dance and Rakshi and the very essence of
life. A radical dancer never willfully used the gift to con-
quer those darker sides and rouse those other senses.
"I don't know, Khoratum. Even a mediocre horse gets a
blanket after a hard ride."
It was the velvet voice, and speaking from directly over-
head. Thyerri started awake and struggled to rise to his
feet, but a heavy darkness fell over him in smothering folds
and the added weight was more than his chilled muscles
could fight. Ocarshi-laden though i~was, the cloak was
warm, and he huddled in that warmtn, trying to feel grati-
tude and finding that civilized emotion too far from his
reach.
"Well?" A booted toe found him through the folds,
nudged him, pressed deeper into his gut when he ignored
it, and gave  a vicious jab before leaving him.  "Ungrateful
bastard."
Thyerri raised his head. The man's face, what he could
see past the tangle of his own hair and the near-full mask
the man wore, was as deeply scarred as his hands.
"Which should I do, scarface?" he croaked, his voice
rough and sore. "Snort, whinny, or stomp?"
An audible gasp: anticipation of the scarred man's re-
sponse. And indeed, he did scowl for a long moment, but
then, his mouth stretched in what must have been a pain-
ful smile.
"Where did you come from, dancer?"
Thyerri winced. But it was a cavalier jibe, the velvet
voice was not native, could have no idea what being a
dancer meant here in the Khoramali heights.
But then, neither had Bharlori known. Zeiin had said no
one truly knew. No one, except the dancers themselves.
"I arose from the ley," he hissed bitterly.
Scarred laughter sounded as pained as the smile. "Is that
how the local whores explain their accidents?"
"You'd have to ask them."
"Oh, leave the sewage be," Rhyys snarled impatiently.
"Stand up, ley-child. You're out of place down there."
Thyerri tried again, and discovering cloak-warmed mus-
cles more inclined to obey, even managed to rise with
some grace.
"Join me." Without looking to see if his command was
obeyed, the scarred man returned to his shadowed niche.
Thyerri, in defiance of Rhyys, followed, and sank onto the
pillow a wave of scarred hand vacated for him.
Rhyys glowered, and threw himself back into a nest of
pillows and snarled at the musicians, who, after a false start
or two, settled into a standard court set piece.
Scarface lifted a finger toward the food. "Help yourself,
dancer." And when Thyerri hesitated: "Renewyourself."
Which was far more order than invitation. "I would see
more of your talent before I leave."
He tried a handful of the strange foods, but found few
to his liking. His mouth was miserably dry, but he rarely
drank wine, and the heavy drink being served tonight clung
to his tongue like the ocarshi clung to velvet.
A goblet appeared over his shoulder, pewter, cool to the
touch, its contents fresh to nose and palate: his favorite
fruit juice.  He  twisted  and  found,  as  he'd  thought  he
would, Sakhithe.
"I'm sorry," he began, but she stopped him with a fin-
gertip on his lips and an eager smile. "Didn't Mishthi say
they'd like you, Thyerri?"
He caught her hand. "Dance with me? Later, when my
legs are back?"
"Any time," she whispered back. "Any time at all, with
or without legs."
Angry demands from further down the table called her
away, eliminating the need to answer.
"Your lover?" the velvet voice asked.
"No!"
"Why so shocked? You're a handsome lad. I'd think you
had a dozen such awaiting your pleasure."
"Because we're both" Except they weren't. And he
supposed, if he were to have a lover, Sakhithe might be his
first choice. The thought shocked him anew with the pleas-
ant feelings the thought of her, skin against skin, aroused.
He was too raw tonight, the insidious dreams become
too frequent, the horror of his dance too fresh in his mind.
"Your interests lie, perhaps, in other directions?"
"You might say that."
"And is your affection rewarded?"
Thyerri thought of the rings and the stadium, vaguely
aware they spoke at cross-purposes, but the pain of inacces-
sibility was real either way, and he shook his head.
"The one who rejects you is a fool, lad." That velvet
voice stripped him more effectively than Rhyys' insidious
hands. "Were you willing, man, woman, or beast would find
you, I think, a memorable partner."
Thyerri twitched, concentrated only on keeping the cup
in his hands steady.
"PerhapH unwilling would be even better." This time, the
velvet was so deep, so soft, Thyerri doubted anyone heard
but himself. He swallowed hard, suspecting bait, but deep
in a game for which he had no rules.
"You overreact," Rhyys snarled. "He's adequate, I'll
grant you that, but for real dancing, wait until you see
Tabinth dance the rings. She'll have your loins in an uproar,
I grant you."
"And when will that be, Khoratum?" a voice rang out.
"When will the rings once again dance the Khoratum
skies?"
"Soon, Orenum, very soon. We await only the arrival of
our guest of honor."
"The Rhomandi?"
"Mikhyel dunMheric," the moth said. "We would do
well not to mistake the level of the honor we are being
granted."
"His may be the lesser power," the Giephaetumin said,
"but Mikhyel dunMheric is the more insightful individual.
We must be cautious."
"The celebration will keep him distracted," Rhyys de-
clared loftily. "And when it is done, we'll have a new radi-
cal dancer, and you'll see I'm right: Tabinth will take the
vote. But you can't touch her." Rhyys gave a theatrical sigh
and inhaled deeply on his pipe, blew the smoke out across
his wine, and drank with exaggerated pleasure.  "Can't
touch any of the ringdancers. No one can. Not even Khora-
tum's master." Another sip. "Sometimes I truly hate the
traditions."
Thyerri added one more count against Rhyys.
"I should think," the scarred man murmured, "that the
inaccessibility would be half her charm. Absent that, what
is she but simply another body with clever moves?"
But he was looking at Thyerri, not Rhyys, as he spoke,
and the bread in Thyerri's mouth turned to sawdust. He
choked, blindly sought relief, felt his goblet pressed into
his hand, and gulped
Only to discover not the fruit juice he'd expected, but
the cloying spiced wine.
He cast the goblet away, not caring where it landed,
found his own cup, and finished the juice. His head cleared
to another shocked silence.
Freezing in mid-swallow, he scanned the immediate vicin-
ity over the pewter rim of his cup, coming finally to scarred
fingers swinging a bronze goblet by its base. Upside-down.
But again the obviously important man failed to provide
the anticipated explosion. "I should have known better,"
was all he said, and the spell was broken. Sakhithe rushed
over with towels, and when the worst of the wine had been
blotted from his robes, the moth's scarred hand caught her
wrist, keeping her at his side. "Well, boy, have your legs
recovered?"
~  ,%  9
Music flowed through him, lifting, caressing, as perfect.
in its way, as the ley in which his body drifted.
fYes-s-s, Mikhyel, son of Darius . . .}
(Where?} he asked, in a dream that smelled of raspber-
ries and cinnamon and fireblossom-tea.
{Feel the music, human spawn, dance the rings, fly with
the rhythm of the ley . . .}
{Who?}
(All and none. Tell them, I love them. Come to me . . .)
The voice faded. The music swelled.
And the dance began.
*gt    9    ~
This time, like the musicians, he and Sakhithe chose a
safe course, a standard piece that told a simple tale of love
lost and found. It was a choreography all the dancers, radi-
cal or troupe, learned, and a piece he and Sakhithe had
practiced for fun in the off-hours.
But if Thyerri no longer challenged his audience, his au-
dience remembered their defeat. They sensed his weakened
resolve, his lowered defenses, and as the final strains of the
familiar music wove themselves around him, and Sakhithe
"died" in his arms, a hand caught his ankle and a leg swept
his feet from under him.
He crashed to the floor, angling his body to protect Sak-
hithe. She squealed, and fought for balance and freedom,
caught his face with her elbow, and his groin with her heel.
For a moment, the world blackened. By the time it
cleared, he was adrift in a sea of mauling hands and glitter-
ing robes. Shrill cries in every direction indicated others in
similar jeopardy. Sticky hands roamed across him, leaving
honey-saace in their passing. Laughter and lewd sugges-
tions, and the heated potion dribbled over his stomach.
It was as if he were caught in that endless instant be-
tween sleep and waking. He wanted to move. Wanted to
run, to escape the sensations building inside him, and
lacked the ability to twitch so much as an eyelid. The
dreams chased him, swallowed him in green mist.
And he knew that if anything of himself was to survive
this night, he had to conquer that lassitude. But the green
mist rose, and the Tamshi eyes claimed him, and the hands
were the hands of his dreams. . . -
Then, a hand smeared the sauce across his flank and
under his loincloth. The Tamshi eyes widened, and a voice
screamed denial
And the immobility vanished. Thyerri scrambled across
the table, scattering plates and food, seeking freedom, not
caring what he struck, kicked or ran over to find it. His
fingers found and flung plates, closed on a knife, that bit
into soft folds and stuck. He left it and sought other weap-
ons, finding a rhythm like the dance, counterbalances to
the various objects that became weapons in his hands.
His feet struck bare floor somewhere near the disguised
door, and he staggered to a halt, a floor candelabra bal-
anced in both hands. A man groaned and cried for help.
Red-face. A knife with a jeweled hilt rose and fell with his
shuddering breaths; a pool of red spread beneath him.
The others backed away, Sakhithe and Mishthi held cap-
tive, silent in their arms.
A guard took a crouched half-step toward him. Thyerri
swung the base of the stand in a warding arc before him,
and the man straightened, hands raised in surrender.
Then, all in a time-stopped moment, Rhyys' gaze looked
beyond him; an angry voice growled: "What's going on"
and a hand gripped his elbow. Thyerri jerked, dodged and
swept the iron stand in an arc around him.
With a halt that numbed his hands and elbows, the cast-
iron legs encountered an obstacle at once hard and yielding.
The stand fell from his fingers. A shrill, female cry filled
the room, and Bharlori, his face a barely recognizable mass
of bloodied flesh, staggered and fell, his clutching hands
seeking purchase, finding brocade draperies, carrying them
down with him.
Drapes toppled, one after another, a cascade of brocades,
velvets and filmy cotton gauze, scattering oil lamps, ocarshi
stands and candles. Gauze flared, and in an instant, flames
erupted throughout the room.
~    ~    *gt
(Lightning arced.
(Flames consumed.
(Pain and darkness, fear and panic, horror and
(Guilt.)
Patricide.
Mikhyel jerked awake, shuddering, his throat sore.
"Khyel?" Raulind's voice, and Raulind's arms sur-
rounded him, as they had all those years ago, when he'd
awakened screaming, in pain, in fear, and with the certain
knowledge that but for him, Mheric, his father, would still
be alive.
And Mikhyel wondered, was it Barsitum, renowned for
healing, that was sending him these reminders of his own
culpability, or his own unforgiving nature. And he remem-
bered those legends of this place, of the fate of those who
took advantage of it, and wondered if he'd been judged . . .
And found lacking.
Chapter Nine

("Murderer!"
(Bloffd and flames. Flaming blood. Face of blood and
bone. Gttnt of gold. Spark of blue. Stone-set hilt rising, fall-
ingkeeping time with labored breath.
("Murderer!"
(Flame flaring, wave upon obscuring wave.
(Face of blood and bone. Hands pulling, pushing.
("Murderer!"
(Face of blood and bone.
("I can't leave him!"
("He's dead, Thyerri."
("Murderer!"
(Flood of water.
(Protection. Panacea for the body . . .
(But nothing for the soul.
("Murderer!")
"Murder..."
The accusation filled the air, a whisper whipped back to
him in the roaring wind.
A sob, buried in a shivering crook of arm. Rough stone
riddled his back, bit deeper as he pushed back, fighting to
escape the windand the memories.
He told himself it was over. Bharlori's was gone. Bharlo
was. And dead meant gone forever, never mind the dreams.
("Murderer!")
He jumped, searching wildly. But the scream rose out of
his dreams, not the streets below.
Dreams. He'd let his guard slip, let himself drift off. That
was stupid. He hadn't seen or heard a search party in hours,
but that didn't mean Rhyys had given up.
Murderer. He didn't know how many had died at his
hands. Bharlo, was certain. The man he'd knifed in his mad
rush to the door, that was likely as well. Of the others, of
the fire, it didn't matter. Rhyys wanted someone to blame;
that someone might as well be Thyerri, ex-dancer of
Bharlori's.
And Thyerri was to blame. That was the true horror.
Bhario was dead, and by his hand, no one else's. He'd tried,
tried so hard to save the man that was the closest thing to
a father he'd ever known. His back still throbbed with the
pain of trying to carry the owner's large body from the
flames.
But Sakhithe had thrown a cloak that reeked of ocarshi
over him and Sakhithe had made him leave Bhario, the
flames . . . made him leave . . . everything. And she'd been
with him, but then she was gone, ripped from his clinging
fingers, and Rhyys was screaming invective and accusations
at him, through the smoke and the fire that had spread to
other buildings.
He'd run, then, mindless in his panic, seeking only to
escape those who had responded to Rhyys, those seeking
someone to blame for the devastation around them.
He'd struck and thrust. Perhaps killed again: there was
a knife hilt in his hand now. Not the jeweled one, just plain
leather and seviceable steel. Though it might as well have
been that other knife. He'd pulled that free, but dropped
it when the blood had fountained and he'd tried to stanch
it with his hands.
Perhaps he'd killed, perhaps just intended to kill himself.
There was blood on the plain knife, and a wound in his
side that throbbed in the cold wind and with his every
shuddering breath.
The glacial wind whipped hair and fringe until the ends
shredded him like a flail's lash. He tightened his hold on
the plain hilt and slashed mindlessly until nothing touched
his body except the ruthlessly honest wind that carried
away hair and fringe alike.
The long dark strands flying away failed to rouse any
sense of loss. He'd dyed his hair after the competition,
made it black as night, trying to become something he was
not. Trying to hide who and what he'd been, but to cut it,
that had been admitting too much, admitting he'd never
dance the rings again.
Now, it just didn't seem to matter.
Nothing seemed to matter any more.
Bhario was dead.
Perhaps Sakhithe was, as well.
He'd found a home, only to lose it again. Except he
hadn't lost it. He'd destroyed it.
The cloak lay beside him, useless where it was, except
that by its absence from his shoulders, he might freeze to
his death. But most likely, he'd only become increasingly
uncomfortable, unable to move, until They found him and
dragged him away and refused to ever let him die, forcing
him to remember all he'd been and all he'd done.
Except that the fire wasn't his fault. The fire never had
been hi9rfault, and he wouldn't let them make it that way,
wouldn't passively accept the sentence of lifelong guilt they
intended'to lay upon his soul.
Bharlori had challenged Rakshi and lost. Bharlori had
made a pact with a cruel and evil and stupid man, and
tragedy had occurred.
His guilt lay elsewhere. His guilt lay in anger and pride.
He should never have danced. Should never have gone
back into that room, knowing his soul was already
compromised.
Fighting the wind for possession, he got the heavy fabric
over his shoulders, and curled the flapping edges over his
knees, and himself around his quivering, empty gut.
The fire was out. The shouting had stopped. Bharlo was
dead, his gamble with Rakshi's whim was over.
But Thyerri's own challenge, his desecration of his
gift . . . would Rakshi consider that debt settled? If so,
perhaps now it would be safe to sleep.
Perhaps now, the nightmares would stay away.
~ ~ ~
"He's bolted." The smug, dry tone could have been
Deymorin, but it wasn't. "Consider yourself fortunate,
m'lord dunMheric, and hope he keeps his mouth shut on
your business."
Mikhyel pressed his lips over the retort that rose instinc-
tively to the Deymorin-like provocation, replied instead
and calmly: "It certainly appears that way, Ori. Nonethe-
less, instruct the stable manager to watch for him, and to
send him to Brother Riner for direction." He threw his
Guard Captain what he hoped was a knowing glance. "In
case he's been . . . held up again."
"Held up? In Barsitum? M'lord, there's not a brothel
within a day's ride of here!"
So much for knowing. Mikhyel clamped his jaw, and
hoped the heat in his face wasn't visible here in the shad-
owed opening of the cave.
"Get the men mounted," he ordered and retreated inside
to tell his own small staff that they were, indeed, leaving,
and to give his final respects to the monks who had saved
his life years ago, and whose small, but vital node had been
his rejuvenating home for the past few days.
Ganfrion was gone. According to Ori, the mercenary had
disappeared two days ago, a fact Ori had kept to himself
until this morning, when the time came to leave and Gan-
frion still hadn't returned.
But Mikhyel couldn't blame the captain for that omis-
sion. By his own order, Ganfrion had been free to roam as
he pleased, his only duty to wander the streetsor in the
case of Barsitum, the underground bathsand listen. If that
duty kept him out of the barracks late, or even overnight,
Ori had been under instructions not to challenge him.
The captain hadn't liked that. Hadn't liked including
Ganfrion in the entourage any more than Deymorin had.
And likely he was right. Likely Deymorin was. Likely Gan-
frion was a liability, with his attitudes that bordered on
disrespect  and  highly  questionable  contactsattributes
which had, of course, been his primary value. Now he was
gone, in all likelihood selling who-knew-what information
to who-knew-whom.
Mikhyel didn't know why he should expect otherwise;
he'd always known gut instinct made a bad adviser.
Of course, even if he had judged Ganfrion correctly,
Ganfrion's leaving still made a certain sense. He'd hired
the man to look into shadows, to be his eyes and ears in
places he couldn't go.
Hired him, and then ignored him . . . even, truthfully,
shunned his company.
Before Shatum, there'd been no time. And then, Dey-
morin had joined them and Deymorin and Ori had made
it eminently clear to Ganfrion that he wasn't going to be
trusted, regardless of what Mikhyel had promised. His
brother's ability to come between Ganfrion and himself
must have made it all too obvious to Ganfrion that the
man who had hired him had no power to enforce his plans.
He'd had his chance, that first night here in Barsitum.
He could have offered Ganfrion a friendly invitation. In-
stead, he'd made it clear to Ganfrion with every comment,
every suspicious glance, that his presence was merely toler-
ated among civilized men, not welcomed.
Civilized. He imagined Ganfrion had a much different
term for his employer and his ilk.
After the incident in the baths, there'd been no reason
for Ganfrion to see his employer as anything other than
another too-rich, too-self-centered Syndic he could bend to
his advantage, to free himself from prison (yet again), to
put money in his pocket, and give him a free ride to his
next den of iniquity.
Under the circumstances, he'd leave himself.
He supposed he should organize a search party, issue a
warrant. But he wouldn't. He'd not penalize Ganfrion for
his bad judgment.
The odds had been long, Mikhyel had known that from
the start, and when one gambled, one had to be prepared
to lose. One simply reminded oneself that the primary func-
tion of this trip had been official posing, not true informa-
tion, and one proceeded with the posing and the passing
about of papers and was content.
Or so he told the disillusion that tightened his throat and
sharpened his voice as he made his good-byes to the good
monks of Barsitum, and climbed into the carriage that
would take him across Persitum ley and on into the North-
ern Crescent.
And as the carriage lurched into motion, he found him-
self searching the distance, questioning his judgment again,
wondering if Ganfrion hadn't bolted but gotten into serious
trouble . . . somewhere. He couldn't see Ganfrion simply
leaving. Ganfrion would have a point to make, a final insult
to throw.
On the other hand, possibly he'd been overly influenced
by Ganfrion's diverse and colorful history and had imbued
the man with qualities of his own desire rather than made
a rational analysis of character.
Mikhyel cursed softly and pulled the shade across the
back window, cutting off the retreating view.
"Not your concern, master Khyel," Raulind said, from
his forward seat. "Gan has been on his own from the begin-
ning. You made that perfectly clear, and he was more than
slept, and so he came back, waiting for the activity around
the area to end, hoping to lay Bharlori's spirit to rest.
Somehow.
The scavengers who came with Sakhithe had come with
purpose. She pointed to places, and they dug and pried stones
from the floor, sometimes without result, other time pulling
small bags or even boxes from the holes thus revealed.
The employees' personal hoards, Thyerri realized slowly.
His own lay untouched beneath the ashes near the ovens.
He'd forgotten about his money, had always thought it
should be Bharlo's, for all he'd hidden it. Sakhithe had
shown him where.
As shd'must have similarly advised the other employees,
from her actions now.
Thyerri thought, perhaps, he should feel betrayed, but he
did not think Sakhithe was a willing participant. Sakhithe
did not look well. Her shoulders were slumped, her head
bowed, and when she directed the scavengers, it was with
a word and a listlessly raised finger.
One man, in particular, stood beside her, and his hand
was always on her, keeping her close, touching her in ways
that made Thyerri think that, perhaps, he hated that man.
Only after they had gone, taking Sakhithe with them, did
he realize that she'd never pointed the diggers to that ash-
filled corner that contained his cache, for all it was obvi-
ously undisturbed.
Helping him, even now, in the only way she could. Hop-
ing he was alive and able to make use of his earnings. And
in gratitude and friendship, he wished her well, for all he
knew that was useless, for she was in the Tower now, and
she'd been a dancer.
Rhyys needed no more incentive to destroy her.
When night closed around him, Thyerri slunk out onto
Bharlo's tomb and wept, as he'd not done since the fire.
He cried for Bharlo, who was gone, and for the others
whose fates he didn't know. And he cried for Sakhithe,
who would be happier dead, and who had saved his life
and protected his tiny hoard, on the chance he still lived.
And when the tears were gone, and there was nothing
left inside him, neither sorrow nor guilt nor hope, he pried
the stone up, and lifted out his life.
That night, Bharlo did not visit him.
content with that autonomy. If he's in trouble now, it's his
job to extricate himself."
Mikhyel laughed wryly. "Tell me, Raul, how long have
you been able to read my mind?"
"Since the day I carried you into the womb, child."
It was an old joke between them, but this time, the an-
swer had new meaning. Even the remote humor vanished
as suspicion swelled.
"No, Khyel," Raul assured him gently, "Not as you hear
your brothers. Just as someone who cared enough to listen
and watch and remember. The half-dead man-child they
brought to me that day had no secrets left, only self-
proclaimed caretakers who refused to see the truth."
"Truth? What trutW"
"That it wasn't a battered and broken child they brought
to Barsitum, but a brave soldier, wounded in the line of
duty. That it wasn't pity they should accord him, but
respect."
Respect,  perhaps,  for  the  lad who  got  the  best  of
dunHaulpin . . . Pity and respect. The difference between
Deymorin's response to the past . . . and Ganfrion's.
"Once again, Raul," he said slowly, "you give me insight
into myself."
"Very good, master Khyel Now, about Moisaiidum's
import taxes . . ."
~    d    <gn
By the time Sakhithe arrived with the Tower scavengers,
most of Bharlori's was already gone. The charred timbers
had been cut up for firewood, the stones hauled off for use
elsewhere, even the ashes had been sifted for coins and
jewels. Only the stone flooring and ovens of the kitchen
remained.
Thyerri had watched the desecration, sometimes from the
shadows between buildings, sometimes from rooftops. He
wasn't sure how long it had been since the fire. Hours.
Days. Weeks. Time seemed not to matter any longer.
He .thought, perhaps, hunger had made him just a bit mad.
He wandered the hills when it grew dark out, seeking food.
He'd known how to do that once, had survived happily out-
side the city walls. But he was lost in the hills now, and
Bhario's spirit haunted him at night, regardless of where he
Chapter Ten

The hours passed in welcome monotony.      '
Mikhyel and Raulind worked in amiable silence, rocking
easily with the movement of the coach, their reflexes having
learned, over the days, to tell a minor irregularity in the
road from a major rut, and to lift pens free before disfig-
urement occurred.
But only quick thinking saved their labor when, with a
popping crack, one corner of the carriage suddenly
collapsed.
"Ink!" Mikhyel yelled.
"Capped, m'lord," came Raul's calm reply, and Mikhyel
silently blessed the officially nonexistent gods for Raulind's
meticulous nature, that made Raulind's employer seem
slovenly in comparison.
Shouts outside requested them to stay quiet and assured
them the door would soon be open. He and Raulind col-
lected the pages they could reach without moving from the
spots to which they'd been thrown, and by the time the
carriage was pronounced stable and hands reached in to
help them out, they had all but a few strayed sheets secure,
if in no particular order.
"Don't try to help overmuch, m'lord," Ori's voice said,
from beyond the upward-tilled door. "We've got 'er stable,
but a wrong-placed foot could throw 'er off again."
Not in the least inclined to argue, Mikhyel let the two
burly guards lift him free, then stood out of range as they
disentangled long-limbed Raul from the underside of the
table, and hauled him out as well.
Outside the carriage, the sun burned painfully bright to
eyes accustomed to the muted tones within, and downslope,
beyond the briar-rose hedge marking the edge of ley-sterile
ground, he could see the glimmer of running water. The
wind buffeted fiercely, as it was inclined to do along the
mountain leyroads, but the air was warm enough on the
downwind side of the coach.
He wished for his greatcoat, forgotten inside the
coach . . . but, no, with Raulind came both their coats, and
the reassurance that the precious papers were safely stowed
within the traveling case.
The damage to the carriage wasthe captain assured
Mikhyel, as Raulind helped him into the welcoming warmth
of heavy woolrepairable, and would m'lord care to wait
in another coach?
"Thank you. Captain On, but I think I'll walk a bit."
Leaving Raulind to stand by, lest any overlooked papers
find their way out of the coach while the repairs were in
progress, he wandered along the steep bank until he found
a spot where the slope eased, giving a less hazardous access
to the river's rocky shore.
He could, if he cared to, believe himself utterly alone
here. The rush of water obscured all sounds of his party,
as the roll and dip of land, the shrubbery, even a small
copse of trees, hid them from sight. And he found that
isolation surprisingly appealing.
He might have hesitated, were he completely alonehe
wasn't a foolbut he wasn't alone, for all he saw no one
following him. Ori would send at least one, if not two men
to guard his precious self.
But not the man he'd hired for that express purpose.
Annoying, to have Ganfrion disappear just as fate was
about to give him this opportunistic break in routine. This
impartial setting would have made an ideal conference hall.
Ganfrion was from the Khoramaliat least, that's what
he'd said in that one interviewhad indicated links with
the Northern  Crescent that might have proven  .  .  .
interesting.
But Ganfrion wasn't here, and Mikhyel would just have
to count on Nikki's research, which had, thus far, proven
meticulously accurate and complete, if a bit academic.
He ran his hand over the rough bark of one of the small
trees, the sensation, like so much else Outside, resonating
with his deepest memories of childhood, of the time before
his mother's death, before Nikki.
Unusual, to his understanding, that sizable plants should
grow this close to a leyroad. Small and twisted, but trees
nonetheless. The major leyroads out of Rhomatum had a
barren strip a good half-mile wide. But Barsitum was a
small node, all its lines, save for its link to Rhomatum,
undeveloped buds. He supposed the ground-sterilizing ef-
fects of the ley might correlate with that fact.
He also supposed that Anheliaa had known, but it was
one of those questions he'd never thought to ask.
A prudent man had to wonder how much Anheliaa had
known, and how much had been lost because she took so
long to acknowledge her own mortality and begin training
an heir.
Anheliaa hadn't presented Lidye to the Rhomatumin
creature, but it was possible that Anheliaa herself had
never been introduced.
That Anheliaa had known something of the mind-
manipulating possibilities was obvious: he'd seen her use
them for years. She'd used such pressures against all of
them at one time or another.
It was evidence of her awesome presence that they'd
never compared their own strange link to Anheliaa's ac-
tions against them, and yet he himself according to Dey-
morin, prevented his brothers from speaking simply by
willing it so.
To have the ability was disturbing, but he was more con-
cerned at his own lack of guilt regarding his use of that
talent. And he still felt his actions had been justified. Had
those abilities been under his conscious control, he might
well have done the samewould do the same tomorrow.
Could anyone be so certain of his own principles, his
own purpose, that he should overpower another's right to
be heardjust because he could?
It was a disturbing thought. He had to wonder how often
Anheliaa had questioned her own actionsand more
importantly, when she had ceased to question.
His wandering had brought him to a wider point in the
river. The water was quieter, the white-frothed rapids flat-
tened into swiftly running water. Mikhyel picked up a hand-
ful of pebbles, and cast them, one at a time, into that
rapid flow.
The action tweaked some far-off memory, of two boys,
standing beside a deep, reflective pool, trying to hit a single
pink water lily, it being the only distinguishable target in a
sea of white and green.
Deymorin had always had the stronger arm, he, the bet-
ter aim, as he'd reminded Deymorin during that game of
Dancers in the Maze played on a prison floor. But the years,
he discovered, trying for a jagged-topped rock rising above
the rushing water, had taken their toll.
The first attempt fell short. Far short. The second and
third were better as he regained some modicum of coordi-
nation, but miserably far off the mark. Too much thinking,
he could almost hear Deymorin say, and concentrated on
his throw, hearing child-Deymorin's laughter and child-
Deymorin's advice: hold your arm so, use your shoulder . . .
elbow . .K-.wrist . . .
With each throw, his aim and his confidence grew. Then
his fingers encircled and recognized the perfect stone. With-
out looking at it, he fit his fingertips into place, reared back,
and let fly.
Arrow-straight, right on target.
An instant before it struck, a second stone, a sunlit flash,
struck it aside, deflecting his rock into the water, itself into
the jagged rock.
"Dammit, Deymio" he shouted, caught between now
and then, and whirled to face a Deymorin-massive silhou-
ette, realizing even as he turned that Deymorin couldn't be
responsible. Deymorin wasn't here. And if it were Dey-
morin, he'd have known without ever looking.
Besides, Deymorin should be almost as out of practice
at rock-tossing as he.
"Not bad. Suds," the shadow said, and sauntered for-
ward, booted feet finding purchase in the steep bank. With-
out pausing, Ganfrion flipped another stone across the
water, clipping the topmost spike of that rock, and another,
a side-armed snap of a flat stone that skipped three times
before disappearing.
"You came back," Mikhyel said. Stupidly.
Ganfrion laughed.
"Brilliant, Suds. Come, you can do better."
"Better?"
A double-footed hop carried Ganfrion the final stage.
His cloak flipped up and snapped down behind him.
"Like: where the hell have you been, you double-dealing
bucket of pond slime?"
Mikhyel turned back to the water, tossing the rest of the
pebbles at random into the shimmering flow.
"Well?" he said, staring into the sparkling liquid that ate
the stones without a ripple, so different from that mirror-
like pond of memory.
"Did better this time. Suds."
"Better?"
"Not real vocabularic, are you? Understood you did
pretty well with the good brothers of Barsitum."
Ganfrion was baiting him, and he wasn't prepared, with
memories of childhood foremost in his mind, to deal with
Ganfrion's well-honed tongue. Ganfrion had been off play-
ing and run out of money, that was obvious. He came back
now to challenge his spineless employer to fire him.
He picked up another handful of stones. Began tossing
them idly.
"Shit. Forget it. Suds." Ganfrion set foot to the bank,
and the haze of the past suddenly lifted.
"Stop right there."
The man stopped, looking down on him, in every sense,
and at a greater vantage than usual, being several steps
uphill. But Mikhyel was accustomed to men of greater stat-
ure trying to use that advantage to intimidate him. Had
grown accustomed long before his own body ceased striving
to catch up.
Deymorin wasn't in the way now. His own acts had
caused whatever rift might exist between himself and Gan-
frion, and if ever he was to make use of Ganfrion's past,
he had to take control now.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"Too late."
"Where?"
Shaggy brows lifted. "Shatum."
"Why?"
"Heard talk."
"What kind of"
"What kind do you think?"
"I asked"
"Something damnwell significant enough to kill one
horse going and founder a second getting back!"
A horse or two wasn't all Ganfrion had overtaxed. The
man was dead on his feet, swaying as he stood, so deter-
mined not to show weakness, he had to take the most diffi-
cult route up the bank.
How like Deymorin.
And they were yelling at each other. Just as he and
Deymorin would. Clever of himget rid of one older
brother, just to saddle himself with another. But Ganfrion
was his man, under his pay.
And Ganfrion had been a soldier.
"Report," he said sharply, and Ganfrion jerked as if he'd
been struck with a lash. He stepped down even again
with Mikhyel.
"Heard two men talking in the pools."
Mikhyel nodded, a single dip of his chin. "And?"
"Varishmandi men."
"The Varishmandi?"
"The .old sailor himself. Varishmandi's not pleased.
Seems the bottom's about to fall out of the shipping
market."
"Why?"
"Seems Auntie Liia was making deals on the side, Suds.
Seems in order to cap Khoratum, Anheliaa promised to
cap some big-ass node down in Kirish'lani land, on the far
side of one of Shatum's little babes. Seems the trade's all
coming overland, real soon now. Seems Shatum's gonna
rule the world, but not via the sea routes."
The hidden promise.
"Heard about a little meeting down Shatum-way, a few
of the locals and some Kirish'lan reps, and thought I should
check it out. Got down there, just in time, invited myself
in, and, funny thing, they seem to figure that, even though
Anheliaa reneged, well, they've got Papa Fericci's little
Miss Lidye in there, and she'll do the deed and within a
generation, Shatum will be the biggest damn trade-dump
in the world. That Rhomatum will have to dance to her
tune or starve."
"Meeting with the locals. Who?"
"GorTarim, among other, lesser souls."
GorTarim. Lidye's father's most trusted man. And Tarim
owned ruling stock in Shatum Tower.
"That's what you wanted to tell me, that night in Barsi-
tum, isn't it? That you were leaving?"
Ganfrion shrugged.
Damned if he'd apologize, still . . . "I learn from my
mistakes."
Another shrug. "Better you than farmboy."
"Deymorin knows what he's doing."
"I'll reserve judgment on your improving self. Deymio's
an overeager puppy."
"Deymorin's not a child!" he objected, then cursed si-
lently. He was snapping at Ganfrion's bait exactly as he
snapped at Deymorin's.
A snort of disbelief, a raised lip that might be disdain,
and might just be the scar that twisted the ex-convict's
mouth. "No? He'swhat? Thirty-six? -seven? And still
running races on the way to war."
"Thirty," Mikhyel admitted reluctantly.
"Really?" Ganfrion's voice hinted at some surprise.
"And yet, he spoke of the Gerinandum Uprising.gs if he'd
been there."
"Possible." Mikhyel searched his memory for the event.
"That was some disagreement between Governor Ashriini
of Gerinandum and an Outsider . . . taxes, wasn't it? Ten,
twelve years ago? Deymorin would have been a senior
cadet. I believe he did serve as aide to Erinal."
"A disagreement over taxes," Ganfrion repeated, the
sneer profound and indisputable. He shook his head and
started again to leave, this time along Mikhyel's easier
route. But as he brushed past, Mikhyel caught a muttered:
"Rhomatumin khysswi."
"Hold!" Mikhyel barked, and the man turned a sullen
eye toward him. "Explain yourself!"
Ganfrion shrugged. "Khysswi. It's a little lizard, m'lord
Rhomandi. When the world displeases it, it burrows into
the sand. Only once its front is buried, it deems itself safe
and ceases to burrow, leaving its ass high and dry for the
next passing predator's lunch."
"And my ass is similarly at risk?"
Ganfrion leaned back as if to check that appropriate ana-
tomical component. "Possibly. If not, you'd be a decided
anomaly among Insider Rhomatumin, now wouldn't you?"
"Would I?"
"Mauritum isn't the first threat to your borders, Rhoma-
tumin Khysswi. Every time the storms cycle into dormancy,
the Panidori threaten Orenum in the north, Kirish'lan
pushes the entire south. Auntie Liia capped Khoratum, and
all of a sudden, the storms stopped and all hell broke loose
on the borderlands. There in your valley, surrounded by
your satellites, you ignore everything. You treat such activ-
ity as 'disagreements.' Where do you think men like me
come from? Who do you think your brother's hiring to
buttress that coastline? What does he think he's going to
be leading?"
All the while he talked, Ganfrion scowled and slapped
his palm with his riding crop. Suddenly, that crop snapped
to a quivering halt, gloved fingers curling around it.
"Wasting my time. Suds," he said, and the passion faded
from his voice and his face, leaving only the face of a man
weary in every sense of the word. "More comfortable living
in your fantasy world. And that fantasy will probably sur-
vive your lifetime, though ignorance may well shorten the
lifetime."
"I'd prefer to face my ignorance head on."
Ganfrion's dark, narrow eyes flickered toward Mikhyel
in an unreadable assessment. "That could be arranged."
"Ride in the carriage with me."
"That an order. Suds?"
"Damn right it is. And the name's dunMheric."
The crooked mouth twitched, the dark eyes narrowed to
black slits beneath shaggy brows. One broad shoulder lifted
in acknowledgment.
Perhaps.
If he was lucky.
Chapter Eleven

The quill tip caught on the parchment, and snapped free.
Fine specks of ink spattered across both printed page and
the marble-topped desk Nikki had personally designed for
his new office.
With a faint curse, Councillor Meri dunPendac dropped
the pen in a flustered search for something to wipe the
mess.
"It's all right," Nikki said soothingly as he produced a
handkerchief to blot the desk, knowing better than to worry
about the dots staining the contract itself. So long as they
didn't smear, they'd do nothing to the document's legibility
or, more importantly, viability.
"My apologies, Rhomandi," dunPendac muttered, and
slid forward again on his chair to finish signing the docu-
ment. A second search, this time for the pen, found a much
larger stain penetrating the carpet beneath the Council-
lor's chair.
DunPendac's face blanched. Nikki laughed, hoping to set
the elderly statesman at his ease, and held out another
pena modern capillary pen. "My fault, sir, for providing
a defective, not to mention antiquated, tool."
A historical touch which he'd thought would make the
moment memorable. Special. Well, it had at least half-
succeeded. He doubted dunPendac would soon forget this
moment.
His efforts to minimize the wealthy citizen's guilt fell on
disapproving ears. "That's a two-hundred-year-old carpet.
Possibly a civic treasure. Certainly paid for by citizen taxes.
Aren't you the least concerned? Aren't you at least going
to charge me for the cleaning? Replacement, should clean-
ing prove impossible?"
"It's still a carpet. Meant to be used. Certainly, I'll have
it seen to. If it would make you feel better to pay for the
cleaning"
"Rings, boy" dunPendac broke off. "My apologies,
m'lord. An expert is needed." He dipped the quill and
signed the document with cursory efficiency, relaxed, Nikki
thought sourly, now he could patronize the ex-Princeps of
Rhomatum. "I'll send someone over."
"Thank you. Councillor," Nikki said, schooling both
voice  and face.  "For your signature  and  your .  .  .
naniatancp. "
"Certainly." DunPendac stood up. "If that will be all?"
"Yes'i sir, of course. Thank you very much for your coop-
eration'in this matter. All of Rhomatum will benefit."
"Yes, yes, we've been through all that. Good day."
"Good day, sir. Renfrii!"
But even as he called to the footman, the door to his
office swung open and Lidye flowed into the room. In the
months before Boreton, she'd have billowed or floated, de-
pending on her childish mood. And she'd have burst in
without ceremony, uncaring who or what she'd interrupted.
She still entered without preliminaries, but her timing
was invariably exquisite, and her movements were slow
without being languid, graceful without being insipid.
Even her style of dress had changed. Long, elegant lines
that emphasized her height and made her seem subtly
taller, subtly more matureand infinitely more alluring
than the ruffles and lace and corsets she'd worn before.
Kiyrstin claimed it was vanity, to keep her from showing
the child growing in her belly. But Nikki noticed that Kiyr-
stin herself had adopted the look, when she deigned to
wear women's clothes. When he challenged her on her hy-
pocrisy, Kiyrstin only laughed and said good for him, and
he was right.
Kiyrstin confused him.
Lidye, on the other hand, mesmerized him. He couldn't
keep his eyes from her, her every move reminding him
of that graceful body moving against his in the privacy of
their bedroom.
Her bedroom. The Ringmaster of Rhomatum's suite.
Where Darius the first and his beloved Kharishia had slept.
And loved.
He shivered. Lidye smiled, a tiny, intimate smile just for
him, then raised her hand to dunPendac.
"Patron Modhisharhi, a pleasure."
"Lady Rhomandi," dunPendac said flatly, most formal of
her possible addressesas Lidye's had been formal to him.
He touched her hand lightly, dipping his head just low
enough for propriety.
DunPendac, like so many in the Council, still resented
and mistrusted the Southern-born ringmaster. Nikki stirred,
wanting to object, but a flicker of eyelash, a slight tilt of
Lidye's head, kept him silent, and, indeed, even as he
watched, dunPendac relaxed and by the time he released
her hand, his parting nod appeared almost pleasant.
"What did you do to him?" Nikki asked, when the door
was securely closed behind dunPendac.
His answer was a flirtations twitch of her mouth, half-
hidden by her slim shoulder. She pivoted about to face him,
halting her dramatic swirl of skirts prematurely, one fold
short of the stain on the floor. She frowned at the stain,
then glared at the innocent doorway.
"It was an accident, Liddi. My fault. I'm sorry."
The tension in her shoulders disappeared, and her smile
was sweet. "Of course it was, darling. Don't worry, I know
a solution that will lift the stain quite harmlessly. An old
family recipe, you know. Just don't let the maids touch it
for the next several hours. It must be perfectly dry."
"Is there anything you don't know, Liddi?" he asked,
unable to keep the awe from his voice.
Her musical laughter filled the room. "Oh, many, many
things,  darling."  She  moved  in behind  his chair  and
wrapped her arms lightly around his neck, staring down at
the contract. "Good meeting?"
"Very." Nikki's voice vibrated with excitement. "Two
more, Liddi, that's all we need, and we'll be in business.
We'll have that dam halfway completed before Mikhyel
returns!"
Her arms tightened. "Congratulations, darling. See? I
told you, you could do it."
He twisted in her hold to look up at her, and covered
her hands with his own. "Yes, you did. And I don't think
I could have done it without you."
She smiled, a secretive, tantalizing bend of rose-tinted
lips. "Now what sort of woman would I be to deny it? To
say, of course you could have?" She slid her hands free,
tracing his neck to cup his face, her fingers winding in
amongst his hair, and leaned that fraction closer, until he
had to close his eyes against her dizzying image. "Whatever
help I've been, I promise you, it was my pleasure, sweet,
sweet Nikki."
Her whisper brushed his mouth with warm breath. Eyes
still closed, he strained toward the promised kiss.
(Deymorin? Nikki? Damn, if only you could hear}
"Khyel?" Nikki whispered and his eyes opened. Lidye
pulled back, became a sleek-edged woman again.
jKhyel? Is that you?}
Nikk~S~ook his head. That was Deymorin.
{I'm Here, too!) he shouted into that brother-filled neth-
erworld, and for a moment, it was as if they were all three
pounding and bugging each other in greeting.
A confusion of images and words filled him. Deymorin,
in a bedroom in the Tower of Mekh'narum near the coast.
Mikhyel, in an office at Moisaiidum on the sound. A rum-
pled bed, a desk of papers. A letter Mikhyel had truly not
wished to entrust to a courier's hands.
And a haze of speculations as to why they could hear
one another, that settled on nothing except maybe because
Mikhyel wanted it so badly and the stars were right, which
made Mikhyel laugh in his head, in a way he never laughed
on the outside.
(All right. Barrister, what's this all about? Why'd you
wake me up?}
(Napping again, Rags?}
A mental growl from Deymorin, edged with humor and
concern. And weariness. Deymorin was sleeping when he
could, which wasn't often enough. {Don't waste time,
Khyel.}
{Right. The situation is rather more involved than we
thought. Ganfrion has uncovered}
{Who?} Nikki asked.
Anger from Deymorin. An image of the scar-faced
Crypt inmate.
{He's with you, Mikhyel?} Nikki asked. {Why?}
{I'll explain later. Just listen to me.}
A blast of images flared inside Nikki's head, information
flooding into him faster than words. A sense of borders far
less secure than he'd always believed. Of factions Inside
and Out, those with reason to prefer the status quo and
those who fiercely desired change.
And at the center of those factions' differences: a deal
made with Shatum, Lidye's home node. The secret at the
heart of the Southern Crescent's agreement to aid in cap-
ping Khoratumand that resonated with fears Mikhyel had
harbored for years, that he was glad to finally have out in
the open where he could deal with it.
Images of another node to the south, connected to Sha-
tum through an already capped satellite. A node possibly
comparable to Rhomatum herself. A node of which Anhe-
liaa and her predecessors had been well aware; a node
they'd refused to consider capping until the Rhomatum
Web was secure.                      <
A node that, when capped, could theoretically wreak
chaos in the weather along the southern coast, while secur-
ing a storm-channeled overland trade route right through
Shatum.
{That should delight the Giephaetum buds.} Deymorin's
grim thought referencing the seaside satellites of the north-
ern node superimposed over Mikhyel's wordless images.
Those satellites' commerce depended on the sea-going
trade.
{Not only Giephaetum.} That was Mikhyel. {According
to Gan, the Varishmondi are livid. It will cut the bottom
out of their shipping empire.)
{No wonder Kharl looked ready to throttle you, brother.)
Images from Deymorin: a meeting in Shatum, and Kharl
Varishmondi, aloof and bitter, refusing to sit with the
other leaders.
{According to Gan, Kharl believes we're party to Anhe-
liaa's expansionist notions.)
(This must have been brewing since Mheric's time. Kharl
was always visiting back then.)

And after Mheric died, he never came back.}
I'd abdicated to you . . .}
And I was Anheliaa's. Rings, Deymorin, we've been

fools.)
(Don't dwell, Khyel. /'// handle Kharl. I'll leave tomor-
row}
{I was counting on it.)
(But! . . .} Nikki interrupted, frantically. (The Varish-
mondi  are  Shatumin.  You  said  Shatum wants  the
expansion.)
{Not all of Shatum, Nikki.)
{Then who} And then, he realized: {Tarim.}
Lidye's father.
Agreement. Sympathy.
jMikhyel?} Nikki asked hesitantly. {Did you hear any-
thing yourself. Not just in Shatum, I mean. If they had a
contract with Anheliaa, why didn't they press it before?)
(She couldn't have done anything for years after Khora-
tum anyway. I imagine they've been dealing with Anheliaa
for some time. More recently, well, perhaps they said noth-
ing because they knew Anheliaa would die and someone
else, someone hopefully more amenable to their cause was
go ng to be in charge of the Rhomatum rings.)
Lidye'.} Deymorin's thoughts tasted grim.
Lidye won't do anything wrong!} Nikki's head hurt with
the force he put behind that mental scream.
{No one's accusing her, Nikki. But her supporters in Sha-
tum are expecting her to act in their behalf. They will con-
sider the right thing to be capping that node. She might
agree. But the Syndicate must discuss it first. But tempers
are rising. There are Kirish'lani who insist they have proof
that Shatum agreed to assist the Khoratum expansion only
on the agreement that their node would be capped. Lidye
may feel forced to comply. She may be in danger if she
does not.)
She could be in danger either way, Nikki realized in some
horror, and remembering that capping nodes was very dan-
gerous: even a small, willing node like Barsitum had forced
Darius II into bed for months afterward. A large node,
with only one controlled satellite . . .
He shuddered.
(She might try anyway, Nikki, and we can't let her.}
Deymorin's thought came to him. {Such a decision must be
a web-wide agreement. Anheliaa had no right to make pri-
vate guarantees of that nature. And Anheliaa chose Lidye.
And Lidye's family is Shatum! Lidye's father owns a ruling
interest in Shatum Tower!}
{Lidye will do what's best!} Nikki shouted into that
pessimism.
{I  hope  you're  right,  Nikki.}  Calm  thoughts.  Mikhyel.
(But watch her. Remember whose guards took us to the
prison, and watch your back.}
{You're a fine one to be giving advice, brother. Look
what you've got at your back.}
{And I'm damned glad he is! We'd know nothing about
this, if it weren't for him. But we don't know how thor-
oughly she's involved, Nikki. Don't accuse her. Be care-
fulfor both your sakes.}
{How do you know? Are you certain about Tarim?} He
needed to have the details, in case Lidye didn't know. In
case she didn't believe her father was involved.
More images, then, of the scar-faced felon gathering hints
in several dark and filthy places; suspicions only until an
overheard conversation in the baths of Baristum. Talk of a
meeting in Shatum, a meeting he raced cross-country to
attend, killing a horse in mid-stride to get there and back
before Mikhyel left Barsitumand then missed him any-
way, which had made Mikhyel angry and suspicious.
It was all very tangled.
{What meeting!} Nikki shouted into the mental clamor.
{Sorry, Nik. The Southern Crescent alliance against Rho-
matum. There are factions who believe that if they combine
forces, they can force Rhomatum to cap that node. There's
Kirish'lan money in it, you can bet your future on that.}
{Why?(
{The Kirish'lan plan to occupy the node. They've made
the noises, greased the proper palms}
(How does this Ganfrion know all this? How did he get
into the meeting?}
Images of death, of a guard replaced. Of standing in
shadows and hearing everything.
{Murderer.)
{Would you rather ignorance?)
No, he wouldn't, and Mikhyel knew that. Still: (And Tar-
im's involvement?)
(Sironi gorTarim was in charge of the meeting.)
Which meant Tarim himself might as well have been.
{Do you think the Northern Crescent nodes are aware
of all this?) Deymorin asked.
{I'm virtually certain of it. Governor Haulsini here has

been dancing about the point quite deftly.)

U'm coming up there)
{Why?)
{To help explain1

(Don't be ridiculous. This new development doesn't ne-

gate the need for the border patrol. Besides, you need to
talk with Kharl. Make certain he knows nothing precipitous
is about to happen regarding that southern node. I'm going
directly to Giephaetum}
{Changing schedule again?)
{I want to speak with Nethaalye, get her down to Rhoma-
tum as soon as possible. Anything to offset this growing
rift.  I've  got  Pasingarim's  signed  agreement  to  aid  in re-
pairing the Khoratum line, which is to everyone's advan-
tage. Pasingarim carries the entire Southern Crescent.
Giephaetum is the key to the Northern Crescent and Neth-
aalye's brother is one of the junior ring spinners in Gie-
phaetum Tower. If I can convince them, I've got the
North . . . at least long enough to heal the web and for
Lidye's loyaltiesnot  to  mention  our ownto come
clear . . . to everyone.}
{All right, Khyel, all right.} Deymorin's reluctance col-
ored the thought. {But keep in touch.}
{Naturally.}
(And, Khyel . . .} Greater reluctance. A sense of embar-
rassment, a sense of having been guilty of an injustice. And
humor, but that was from Mikhyel.
Nikki had a momentary sense of ostracism, but Mik-
hyel said:
{Reconciling personal differences, Nikki. I made a deci-
sion with which Deymorin justifiably argued. This time, I
was right.}
{I didn't say that!} Deymorin protestedloudly.
Nikki laughed.
{There's a lot of resentment in the Towers. I'm going
downhill tomorrow and do some checking}
{You mean Ganfrion is.) Deymorin interrupted.
Mikhyel's answer came in impressions, a desire to hear
for himself, a sense of excitement. Of
{Adventure?}  Deymorin's  shout  echoed  painfully in
Nikki's head. {Have you lost what little sense you had left?}
A mental chuckle. {That's what Ganfrion said.}
The sense of Deymorin faded away in aimless, frustrated,
distorted  images,  then  returned,  suddenly  and  very
forcefully:
{Rings! Nikki, tell Kiyrstin! Tell her everything. About
the southern node, about Lidye. Everything.}
Before he could stop himself, Nikki's impression of Kiyr-
stin flooded the link, and between one blink and the next,
Deymorin's anger flared, then Deymorin disappeared from
his mind. And immediately after, Mikhyel vanished, and
nothing he could do would bring them back.
"Nikki? Nikki, darling, are you all right?"
Lidye's hands, soft yet secure, held his face.
"Nikki, what's happening? Talk to me, darling."
"Deymorin? Khyel!" Shouted thoughts became shouted
words. "Where'd you"
Nikki bit his tongue on the rest, coming to his senses at
last, as Lidye's gaze bore straight into his heart.
"Your brothers. You're hearing them now? Nikki, how
is that possible?"
He shuddered, drowning in his brothers' thoughts and
suspicions. "I should never have told you," he whispered,
horrified now at his own indiscretion, even though Mikhyel
must have known he'd told her, and had said nothing.
"About your brothers? About your fascinating connec-
tion? How unkind, Nikki. I thought we were exploring the
ley together?"
"It's not" He broke off, more confused than ever,
thinking about Anheliaa making independent decisions that
affected the whole web, and wondering, had he been
equally at fault. "It's not my secret alone. I should have
consulted them first."
"And they'd have said no. They don't trust me." Her
delicate eyebrows drew together in a sad and weary pucker.
"And you don't either, do you? Not anymore. And yet, if
trust is an issue, you alone know how terribly ignorant An-
heliaa left me. You alone know how much help I require
every day."
"Do I? And what did Anheliaa tell you about a node to
the south of Shatum? What did your father tell you, when
he agreed to our marriage?"
She backed away, turning slowly, gracefully, moving in
an unhurried path to the chair dunPendac had occupied
earlier. But there was neither guilt nor shock nor evasion
apparent in her face.
"I know that what Father expected and what I intend to
do no longer coincide, and have not since the instant An-
heliaa died and the heritage of the Rhomatum rings passed
into my hands. I know I'd never do anything to threaten
the Rhomandi hold over the rings. I know that the child I
carry in my belly is the most important creature ever
spawned in the world, and I know that no paternal order
will supersede my loyalty to that child. Does that set your
soul at ease, dear Nikki?"
"Why do you call me that?" he asked, past a tightness
in his throat. "Why pretend to care for me? Why do you
look at me the way you do? Touch me the way you do?
Make..."
"Love to you? Perhaps because I do love you, Nikki. Is
that so difficult to believe?"
"What kind of fool do you think I am? I look at you,
and I see . . . I see the sort of woman who might find
Deymorin, or even Mikhyel stimulating, but"
"Mikhyel? Goodness, Nikaenor, don't be silly. You're
everything a woman could want."
He snorted, painfully aware at that moment of his own
shortcomings. "A woman such as you appeared to be at
the first, perhaps. Flighty, shallow. A bit childish. Much as
I hated to admit it, I could see why the rings considered
us a match. Now . . ."
"You said it yourself, Nikki. The rings considered us a
match. You chose the words to describe me. Perhaps it's
your image of yourself you need to reconsider."
A drought on his tongue made him realize his mouth
was hanging unbecomingly open. He closed it, worked to
produce enough saliva to swallow. Seeking to see himself
through her eyes.
He had, after all, changed as surely as she had in the
past weeks. He'd secured the allegiance of some powerful
men and set a complex project in motion. Perhaps he was
more than he thought.
The rings had, after all, paired him with Lidye.
Chapter One

In all probability, Deymorin was right. Ganfrion was: Mi-
khyel duuMheric had lost what little common sense re-
mained with him.
Handsragged, scratched, and filthy handsrested on
either side of the cracked ale mug on the knife-scarred
surface before him. Hands that should, by proximity, be-
long to him. Mikhyel considered lifting his right index fin-
ger, and the appropriate digit rose and fell again, which
was either extreme coincidence, or Raulind was likely to
end his years-long service on the morrow.
Well, he'd asked for it. He chuckled ruefully and lifted
the mug to his lips, succeeding this time in keeping his face
blank while the bitter brew destroyed the handful of taste
buds that had survived his first swallow.
His right instep still throbbed from Ganfrion's last warn-
ing on the etiquette of the Ramblin' Rosie.
Ganfrion had laughed when Mikhyel had first suggested
this joint venture into the Moisaiidum dockside, scowled
and said he wasn't risking his neck for a rich man's fantasy
when Mikhyel had persisted.
There'd been, of course, no real argument.
In cold-blooded logic, he had to admit there simply was
no logical reason for him to have come to the Rosie with
Ganfrion. He'd hired Ganfrion specifically to enter places
like this for him.
But that "for him" was precisely why he'd insisted on
coming here himself. Ever since that night in the Crypt,
he'd grown increasingly aware of the fact that he'd begun
to live his life through and for other people.
In the Crypt, Deymorin had worried about him. Not
about Nikki, not about Deymorin himself, but him. Because
Mikhyel dunMheric didn't know how to handle real life, or
so Deymorin was convinced. And for all the proof he had
to the contrary, Deymorin's assessment was absolutely on
target.
He never did his own dirty work. When it was safe, when
taking action was a matter of public speaking, or filling out
papers, or changing the lives of thousands with a penstroke,
he acted willingly enough. When it was his personal self at
risk, when he actually needed something physically done,
he hired someonelike Ganfrionto complete the job for
him. He hadn't even helped Deymorin bury Anheliaa.
That night in Barsitum he'd been forced to wonder why
he didn't handle his own problems. He didn't consider him-
self superior to Ganfrion, certainly not to Raulind.  He
didn't think he considered himself superior to anyone.
That simple truth was, Mikhyel dunMheric was afraid
not of death, not of injury, but of incompetence. All his
childhood with Mheric and Anheliaa had proven was that
he was stubborn. He'd shown the world time and again that
he was intelligent and manipulative.
But there'd always been a safe distance between himself
and his opponents. He'd been a child to Mheric's adult
power. In politics, he'd been the Rhomandi, a position he'd
had to prove his right to hold, but a position of intrinsic
stature. Man to man, equal to equal, man to life . . . he'd
never tested that side of himself.
He'd never faced life as himself and won.
Somehow, when Ganfrion had suggested this foray into
the dockside, it had seemed his chance to show them all,
to prove to Ganfrion, to Nikki, to Deymorinand most of
all to himselfthat he neither despised them or their world,
nor placed a higher value on his life than on theirs.
Which sounded dangerously like proving to them all he
was as much a man as they were, which sounded danger-
ously like stupid and foolhardy, under the circumstances.
But Ganfrion had armed him with clothing and a story to
tell should he have to open his mouth, and then told him
to keep it closed, or he'd close it for himpermanently.
Hence the unfamiliar hands resting before him, the cloth-
ing that scratched his skin raw in places, while tickling with
suspect mobility in others. Fortunately, he'd changed in
Ganfrion's quarters and not his own room; with luck, he'd
shed the creatures that had taken up residence with him
when he changed back to his own clothing.
Provided, of course, he lived that long.
Not that the men milling shoulder to shoulder about the
tavern concerned him; it was his own so-called bodyguard.
Granted, he had established the rules, had given Ganfrion
leave to signal in any way Ganfrion deemed necessary, but
it was an  agreement he was  rapidly  (considering bruised
ribs, a crippled foot and insect bites in places he couldn't
possibly reach) reevaluating.
He'd found it suspicious, when they'd first entered the
tavern, that while his clothing and general appearance re-
flected the low end of the surrounding spectrum, Ganfrion
was undoubtedly the best-dressed man in the room. How-
ever, as all eyes in the tavern skewed to Ganfrion wherever
he went, Mikhyel rapidly ceased to resent the fact.
In one sense his crazed notion was proving immensely
enlightening: no sardonic report could match watching
Ganfrion operate in person. The man had no shame, would
draw attention and spin a tale so outrageous, no one dared
challenge his veracity.
And overall, since the crawling creature (whose identity
remained a back-creeping mystery) seemed to have fled his
personal premises, and since his remaining foot was tempo-
rarily secure (Ganfrion having spotted an "old friend" on
the far side of the crowded establishment), Mikhyel decided
he was perfectly content to stand, elbows on the bar,
throbbing foot propped on a rail, and just listen to rough,
northern  accents  discussing  tomorrow's  weather,  and
whether it would affect the shipment scheduled to arrive.
Much of the talk seemed at first aimless and repetitive,
but eventually it began to achieve a rhythm with all the
subtlety of a fencing match between old friends. Mikhyel
had watched Deymorin engage in such impromptu meetings
in the fencing salle. There was a distinctive flicker of a
smile, a grunt of surprise as a previously known quantity
revealed a new skill.
Here, each new arrival added a piece of a growing puzzle
that began with wives and children and the day's work and
grew to encompass world commerce. And within the casual
speech, tidbits of information would rouse similar flickers
and grunts.
Quite, quite different from political meetings of his expe-
rience, where the greatest surprise was finding out your
opponent didn't know key information.
One thing was quite clear, there was no love lost between
these men and their Southern Crescent counterparts. While
they made no mention of new webs to the south, their
economy was suffering, and they set the blame squarely on
Shatumin shoulders.
"Heard tell as how Giephaetum is plannin' f hop inta
bed with Mauritum, if this keeps up," someone said down
the bar.
"Yeah, and m' mother's entertainin' Garetti hisself
t'morrow," said another.
"And what's she entertainin' him to? Tea? Or
crumpets?"
"Crumpets, a'course, Blendini. Never nothin' less fer
ol' mum."
"Don't gotta worry 'bout Garetti, then, do we?"
"Not for at least another month, laddy. Gots stayin'
power, does mum."
General laughter then, and Mikhyel wished they hadn't
strayed. Mauritum and Giephaetum?
"Where you from, stranger?"
Such was Mikhyel's limited local fluency, it took him sev-
eral heartbeats, and an irritated repetition of the question
to realize the speaker had addressed him.
"South," he responded, striving for the rough tone Gan-
frion had coached into him. "Terslingam.'''lt was a small
town on the far end of the Pandiini Sound, known for its
fine garments.
"Waiting for Pobriichi's linen shipment, then." Said as a
statement of fact: a man who knew his importers.
Mikhyel nodded. "And Peristan wool, if the gods have
favored us."
"Long wait, stranger." A hint of suspicion colored the
man's tones now. "Been months since Pobriichi come in
here. Gotta deal with the Shatumin thieves these days."
"That's strange." Mikhyet frowned, hoping he looked
properly taken aback. "The old man's always used Pobrii-
chi, and Pobriichi docks"
"Not since last fall. Just who the hell are you,
stranger?"
Ears pricked around them. Conversations lulled. Sidewise
glances missed nothing.
Mikhyel held up his hands, hoping to deflect the man's
anger, and beginning to improvise on Ganfrion's scant story
as rapidly as he could. "Just repeating what the old man
told me. He sent me here. Said it was his first order in a
year. Why isn't Pobriichi coming in here?"
"Pobriichi's out. Gods-be-cursed Varishmandi stole all
four ships right out from under 'im. Broke, thanks to the
Rhomandi swindler brothers."
"The Rhomandi? I thought you said Varishmandi bought
him out."
"I said he stole 'em."
"But you said Pobriichi was 'broke,' " Mikhyel said, try-
ing to sort out the man's words. The Varishmandi were
astute and even ruthless businessmen, but far from crimi-
nals. "The Varishmandi did pay fairly for the boats, did
he not?"
The man drew back, staring at him, then waved for an-
other drink. Veiled at Ganfrion's "friend" when she failed
to respond immediately. She cursed back, but swung her
legs across the counter (a scenic move that momentarily
diverted the local man's attention) and drew his drink, ac-
tions that prompted a dozen more demands for refills.
"Pay, did he yes," the man answered when his ale ar-
rived. "Fair, did he not."
Mikhyel shifted his attention to the dark brew in his mug,
and the flecks floating across the surface, wondering if this
was a strange local saying, or if he was being mocked.
One of the flecks appeared to be swimming.
He should have kept his mouth shut.
"I hear you mention Pobriichi?" Ganfrion leaned be-
tween Mikhyel and the local to claim his mugand an ex-
tended kiss. In the middle of that kiss, his boot aimed for
Mikhyel's remaining footand missed, Mikhyel being in-
clined to learn from experience.
Ganfrion grunted, frustration to one who understood the
under-the-counter transaction, and released the barmaid.
He thrust back from the counter, casting Mikhyel a scowl,
and said to the local, "Hell of a situation, eh? What's be-
come of 'Briichi's family?"
"Wife's holdin'. Kid's in Sparingate"
"Sparingate? Why?"
"Went after the Shatumin thief. Got caught. Shoulda
been 'tother way 'round, I say."
"Absolutely. Helluva fate fer your old man."
"Dunno what I'd do, were m' da to do hisself in like
that. But I can't hardly blame the lad fer goin' after old
Varsh'di like that. Only wisht he'd a' got him afore he
was caught."
"The boy's father committed suicide?" Mikhyel asked,
trying to piece the snippets together with any case he'd
reviewed, which, if the boy were in Sparingate, he would
have.
"Where's this 'un from, friend?" the local asked
Ganfrion.
"Hell if I know."
"Come in with you."
"By whim of Rakshi."
"From the hills, then."
"Long ago, m'friend. Very long ago. You?"
"Orenum, born and raised."
"But if the boy's crime were committed under the cir-
cumstances you describe," Mikhyel persisted, "he'd have
had a valid defense. He shouldn't be... in..."
All the surrounding locals were staring at him now, and
Ganfrion shot him a look that said in no uncertain terms
that it was time to depart. And even as he muttered a
purposefully unintelligible pardon and laid a coin on the
counter, Ganfrion's look shifted
To one of recognitionand outrage.
"Now I know you!" Ganfrion cried. "Mekh'narumin bas-
tard! Where's my sisterT'
Mikhyel had only an instant to register the fist flying
toward his face
A second to fling himself backward
Into the middle of a dice game.
Dice fiew. Curses did; and coins and notes. And then
fists, feet and bodies. Appalled at the chaos he'd inadver-
tently wrought, Mikhyel dodged one way and another, his
actions utterly lacking in conscious purpose. He stumbled
and rebounded, tossed from one melee to another, but
none of those flying fists intercepted him. Somehow Gan-
frion invariably appeared between him and the worst. Pro-
tecting, he suddenly realized. Giving him the opportunity
to escape.
Mikhyel took a step toward the door, and another
A shoutan answerand as one, angry eyes turned on
him, and as one, the mob swirled inward, with himself as
the eye of the storm.
Panic struck. He bolted for the door, though a cold part
of him knew he had no chance, and called him a fool. A
hand clasped his shoulder and spun him around. His arms
lifted, childhood instincts striving to protect his head, but
this time, his opponent wasn't Nikki, or even Mheric.
His guard was swept ruthlessly aside.
This time, he never even saw the fist.
Chapter Two

"And today, Mikhyel plans to go directly to Giephaetum."
Nikki completed his explanation of yesterday afternoon's
revelations. "But he can't do it all. Deymorin can't. They
didn't say anything, but there must be something we can
do about this situation in the south."
Kiyrstin was sitting back in her chair, elbows propped on
the arms, her breeched and booted legs crossed, chin bal-
anced on steepled fingers. She'd come directly from the
stables, never pausing except to wash her hands and face
and to exchange her riding coat for a house robe.
He certainly couldn't accuse her of indifference to Rho-
matum's situation. She'd been in Armayel yesterday, when
his brothers spoke to him, visiting the Mauritumin boy,
Alizant. He'd debated whether to send for her, and finally,
late that morning and at Lidye's insistence, he'd sent a mes-
senger asking her to return to Rhomatum.
No more than that: just a request to return.
And on no more than that, she'd returned immediately,
riding, with a minimum escortand arrived before dinner.
For a woman who had never straddled a horse before
she encountered Deymorin, he had to admit, she did . . .
all right.
And she'd listened to him. Without comment. Without
condemnation.
Kiyrstin's eyes flickered to Lidye. Speculating.
"How long have you known?" She asked Lidye, not him.
"Long enough," Lidye answered calmly.
Which left Nikki utterly confused. "Known what?"
"About your silent communication with your brothers,
Nikki." Lidye smiled, a brief, quirky, near-grin, at Kiyrstin.
"She's trying to figure what else I know, what I've told
my family, whether or not I can be trusted. Am I right,
lady romGaretti?"
Kiyrstin dipped her head ever so slightly. But Nikki still
suspected there was a different sort of silent communication
going on in the room, leaving him as ignorant as his broth-
ers could.
"If you don't mind, ladies," he said defensively, "may
we please speak freely? This is nonsense. Of course Lidye
can be trusted."
Kiyrstin's green eyes flickered to him, a frown tightening
her brow.
"Nikki, my dear," Lidye said, "thank you, but there is
no 'of course' about it. There is a great need for you all to
be absolutely certain where a woman of the Southern Cres-
cent who is now in charge of the Rhomatum Rings stands."
Kiyrstin's eyes flicked back to Lidye.
"Kiyrstin," Lidye said, "If I may call you that"
Kiyrstin nodded. A quick, irritated motion.
"I won't endeavor to convince you one way or the other.
Trust comes not from words, but from actions over time. I
have not, since Nikki returned to me, spoken with anyone
in my family, nor" She lifted her hand as though fore-
stalling Kiyrstin's unspoken argument. "Nor have I sent
messages of any sort. Not to my family, nor to anyone in
Shatum. That is, I suspect, why there is some unrest there
now. I hesitated to mention the matter, because I knew
there was much distrust of me already. I'd hoped to prove
myself somehow before it became an issue."
Kiyrstin . . . grunted. There was no other expression for
the sound she made. "Then I suggest," she said firmly,
"that we call these Shatumin dissidents' bluff."
"Hub?" Nikki said, once again utterly lost.
"She means, Nikki, that we should invite them here, to
the Tower."
"Them?"
"My father. The Kirish'lani, Orakan, also, if we can. The
forces opposed to the expansion . . . the Varishmandi, for
one. And the Khandirri. I . . . know the names, Nikki."
Kiyrstin's mouth twitched. He thought, perhaps, in a
smile.
"We will explain to them that we know their plans,"
Lidye continued. "And their wishes. That I am not their
pawn, and that Anheliaa's promises notwithstanding, now
is not the time to proceed with the southern expansion. We
will make it clear to them that we understand their desire
for the expansion, that we see full well the advantages to
them, and that we do not outright begrudge them those
advantages, but since they made those agreements in secret
and with Anheliaa, we do not feel obliged to honor them."
"And then, see what they do? Once they know we are,
without question, united in our immediate goals. Is that
what you're suggesting?"
Lidye and Kiyrstin both nodded.
"And we'd do this, the three of us?"
This time, the two women looked long and hard at one
another, in that mysterious, insightful way of women. And
just when Nikki was about to interrupt:
"Well?" Lidye asked, and Kiyrstin said:
"Which of us is going to write the letter to Orakan?"
~ 8 ~
The smell that greeted Mikhyel upon his return to con-
sciousness was enough to drive him back to the darkness.
But damp cold on his face and a rough, low-voiced com-
mand denied him that retreat.
Lumps, of indeterminate density, dug into his spine. The
surface beneath him shifted with his weight, creaked and
groaned in protest, and his heel, when he strove to ease
the pressure under one hip, burst through that unidentified
substance to strike solid wood below.
"Hold still, idiot," the rough voice muttered, and pulled
the foot back to level with the rest of him, though the (one
hazarded a guess) bed now had a decided list.
Memory returned in a rush, putting face to the voice,
and identity to the fist that had knocked him cold. He
cursed and swiped hand and rag aside, then tried to swing
his legs free.
But a wave of nausea and the snap of another supporting
strap quickly changed his mind.
"Damn. Nothing for it. Suds. Hold steady or I'll put your
lights out again." And before he could object, Ganfrion
had grabbed him under the shoulders and knees and
heaved him free. One glance behind him assured him he
needed no closer acquaintance with the object upon which
he'd lain.
"Where are we?"
"Not in Ramblin' Rosie's. What more do you want?"
Mikhyel granted, worked his jaw, and grabbed the rag
from the floor. The water in the basin beside the . . . bed
did not bear any closer examination than the rest of the
room, but it was cool, and the rag, when rinsed and
squeezed dripless, did provide some relief to the swelling
on his lip.
The only other piece of furniture in the room, a rough
chair beside the teetering bedside table, appeared at least
as capable of supporting his weight as his knees currently
were. He sat, rather more abruptly than he intended.
Ganfrion, arms akimbo, leaned against the wall. Waiting.
Tempting, to lose his temper, to blame the man for step-
ping above his place, to say that "anything" did not include
breaking your employer's jaw.
Particularly after setting him up.
"You knew, didn't you?" he asked, holding his temper
in check.
"About Pobriichi?"
Mikhyel just stared. Ganfrion shrugged, but in that, con-
firmed Mikhyel's belief that he knew full well that he'd set
his employer up with a potentially lethal story.
"Who were those men?"
"Giephaetum watchdogs."
"To watch for strangers. Like us."
"Like you, yes."
"Why?"
"Why what? Why didn't I warn you? Why didn't I pre-
pare you a pretty little story without any holes? Something
you could spout like an actor repeating lines in a play?"
Ganfrion lurched free of the wall, scowling. "Because this
isn't a damned play. Suds, get that through your thick aris-
tocratic skull. No matter how good a story you start out
with, you play it simple, you play it ambiguous until you
know the local climate. You think you're so damned clever,
so superior to us. You think a little half-assed instruction
is all you needed to survive in places I've spent a lifetime
learning to tread. You've no damn business invading my
world."
Mikhyel clenched his teeth, but that only hurt his jaw.
He'd argue the man's final pointhe didn't think Ganfrion
had been born to that world any more than he had been
but resentment for perceived disrespect . . . that Mikhyel
could appreciate.
And yet: "How do I know you didn't set the whole
thing up?"
"You don't."
Moreover, Ganfrion wasn't about to defend himself. Mi-
khyel either took the lesson at face value, or he challenged
Ganfrion's domain again. And next time, he doubted Gan-
frion would be there to pick up the pieces.
On the other hand: You play it simple, play it ambiguous
until you know . . .
And he remembered Ganfrion's adroit exchange, in
which he'd never made a committed statement, but had led
the conversation into revealing significant information.
And perhaps he hadn't known any more than he'd told
Mikhyel. He had, after all, spent some months in Sparin-
gate. Perhaps he hadn't set his intrusive employer up. Cer-
tainly, the new cuts on Ganfrion's hands and face hadn't
been planned. And they'd been gained saving Ganfrion's
employer's . . . thick aristocratic skull.
It wasn't just the invasion of his world Ganfrion resented.
It was the betrayal of trust. Ganfrion had declared his com-
mitment to his mission in that mad run to Shatum and
back. To bring Mikhyel what he believed to be vital infor-
mation, he'd spent himself, and his horsesas bitter a sacri-
fice for him, Mikhyel suspected, as it would have been for
Deymorin or for Nikki.
And Mikhyel had thrown that commitment and sacrifice
in his face when he had insisted on this personal validation
of that information. Never mind Mikhyel knew he'd used
Ganfrion and Rosie's not because he disbelieved Ganfrion,
but as an opportunity to break his own moldin pursuing
a silly fantasy, he'd risked his real window into this grimy
otherworld. And in risking Ganfrion, he'd risked the mis-
sion, and the future of the web.
He looked down at the rag in his hands, hands that,
despite the dirt, didn't belong here. Nothing could elimi-
nate the indentations around joints that had worn rings for
years, nothing could create scars overnight. Inside or out.
His, or Ganfrion's.
Whether or not Ganfrion had been born to this world,
he'd learned to tread here safely, as Mikhyel had learned
to tread the strange paths of his father's associates.
By his record, this was not the first time Ganfrion had
had his extended loyalty betrayed. It was the key, the elu-
sive quality he'd sensed in those records, but had not been
able to elucidate.
He'd told Deymorin he didn't trust Ganfrion's honor.
He'd been wrong.
"I'm only going to say this once," he said, in a voice
tight with embarrassment. "So listen well. I apologize for
tonight. It was an insult to your sacrifice, your loyalty, and
your honor. For that, I was wrong. Very wrong. The error
will not be repeated. Until you give me cause to doubt it,
your word on it, whatever 'if might be, will suffice."
He met Ganfrion's expressionless gaze.
"But I give you fair warning. Give me that cause, make
me sorry I spoke tonight, and you'd best be prepared for
a long and extremely unpleasant life. You're not the only
man who knows how to repay debt in like coin. Do I make
myself clear?"
He wouldn't swear to it, but he thought, perhaps, there
was the slightest softening about the dark eyes. But it could
have been just the flickering of the lamp flame.
"Well?" he prompted, the single word harsh with ten-
sion, and Ganfrion biinked.
"Perfectly, m'lord Rhomandi. Perfectly."
Chapter Three

. - . and so, my beloved Rag'n'bones, while I miss you
terribly, and would dearly love to urge you home, post
haste, I believe you may rest easy tonight. I've read the
letters Lidye has sent to her father, and she has read
mine to His Imperial Highness Orakan (and yes, dar-
ling,  I do know him).  While I still have reservations
regarding Lidye, those reservations do not extend to her
loyalty to the Rhomatum Web.
No one is that good an actor.
Between the two of us, I assure you, we can outma-
neuver any agreement of Auntie Liia's making.
With love and a disgusting number of hugs and kisses
and decidedly lewd thoughts.
Your Shepherdess
Deymorin folded the letter carefully, and refused to feel
like a fool when he raised it to his lips before placing it on
top of Nikki's painfully proper account of his intentions.
He couldn't fault them. Not Nikki, not Lidye . . . he
wouldn't dare fault Kiyrstin. And with luck, they could ac-
complish a fair amount of good. He'd already written to
Kharl Varishmandi, and suggested a similar meeting. If
Kiyrstin, Nikki, and Nikki's Shatumin bride could lay the
groundwork, so much the better.
At this point, any action he didn't personally have to
make was welcome.
He set his elbows on the low table, and buried his face
in his hands, rubbing his temples hard, then squeezing his
eyeballs into his skull with the heels of his hands.
Tired. He was very, very . . . hell, he was fucking
exhausted.
The watchtowers along the Amaidi Channel were . . .
functional. The individuals manning them were . . . enthusi-
astic. With time, they might even approximate soldiers. But
they had good men in charge, men with Kirish'lan border
experience, and if anyone could train such raw recruits,
they could.
Feeding them was another matter. There were farms
around most of the forts. And those farmers had been in-
duced to extend their fieldsgiven the free labor of the
would-be soldiers for clearing and the promise of a ready
market.
He wasn't certain that they all didn't consider the whole
thing a game.
Couriers from the northern end of the Maurislan Chan-
nel carried a different message. They had felt the pressure
of Mauritum for years. The black market trade was alive
and well, there where a person could swim between island
and mainland, if he were fool enough to risk the icy waters.
The northern border watch had never truly ended; it had
simply lost official sanction and shifted its priorities. Dey-
morin doubted the renewed sanction would affect trade,
although it might raise the "import tariffs" paid for tempo-
rarily blind watchmen. And those looking out for ship-
wrecks might as well also keep their eyes out for
Mauritumin armed with weapons rather than perfume.
He could, if he so desired, take a few days off. He'd
stopped here in Barsitum for precisely that purpose, only
to discover the local magic no more effective for his aches
and pains than it had been ten years ago, after he'd taken
a flying leap from a Rhomatum Tower balcony. Ten years
ago, he'd come here with great expectations, following Mi-
khyel's experience, and he supposed some would say that
had he not come, the infection in his leg wouldn't have
healed, and he'd never have walked again.
But he'd seen others, as badly injured as he had been,
who had recovered without benefit of Barsitum, and
couldn't say he necessarily attributed his recovery to the
node.
Unlike Mikhyel. Mikhyel should have died. Mikhyel cer-
tainly should have been a twisted cripple for life. He'd
come home from Barsitum without a single (visible) scar.
The ley seemed universally to favor his middle brother.
Four days since Mikhyel's "adventure." Three days since
Mikhyel should have arrived in Giephaetum, and nothing,
no word from him, not on paper, not in his head. Nothing
even to assure them he had survived his downhill foray.
Deymorin had tried to contact Nikki, tried to force Mi-
khyel into their three-way communication, but Mikhyel
hadn't answered, and neither had Nikki, other than a brief,
fluttering awareness.
Obviously, only Mikhyel could instigate their far-flung
communication.
There did seem to be an inherent bias in that ar-
rangement.
Deymorin stretched backward in the odd baglike chair
the brothers favored: leather, stuffed with dried beans.
Odd, but comfortable, in the way it shifted to fit his body.
But nothing could ease the sharp pain in his back, grow-
ing worse with each passing day, until he'd been reduced,
when he had to walk for any distance or over rough footing,
to once again using a cane for balance.
Kiyrstin could fix it. Kiyrstin's hands could have him vir-
tually pain-free in minutes. And a night with Kiyrstin in his
own bed would undoubtedly prove more efficacious than a
dozen nights soaking in the brothers' pools.
And Nikki's meeting, if all went well, would be in two
days. Perhaps three. Time enough for him to get to Rhoma-
tum, without pushing himself or his horse. One didn't want
to intrude on one's brother's moment of glory, still, if one
were there . . . just in case . . .
He locked the letters in his case, gathered up a towel
and headed for the baths. Ley or water, the heat and pum-
meling jets eased a man's muscles.
And tonight, with the promise of Rhomatum on the hori-
zon, he might just sleep.
Even if he didn't hear from his recalcitrant middle
brother.
~ 8 Q
"The lady Nethaalye is not receiving guests at this time."
Neither the philosopher nor the magistrate had been gradu-
ated that could match a lifelong servant's capacity for
pompous.
Mikhyel dipped his head, thanked the Giebhaidii House
butler, and gave him a sealed letter, which the elderly man
placed on the table with four other untouched envelopes
his also, from previous visits. Mikhyel left without protest,
there being nothing to protest, and wandered down the
front steps of the tall house, and out into the surrounding
garden, frustratingly aimless for yet one more day.
His fourth day in Giephaetum, his fourth attempt to see
Nethaalye, his fourth unequivocal rejection from the house.
He was being, there was no other word for it, snubbed.
Nethaalye was . . . unavailable, her father was . . . just
there, but stepped out . . . in a meeting . . . at lunch. In
fact, every official in the city was busy. He'd arrived a week
early, and, well, they were extremely sorry, but their sched-
ules were filled. They'd rearranged their schedules to ac-
commodate him once, they couldn't possibly be expected
to do so again.
Snubbed. No doubt about it.
"Stood up again?" Ganfrion's dry tones wafted to him
on a breeze, and Ganfrion himself stepped free of the shad-
ows, clean-shaven and immaculate in a long black coat and
tailored cuffs. "Can't imagine what you do to women,
Suds."
Mikhyel had decided, over the past several days, that
that ridiculous nickname wasn't worth fighting. Besides, it
had a certain value as an indicator of his odd bodyguard's
current mood.
At least, he'd never used it in public. Yet.
"I can't blame her," he answered, feeling oddly empty.
"I just wish I knew if her silence is by her choice, or her
family's."
"You put off marrying her for years, then deserted her
to Anheliaa, after getting another woman pregnant, and
you can't imagine why she wouldn't want to see your face?
By the ancient's balls, man, you're amazing."
"How do you know all that?"
"Fly on the kitchen wall, Rhomandi-lad." Meaning he
was romancing the Giebhaidii kitchen staff.
"Rings," Mikhyel muttered, "be careful!"
"Always. 0, lord of mine." Ganfrion strolled a few paces
away and paused, hands clasped at his back, staring up at
the house. "That's her room, you know." And tossed him
an over-the-shoulder look. "Third floor. Balcony. Salmon-
colored curtains."
"Salmon curtains." Mikhyel chuckled, in spite of his bet-
ter sense, and asked, with similar disregard to prudence:
"And how do you know that?"
"Fly on the"
"kitchen wall."
"Actually, the laundry."
Mikhyel cupped his forehead in his hand, and shook
his head.
"There is a way," Ganfrion said, slowly, and Mikhyel
could almost hear the scheme forming.
"To do what?" he asked, with some trepidation:
"Do you really want to know if she wants your guts
for garters?"
"Lovely. How?"
"I could get her a message."
"Through kitchen maids? Or laundry?"
"Actually" Again, his eyes scanned that window. "I
was thinking of something a bit more direct."
"You're joking, surely."
"I'm joking, surely not. Suds, you've got to loosen up.
You want to send her a message, she'll get it tonight."
"You know what troubles me most about you? I'm actu-
ally considering accepting your suggestion."
"Of course, you are. I'll need something of yoursor
something to tell her only you would know. Something to
convince her I'm your true messenger."
"Just  give  her  the  letter.  She'll  recognize  my
handwriting."
"You're joking, right?"
"No." But the disgusted look on Ganfrion's face
prompted him to qualify: "I don't think so."
"No special memory? No name? No ring?"
Mikhyel shook his head.
"Well, I give up on you, then. You don't need to ask.
The answer's obvious. I'd leave you, too, you romantically-
deficient boor."
"Our relationship wasn't like that."
"What is she? A dog-faced termagant?"
"Not at all! She's quite handsome!"
"Then you had no relationship."
"We were friends."
Ganfrion looked at him as if he were out of his mind.
"There are other ways to deal with women, Ganfrion."
"Women you're not engaged to wed, perhaps. Suds,
you're more hopeless than I thought. Well, I'll think of
something. You just write your note."
"I've changed my mind."
"Not a chance. You've intrigued me. Obviously, I must
meet this lady, withor withoutyour leave."
"I'll write the damned letter.  But you watch yourself
around her, do I make myself clear?"
"Why, Suds, you wound my pride."
"Touch her. Crypt-bait, and more than your pride will
be wounded."
"Crypt-bait. Rhomandi, there's hope for you yet."
8 d ~
The fine white sand of the practice field glimmered in
the afternoon sunlight. Across that white expanse, dancers
of all skill levels and ages gathered in groups, stretching,
swaying, spinning and tumbling in time to the music that
drifted through the cool mountain air.
A Khoratumin dancer's life was filled with music, morn-
ing to night. Music of all sorts, from every known corner
of the worldas the dancers themselves came from all over
to train with the Khoratumin instructors.
In their brief history, the Khoratum radical dancers had
already captured the attention of the civilized world. Visi-
tors from throughout the web and its neighbors had come
to watch the Khoratum ringdancers, and carried tales home,
along with promises from Rhyys regarding the Khoratum
training program.
And so the foreign dancers came to Khoratum, sent here
by sponsors to learn the exotic forms of the hiller dances,
and the secrets the dancers were said to harbor, thinking
that by training alone they could attain that unique quality
that set the Khoratum radical dancer apart from all others,
with or without the rings.
And in their blind arrogance, they filled Rhyys' coffers
with wasted coins, and expanded Rhyys' already outsized
ego with delusions of his own significance in the world.
Because Rhyys denied the old beliefs and punished those
who spoke of them with expulsion, yet the simple truth was
that without the spirit of Rakshi guiding you, the dance
was nothing more than trained motions.
With the upcoming visit of Mikhyel dunMheric, training
had been stepped up, preparations were underway for a
massive celebration showcasing the students, a celebration
that would end with the competition for the new radical
dancer.
For Thyerri, watching from a rooftop, the sight was pain-
ful, but he seemed compelled to return here, day after day.
He should be down there, practicing with that elite handful
preparing for the competition. He'd been among those still
to compete when the rings had gone down. Afterward, his
petition to Rhyys for a second chance had been ignored,
for no other reason than that Rhyys could deny him that
chance.
Rhyys dunTarec was obsessed with controlling his danc-
ers' lives. For all he frequently called the dance frivolous,
for all he had been gone to Rhomatum for Nikaenor dun-
Mheric's wedding at the time of the last fateful competition,
Rhyys recognized the political advantages of his city's
unique approach to the imported entertainment and pa-
raded his dancers before visiting dignitaries like a breeder
of exotic beasts showing off his prize stock.
It was humiliating. But then, so was much of life for a
Khoratumin dancer.
Suddenly the musicand the exercisesstopped, and a
form the size of three dancers combined flowed out across
the white sand. Rhyys, dressed in billowing red-and-gold
robes. And behind Rhyys, in simple black, was the scar-
faced moth.
Thyerri drew back instinctively, for all the chances of
their noticing him were small and of their doing anything
about him if they did were nil. The excitement over the
destruction of Bharlori's had passed by. Those who had
died had been, like Bharlori himself, without importance
to any but their closest friends.
The patrons who once shouted for Thyerri, had shifted
their loyalties to Bharlori's former competition. Those tav-
erns now thrived, with dancers of their own. Thyerri sur-
vived on his small stash of coins and the occasional odd job.
Thyerri hadn't danced since the night of the fire.
Wouldn't, even without the threat of arrest. He wasn't even
tempted: Rakshi's price for the night of the fire. And so,
lacking other direction, he came up here to torment himself
with images of the past and what could never be. Not even
if Rhyys were to personally invite him back into the pro-
gram could he find that person he once had been.
The dreams had become too much a part of him.
Rhyys had begun to call up the dancers, a group at a
time, to perform their exercises for his scrutiny. After each
demonstration, he would select one or sometimes two to
perform a solo.
It was, so Rhyys claimed, his way of creating a competi-
tive edge within the group. It was also, so he claimed, his
way of maintaining control over the quality of the dance.
For the most part, the person Thyerri had been in that
former life had been spared these ordeals. That person had
not been a favorite of Rhyys', had, in fact, frequently been
banned from this exercise field. He'd been declared too
different, had joined the program too old ever to be able
to move properly.
When Rhyys came to the radical competitors, he ordered
them to go through the entire routines of all other levels,
and finally, to perform individually. Two among them, who
had been engaged in a strenuous routine when Rhyys inter-
rupted, collapsed before the set patterns were completed.
Flaring with rage, Rhyys had them thrown out of the
stadium, possibly from the program itselfcertainly Rhyys
was capable of such capricious acts. Even so, if their spon-
sors greased Rhyys' palm sufficiently well, they might still
be allowed to compete.
Such was Rhyys' power, such were his principles.
Those remaining were ordered to begin solo routines,
improvised to a piece ordered by Rhyys and chosen at ran-
dom. Rhyys wandered among them as they danced. It was
an all-too-common conceit for him, but one the competitors
learned to ignore.
This time, perhaps to impress the moth, Rhyys edged
closer to the dancers than usual, close enough, at times, to
touch them. Particularly his favorite, Tabinth, whose virtues
he'd extolled at that fateful dinner.
And when Tabinth, in an elegant display of flexibility,
lifted her leg high above her head, and spun, she brought
the leg down to discover Rhyys there. Too late to adjust
the angle, her foot caught on his shoulder, and she stag-
gered off-balance.
Rhyys laughed and grabbed her, holding her upright,
with all the pretense of good will and aid. Tabinth stood
rigid in his hold. Fearful. Certain, as Thyerri himself would
have been, that Rhyys was about to throw her out as well.
But Rhyys cupped her face between his hands, and
smoothed her hair back . . .
And kissed her.
Thyerri hissed and leaned forward, thinking how he
wished Rhyys had died in that fire, not Bharlori, and how,
if it were  he down there, with Rhyys' mouth on his, he
would bite Rhyys' tongue off.
A dreadful shivering consumed him and he thought at
first  it  was  in  horror  at  his  own  violent  and  vengeful
thoughts. But the shivers wouldn't go away, and he pulled
the cloak tightly around his shoulders, wondering if he was
taking ill. Down on the sand, the moth turned from the
spectacle and stared upward . . . directly into Thyerri's
shadow.
The shivers intensifiedand in that moment, Thyerri
knew who had watched him from the lake's edge that night
the mountain returned to life.
Terrified, he slipped back into the shadows until the sand
was far beyond his vision, then leaped to his feet and ran.
Chapter Four

My dearest friend, the note began, and it ended: ... until
sunset tomorrow . . .
Sunset. Now a good two hours past.
Mikhyel crumpled Nethaalye's note and his own pain-
stakingly composed letter into his gloved fist, and thrust
them into his coat pocket.
Strange, he didn't feel as if his mind were going. From
recent decisions, however, it did appear that such was the
case. First, Ramblin' Rosie's, now - . .
Whatever had possessed him to entrust Nethaalye to
Ganfrion's coarse methods? Nethaalye had, Ganfrion in-
sisted, been eager to see him, had chosen the meeting time
and place herself, and written the note to reassure Mikhyel
on that point.
In retrospect, she'd obviously told Ganfrion whatever it
had taken to get him out of her room the previous night.
One could scarcely blame her for that.
But Nethaalye's expediency put him here, waitinglike
a love-struck simpletonbeside a garden fountain in the
full moon's light, and destined for the common fate for
such simpletons.
Nethaalye wasn't coming. Nethaalye had told her father
that Mikhyel dunMheric had lost his mind and was dealing
with . . . Crypt-bait.
He removed the thick envelope from his pocket, smoothed
and folded it, and slid it into a different, more secure
pocket, resisting the temptation to tear it through and
throw the pieces in the fountain: a grand gesture that would
allow the pieces to possibly retain enough legibility in the
morning to start rumors of a nature he'd never unmake.
He'd burn it, when he was back in his room.
Though it was a good hour past his last real hope of her
appearance, he began one more slow circuit of the garden's
interweaving path, hoping against hope he'd simply misun-
derstood her very clear instructions.
The public garden would have been an excellent meeting
spot: when he'd arrived, it had been well-populated by
young couples, most, though by no means all, meeting
under the watchful gaze of a chaperon.
Their chaperon was to have been Ganfrion, so Ganfrion
had claimed, which had given new meaning to the phrase
"a show of propriety."
He was disappointed, but not surprised. His relationship
with the Giephaetum heiress had never been simple. Neth-
aalye had originally been matched with Deymorin, until
Deymorin grew old enough to know the fate their parents
had planned over his bassinet; what might have been a
stimulating, comfortable friendship between in-laws had
been marred and confused when Deymorin's role of future
husband had ceded to Mikhyel.
The first of many such abdications. But Mikhyel had
never allowed resentment of Deymorin's irresponsibility to
his birthright to rule his actions before, and he wasn't about
to start now. If he had to wait until facing the open Gie-
phaetum Senate to request Nethaalye's aid in Rhomatum
Tower, for the sake of the web and the cohesion of the
Syndicate he'd wait.
Never mind he'd hoped to secure her willing partnership
in private. Never mind he'd hoped to placate, if not heal,
this growing rift between the Northern and Southern Cres-
cents, virtually overnight with such a fait accompli.
But that was not to be.
His wanderings had brought him back to the fountain,
where two cloaked figures brought momentary hope,
dashed in the next instant by the wide-skirted profiles.
Mikhyel nodded to the moon-shadowed ladies, and
passed quickly, giving every signal that he was looking else-
where, keeping his own face bent beneath the velvet hood
of his evening cloak. Best to just go back to his rented
rooms, to wait in abject boredom for Gan
"My, my, my, Sudsly." The broken falsetto whisper
caught him in midstride. "How rude. Isn't that just like a
Southerner, my dear?"
He stumbled.
"Clumsy, too. Best we leave him, child. He's hopeless."
The voice broke completely.
Mikhyel turned cautiously, peering into the shadows. But
there were only the two skirted silhouettes, one, he realized
on closer inspection, rather on the large side. The smaller
of the two had risen and now crossed the pebbled walkway
with a natural, gliding grace.
"Khyel?" Gloveless hands, pearly-white in the moon-
light, extended toward him. "I'm so sorry. I tried to get
away sooner, but Verti, my brother, you know, chose to-
night of all nights to start railing again about power fluctu-
ations in the web, and once he begins, the only thing for it
is to let him wear himself out. I'm surprised to find you
still here. Please say you forgive me?"
He accepted the white hands with relief. "There's noth-
ing to forgive, Talli, as you know." He turned her face to
the light. "But you are here willingly? Ganfrion didn't, well,
coerce you, did he?"
She laughed, lightly. "Oh, I wouldn't call it that, but"
She cast a sidewise glance at her large companion. "I must
say, you are looking rather more robust than I'd been led
to expect."
"I assure you, child," the squeaky falsetto arrived, along
with the voluminous cloak, "pining was certainly the appro-
priate term, when last / saw him." Two lace-gloved hands
appeared from the folds to cup Neethaalye's face, and the
hood descended, then rose. "I'll leave you two lovebirds to
talk, but mind you, I'll be watching. So behave yourselves!"
The large shadow floated off to settle on the nearby
stone bench, arranging its skirts with, Mikhyel had to admit,
a fair grace. A gloved hand waved them off, then settled
with its mate in the voluminous lap.
Nethaalye's laughter again sparkled in the night air like
the leylight on the fountain. "Where did you find her
him, Khyel?"
"Don't ask."
"All right, I won't. Now. But I intend to have the full
story one day soon, I promise you. Either from you . . . or
from him. Your choice."
"Rings," he cursed softly. "If it means I'll have the
chance to tell you, I shall indeed regale you with stories."
"Of course you'll have the chance, dear Mikhyel. I'm
terribly sorry about the letters; I didn't realize they were
for me. Verti said they were for Father, and he's not here.
I thought little of it, though I was disappointed that you
were here and not asking to see me. But I do try not to
judge you on such matters; you know that."
"You are, if anything, too reticent to judge, my dear."
He glanced about. "Would you like to sit? Walk?"
"Walk, please. I spend far too much time sitting these
days. One of the hazards of growing older that no one ever
warns you about."
He held out his arm, she placed her hand on it, and they
started slowly along the moonlit path.
"I hope you don't mind the subterfuge of meeting here.
When your Ganfrion appeared in my window, along with
your letter, I realized, of course, what Verti had been up
to. I thought, perhaps, it would be best to consult with you
before letting him know."
"Verti is the other ringspinner in your family, isn't he?"
She nodded. "Second, now, to loniia, as he's ever quick
to remind me."
"I thought I remembered that correctly. And your fa-
ther? Where is he?"
"They haven't told you?"
"Only that he's been unavailable to see me."
"He's . . . " She stopped, turned slightly, hiding what
little he could see of her face. When the light again touched
her cheek, her expression was as calmly impassive as ever.
"Tell me one thing, Mikhyeland please, on our friend-
ship, don't lie to me."
"I notice you do not ask me to swear on our betrothal."
"That was of our parents' forging. Our friendshipthat's
unqualifiably dear to me."
He squeezed her hand, fingerlinked, now, in his. "Any-
thing."
"Are there plans to cap the southern node? Is that, in
fact what is disrupting the web? Was that the cause of the
firestorm and the power drain now?"
"Is that what your senators believe? Is that why they're
avoiding me?"
"I would imagine. It's certainly what my father believes."
"I see . . ." And such concerns might well inhibit useful
dialogue. "Truth, Talli, the firestorm had nothing to do with
that node, and everything to do with Mauritum and a dan-
gerous technology the ringspinners have been keeping se-
cret from all of us for years. The current power drain is,
we believe, due to damage that occured to the Khoratum
line during that firestorm. My primary objective on this trip
was to quietly alert the ringmasters and organize a unified
attempt to repair the line and get the web stable again."
"And you wouldn't want that public, because there was
so much resentment about capping Khoratum in the first
place. Particularly in the Southern Crescent."
"Precisely. I wanted their guaranteed support in writing
before I came up here."
"And you have that?"
"I do."
"And the node to the south?"
"Talli, a month ago I'd never heard of that southern
node. I find its existence interesting, its potentialfor disas-
ter as well as useinteresting, but no one will cap anything
that affects the Rhomatum Web without full knowledge of
the Towers and proper debate in the Syndicate, if we have
to put Lidye in Sparingate to prevent it. But I don't believe
that will be necessary. The agreement was of Anheliaa's
making, and Anheliaa is dead."
Her breath caught. Then she lifted a hand to his cheek.
"You must be so relieved."
That surprised a short laugh out of him. "That's not ex-
actly the reaction of most people."
"Barring outside malpractice, any half-competent spinner
should be able to hold the Rhomatum rings. Anheliaa
was . . . obsessively possessive." She began walking again.
"And what Anheliaa looked for in her successor lay far
beyond web stability. I must be honest with you, Mikhyel.
I do not think Rhomatum got that in Lidye."
"But we could in you?"
"No."
"No, you won't? Or no, you can't?"
"I can stabilize them. I could reset them if I truly had
to, but little else. Certainly not what Anheliaa planned."
"Were you privy to those plans?"
She shook her head. "Only surmising from things she did
say. That was reserved for Lidye . . . if she even got the
full truth before Anheliaa died."
"Would you," he asked slowly, "be willing to return to
Rhomatum? To help in the Tower?"
"For the sake of web solidarity? I believe, my friend, it
will require more than my gesture."
"Solidarity, yes. But more because Lidye truly could use
relief. And because I trust you."
"Are you certain that's wise, Mikhyel?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"I think, perhaps, you should ask again where my fa-
ther is."
A cough interrupted them. "There you are, darlings."
And that poor, hoarse woman flowed in from a side path,
through an arbor heavy with blooms. Ganfrion slid between
them, a mountain of fabric with arms that engulfed both
their waists and guided them firmly down a different path.
"Sorry, Suds," Ganfrion murmured in his normal voice
and next his ear. "The lady's dragons are on the prowl.
There's a pedal-cab waiting for you at the gate. The lad
will take you and the lady to her home the long way, slow
and sweet. I'll meet you there."
"The dragons"
"Won't trouble you."
They were at the side exit, and Ganfrion, shifting to the
broken falsetto, whispered, "Have fun, darlings."
A stubbled lip pressed noisily in front of his ear, and the
mountain of fabric turned to Nethaalye, whispered some-
thing that made her laugh again, an easy, delighted sound
Mikhyel would have given much to inspire. But humor,
which had never been a large part of his life, was even less
so tonight.
When they were safely ensconced within the pedal-cab,
he asked, "Your father, Nethaalye?"
"Has gone to Khoratum. There are leaders, and those
who would be leaders from all across the Northern Cres-
cent converging there."
"For?"
"I don't know specifically, Khyel, and that's the truth.
Ostensibly, Khoratum is celebrating the return of the radi-
cal dance following the Collapse. But they're planning
something more, and it's not innocent."
"Why do you say that?"
"Many reasons. The simplest? Father took his entire
guard with him. Others have done the same."
That surprised a laugh out of him. "What do they plan
to do? March on Rhomatum?"
"I don't know." She did not, he noted, echo his laughter.
"If I'd been more clever, if I'd played along with Father's
notions, then I'd be more use"
"You are invaluable, my dear. How could you have
known?"
"I should have, Khyel. We all should have. But it's not
just the guard, loniia went as well."
"Your senior spinner?"
She nodded.
"Why Khoratum?" he wondered aloud. "Why not here?
Or Orenum?"
"It was at Rhyys' invitation, is all I know. Ostensibly,
he's planning a festival in honor of your visit. A combining
of events with a hiller summer festival, or some such."
"And why didn't you go?"
"I wasn't invited."
A world of meaning in that. Errif loved his daughter.
Would protect her from any possible harm.
Errif also knew his daughter's pro-Rhomandi views, and
her intelligence and insight.
There were many reasons Errif might leave his daughter
at home.
On the other hand, Giephaetum's ringmaster had gone
with him. And the Khoratum line was the source of the
web's problem. "Perhaps they're just planning to do alone
that which I've been organizing. If I can get to them, con-
vince them that we're all ready to work together"
"Perhaps, Mikhyel, but . . ."
"Yes?"
"It's difficult to explain. I've no real specifics, you under-
stand. No solid support of my conjecture."
This time, he waited, knowing she would speak when she
was ready. For a while, the silence in the cab was broken
only by the creak of a wheel and the rustle of cloth as
Nethaalye rearranged her skirts.
At last, she said, "The Southern Crescent is on the lead-
ing edge of imports. They specialize in making deals. Be-
cause we of the North are workers, because our primary
function is to create a product, not manipulate the greed
of others, the tacit assumption is that we're gullible, child-
ish, and in need of . . . patronization. Leadershipin every-
thing from fashion to politics. And it's not just Shatum who
treats us this way, Mikhyel."
There was no good answer. There was a difference between
the people of the Northern Crescent and those of the South-
ernas there was a difference between himself and Dey-
morin. And as with Deymorin and himself, the difference was
a clash of style, motivation, and immediate purpose.
Or perhaps more properly, between Nikki and himself.
Tempting, these days, to judge all relationships according
to his recent self-evaluations, but in this case, the compari-
son did seem justified.
Just as he had served as a buffer between Nikki and
Mheric, the Southern Crescent had acted, over the years, as
a protective buffer for the Northern Crescent, economically
speaking. Not because they set out believing themselves
superior, but by virtue of their geographical location.
And by that accident of fatewhim of Rakshi, Ganfrion
saidthe Southern Crescent had learned a whole different
set of survival skills. Having grown up protected from the
true deceivers of the world, the Northern Crescent, like
Nikki, weren't yet ready to match the Kirish'lani head to
proverbial head.
Accidents of nature. Position and timing. Such factors
shaped the character of societies as well as individuals.
The temptation was to assume that the end goal for all
citizens of the Rhomatum Web was the same, that what
everyone within the web most desired was a strong and
viable web with healthy, productive citizens. Working to-
gether, they could complement one another, but they had
to recognize and respect their differences first.
But such thinking presupposed against human nature.
Presupposed that everyone placed such sensible, long-term
goals above individual power and individual accumulation
of wealth. Presupposition that was, in cold light of truth,
folly indeed.
"I don't know," he said at last, "that there's anything /
could do to change that, Nethaalye, other than open
debate."
"One person can't change the attitudes of entire cities,"
Nethaalye said. "Certainly not now. The distrust has been
planted and nourished. Something will be decided in Khor-
atum, issues will be raised. We can only deal with what
comes down to us from others and not lose our own sense
of what's important."
A subject with which, from her tone, Nethaalye had al-
ready had to deal.
"I knew, of course, that if I became ringmaster, I'd be
expected to be sympathetic to the Northern Crescent, that
I'd have duties. Whatever is underway. Father held back,
waiting, I suppose, to find out if I was to be the next ring-
master of Rhomatum."
"And did you want to be, Talli? You never said, and
when Anheliaa explained the dangersthat her own crip-
pling was due to the Rings, I wasn't certain . . . except that
/ wouldn't want to condemn you to a similar fate. And
then you left . . ."
"I was to be your wife, Mikhyel. If that duty to my family
and the web included controlling the rings of Rhomatum,
of course I would. I was not particularly concerned over
that aspect of which you speak. I suspect that much of
Anheliaa's crippling was linked to her . . . warped use of
the ley, though I could, of course, be very wrong. However,
that the honor of replacing her went to Lidye did not and
does not affect me. I was afraid only that Anheliaa's deci-
sion played a part in your disappearance. That you were
disappointed in me for cheating you out of your rightful
inheritance."
"Never. As for my 'inheritance.' / suspect Anheliaa
chose Lidye over you at least in part because she wanted
Nikki over myself as the Rhomandi, although he didn't par-
ticularly want it either. We've already eliminated Anhe-
liaa's  meddling.  The  title  belongs  with  Deymorin,  no
question about it. When he was with me in the south"
"What . . ." She lifted her hands to her mouth as if to
stop even that one word from escaping. "Excuse me. I
promised myself I wouldn't ask."
"Talli, you can ask me anything. I can't promise I can
answer, but you shouldn't hesitate to ask."
"Khyel, you know I think very highly of you. That I've
a great deal of respect for your intelligence . . ."
"Are you trying to ask why I acted like the resident idiot
to my brother's pubescent lead?"
Her bent head and tiny shrug was answer enough.
"I'm not certain I can explain. It has to do with too many
years of being brothers, I suppose. Being too close and not
close enough. We weren't supposed to be together. But
I'd . . . been ill. He was worried about me, and we got in
each other's way. I'm sorry if it's been an embarrassment
for you. We were in the middle of the situation before we
realized"
"Not for me, Khyel. For you. They . . . They're saying
that this is the real Mikhyel dunMheric. That without An-
heliaa, you're nothing. That Anheliaa has kept you in Rho-
matum all these years because once you were out, the truth
would be known. That the Rhomandi will fall because they
are none of them capable of . . . of wiping their own noses
without Anheliaa to guide their hands."
He clenched his fist and tapped his knee lightly, when
what he truly wanted was to put it through the side of
the cab.
He didn't think the lad pedaling the bike would appreci-
ate the defacement of his property.
"And is that what you believe?"
Her hand covered his fist. "I know better, my dear friend.
You've always seemed to me the cleverest man I know. If
I believed those cruel rumors, I would surely have to con-
sider myself a fool as well, and I know that I am not. I
was, however, concerned for what might have happened. I
feared that Anhehaa's cruelty might finally have broken
you. It is.. .it is a great relief to see that that is not
the case."
Without looking at her, he lifted her hand to his lips.
"But my father does believe. As do others. It's easier, I
believe, for some people to mock those who might outsmart
them. To be physically outfought, that's an easily defined
accomplishment. But to be outmaneuveredsome would
much rather credit someone like Anheliaa, who had the
power to destroy, than someone like yourself."
Darius, you are not . . .
One did begin to wonder precisely what one was, under
the circumstances.
"When you disappeared, my father lost all expectation.
He made me come home. Last week, when the first reports
came in from Shatum about your . . . public appearances
with your brother, he decided the rumors regarding your
inadequacies were correct and that . . . that the Rhomandi
were no longer suited to lead the Syndicate. That's when
he left for Khoratum."
"He made you come home?" He took out of that state-
ment the most immediately significant revelation, the rest
being no more than validation of his own suspicions. "You
didn't demand to leave when you found out about . . ." The
words wouldn't come, somehow, they seemed to solidify so
great a personal betrayal.
"Only a father's command could have made me leave
Rhomatum when I did. Only a fool could believe that An-
heliaa wasn't dying. I feared for the web, with Lidye in
charge, her moods seemed to be fluctuating so wildly, and
there was no one to control her, with Anheliaa down and
youall of you, gone."
And Mirym. She so carefully failed to mention the great-
est provocation for her to leave. He doubted a man could
even imagine how betrayed she must have felt.
And yet, she'd been willing, or so she'd implied, to stay
in Rhomatum, despite the personal humiliation, for the sake
of the web. He wanted her support. He wanted her to go
back to Rhomatum, to join with the Rhomandi efforts to
restore the web. They needed her.
And he'd come so close to turning her into an enemy.
"Not by my will, Talli," he said, and his voice must have
been even lower than he'd intended, by the way she leaned
toward him, the way she had to reach a hand to his arm
to catch her balance.
He searched after the letter that had consumed his entire
day to write and rewrite. It contained everything that had
happened in the past months, even to the link he shared
with his brothers. For a frantic moment, he feared he'd lost
it, back there in an all too public park. Finally, he found it
in a different pocket and, with a sigh of relief, pressed it
into her hand.
"I hope this explains sufficiently. If, after reading it,
you're willingableto forgive . . . me, Iwe allwould
very much appreciate it if you would return to Rhomatum."
She smoothed the wrinkles from the letter, then held it
to her breast. "I'll read it, Khyel, and be thankful for your
trust. But I will return to Rhomatum, and I'll help in what-
ever way I can, now I know you are safe and that you ask
it.  I  cannot  agree  that with  internal  division  lies  anything
but disaster for us all. I know you, I know your dedication
to the web. I cannot believe anyone else could provide
better leadership for us."
Relief filled him, from tensions he'd had no idea he was
carrying. He closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath, let-
ting it out slowly. Then taking her hand in both of his:
"Words cannot express my gratitude, my dear."
"Under what pretext do I return?" For the first time, the
calm in her voice wavered. "Marriage?"
His heart stopped. The question hanging between them
could no longer be ignored.
"After what happened with Mirym?"
"Mirym isn't why I left, Mikhyel. I'd hoped I'd made
that clear. She's a servant. A pleasant servant. An intelli-
gent one. Men have always relieved their urges with such
womenthough I admit to being somewhat surprised in
her."
"In her?" He laughed, ruefully acknowledging the short-
coming he'd always known. "Don't question her taste, Talli.
It was I who"
She laughed gently. "Oh, Khyel, you don't understand at
all, do you? That's one reason I . . ."
He glanced up. She was looking at him. Just . . . looking.
Strangely. Or perhaps it was the silver-dusted shadows from
the city street leylamps that made her seem suddenly . . .
different.
"Mirym was so very quiet, so eminently practical," she
said at last. "It's not her bedding with you that surprised
me. It was the fact she got pregnant. That seemed out of
character. As for what happened between you. I'd be a fool
to let it affect our situation. Other factors, however . . ."
That strange look hadn't left her face. She seemed to be
measuring him for something. Finally, she said, "Must I be
the one to ask, Mikhyel?"
In a sudden panic, he realized he had no idea what she
was talking about.
Her eyes fell; she touched his hand, a gentle, lingering
stroke. He turned it over and clasped hers, hoping that
answered her need. She smiled, but not, he thought, in
humor. Her other hand lifted to his cheek, her body leaning
toward him, of necessity.
And only a fool could fail to read those signals. Only a
greater fool would feel the confusion that gripped his stom-
ach as violently as the tension before a major debate.
A sensible manDeymorinwould lean the fraction
necessary to match lips to lips, accepting easily the gift of-
fered in such kindly humor and willing appreciation, not
thinking beyond that.  Or he would have before he'd
found Kiyrstin.
But he had no Kiyrstin; no hold, moral, legal or emo-
tional, on him. And this was Nethaalye, the woman he
would, quite willingly, take to wife.
Would he, however, as willingly take her to bed? To bed,
yes, as would his duty to his family and hers dictate. And
he would perform, on cue, as duty also dictated.
And duty to her. He'd never thought about that part.
Never considered that she might wantand deserve
more.
And he wondered, in some panic, if she did, in fact love
him. And if, on that love, hinged the fate of the web. Be-
cause he very much feared that he could never feel for her
what . . . what Deymorin felt for Kiyrstin, or even what
Nikki felt for Lidye.
He steeled his stomach and leaned. Lips touched lightly.
His tension remained. He drew back, or she did, and he
saw, at this close range, a distinct, moist glimmer in her
eyes, though her face remained as serene as before.
Freeing his hand, he cupped that serenity and tried again,
seeking that elusive drive he'd felt on occasion with Mirym,
albeit in general with the help of his randy brothers. He
closed his eyes, seeking sensation first, trusting association
would solve its own problem. And for a moment, he thought
the necessary response was there, that - . . desire - - . might be
possible. Lips softened, formed to one another, and explored
with mutual respect.
But the gentle touch disengaged with a shuddery little
breath, and dark, satiny hair replaced it against his lips.
Nethaalye's hand left his neck to rest lightly on his chest,
but for balance only, for all the pressure exerted.
"Oh, I do envy the woman you eventually take to wife,
Mikhyel dunMheric," she said on a fluttering breath, and
a whisper of a tremor rippled through her.
While he was still turning that over in his head, she sat
back, utterly composed.
"But that woman is not I, my dear friend."
"Nethaalye, I"
She pressed his hand.
They'd arrived at her father's empty house.
"Just let me know when to be ready to leave," she mur-
mured, and stepped out into Ganfrion's waiting hands.
Chapter Five

For a woman who so vehemently resisted donning them,
Kiyrstin chose her women's clothing well.
The cool shadows of the north garden formed a fitting
frame for her overdress of deep maroon and soft tangerine
orange. Her shapely shoulders and long neck rising from
the pale blue, beaded undergown were enough to set any
man's heart to racing. For Deymorin Rhomandi, too long
without the feel of that skin beneath his fingers, the sight
was sufficient to set more than his heart rate up.
She stood beside a small pool, one hand supporting the
opposite elbow, the other cupping her chin in a familiar,
deep-thought gesture.
His boots padding silently along the cedar-bark pathway,
he slipped up behind her. Arms spread wide he surrounded
her, in one hand, the enormous bouquet he'd brought into
Rhomatum with him, in the other, a single rose. As he bent
to press his lips to that bare right shoulder, his left hand
drew the soft petals of the rose bud along her throat.
As an assassin would draw a blade across his victim's
jugular.
Calm as a spring day, she tipped her head to the left,
opening more territory to his exploring lips.
"Lucky for you, my husband is away," she said.
He lifted his head, strangely hurt. "Husband?"
Her rich chuckle eased the hurt, as she turned in the
circle of his arms. "In all eyes but Garetti's and the law,"
she murmured, and molded her lips to his.
When Garetti's day had been thoroughly ruined, in ab-
sentia, and the bouquet restored to something vaguely re-
sembling the Armayel florist's original effort, Kiyrstin
asked, "So what are you doing here?"
"Missed my nonwife."
"Good start. And?"
"I'm running a bit ahead of schedule, I was in Barsitum,
as close to Rhomatum as I'll be in the next month, so I
thought I'd drop in for a visit."
"Drop in. Just like that."
"Well, I'm worried about Khyel."
"Ha. Now we're getting somewhere. When are you going
to let the poor lad sink or swim on his own, JD?"
The bench on which they'd settled had a curve that fol-
lowed the pond's edge and allowed an intimate near face-
on conversation. And her face left no doubt regarding her
feelings on this topic.
She thought him an interfering, energy-wasting idiot.
"Did Nikki tell you what he's up to?" he asked, feeling
rather on the defensive.
"Yes. So?"
"I haven't heard a word from him, haven't felt anything
since that wild scheme supposedly took place."
"Yes. So?"
"So, I'm worried."
"Yes. So?"
"Dammit, Kiyrsti, say something useful!"
"Yes. So?"
He glared at her. At length. She refused to elucidate.
He relented.
"Welcome to the world of normal people, eh?"
She nodded. "And?"
"Thanks to this thing we share, I'd know if he'd gotten
into serious trouble."
"And?"
"I'll wait until he's ready to tell me what happened."
She leaned over and kissed his nose. He grunted and
swiped the kiss away, figuratively speaking.
"And what in the name of Darius' balls are you doing
in that outfit? Not," he hastened to add, "that I've any
objections, mind you."
"I'm entertaining, this afternoon."
"You're always entertaining, m'love. Anyone I know,
and do I trade my rose in for the real thing?"
"Keep your toys in their sheaths, laddybuck. We've
guests from Shatum."
"Ah. Early."
"You got the letters."
He shrugged. "Thought I'd be here, just in case."
"Just never you mind. And you stay quiet and out of
sight. Let Nikki and the ladies handle this one."
"Hadn't intended otherwise. Just wanted to be here for
a firsthand viewing. What exactly are you up to? Who all
came?"
"Damned if I'll recite the list. Everyone and their cous-
ins. Kirish'lani, Shatumin, and a few who have yet to speak
a civilized language."
Suddenly, the day was no longer quite so bright.
"Kiyrstin''
"Oh, hush, Rhomandi, I'm joking. By the time we're
through with them, they'll realize their only option is to sit
and waitunless they care to do it Darius' way, and then,
well, we won't have to worry about them, will we?"
He rubbed an already ruined petal between two fingers.
He thought of Mikhyel and what Kiyrstin had said, he
thought about what would be happening here, if he hadn't
come back, and interfering with plans already in motion,
and decided, perhaps, he had to trust someone some time.
Besides, if things went wrong, she couldand would
come for him.
"I'll sneak into the house, let my little brother know I'm
here, then wait for you in the room, where you can tell me
all about it this evening." He yawned. "Darius knows, I
could use the sleep."
"How long can you stay?"
"Since you don't need me, I'll be gone tomorrow morn-
ing before you wake up."
"Want to lay a wager on that?"
He chuckled. "Which"
{Deymorin?]
His throat constricted. His vision faded. His ears rang.
And his body was soaked.
(Deymorin, are you there?)
{Shit,  Khyel!)  He  waved Kiyrstin's hands  away,  and
pulled himself out of the pond. {Back off.}
{Sorry.)
{Mikhyel? Deymorin! You're here?l Confusion. Elation.
All that and more from an enthusiastic Nikki.
{Nikki, save your reunion for later, please.} Khyel, of
course, holding Nikki at bay.
{Where the hell are you, Khy?} Deymorin asked. {You'n
as clear as if you were standing right here.}
(The Tower of Giephaetumor near enough it make
no difference.}
{Made contact, then?}
Acknowledgment. {Nethaalye's returning to Rhomantun
tomorrow. Nikki, is it safe?}

LVIIIVIIVVV TT  I LRlrl~ 1Y *l. UULV  j
{Yes. I'll tell Lidye. I'm certain she'll welcome the help
jl hope so. Deymorin, Kiyrstin}
{Is right here. I'll tell her.)

ll ltglU LI~IC.. I U I.CII UCI.J
(Here? You're in Rhomatum? That explains . . .} Th<

iiivi~i  iuu A~ iAi xviivJiiialLnii.  iiioi. cAulaiiis , . .i i un-
balance was garbled. {There's trouble here in the north.}
(Want help?} Deymorin asked and thought about head-
ing north.
{Not yet. I'll let you know. But it wouldn't hurt to have
a few men prepared to move about the board.}
{To where?}
(Not certain yet. But I'm certain Venitum wouldn't mind
some maneuvers in their direction. I'll be continuing on
from here, but I'm setting word out that I'm returning with
Nethaalye, and I didn't want you to worry. I'm saying it's
because I'm ill.}

{Are you?)

No!}
Where to?}
Khoratum.}

IIVIIUI<U.U.III.J

Deymorin's heart skipped, and he asked, while trying not
to think of what he'd been thinking about for the past week:
{How's the spy business, brother?)
(It went exactly as you imagined, Deymio, so go ahead
and gloat. But I survived and learned a good lesson.}
{I should hope} He caught that thought. Caught Kiyr-
stin staring at him, and remembered her lesson about let-
ting brothers live their own lives and revised: {I'm just glad
you're all right, Mikhyel. Honestly.)
Laughter that rang lightly in his mind. {Tell Kiyrstin I
love her, will you?}
{Fuck off.}
More laughter. Then Nikki's voice, tentative: {We started
work on the dam.}
(Already?)
{Two days ago.}
{Nikki, that's wonderful\ I look forward to seeing it on
my way back from Khoratum.}
Satisfaction from Nikki. And pride, shy, but utterly real,
in his own accomplishment, and on that final word, his
brothers faded from his mind.
d d ~
"You'll accompany the lady Nethaalye back to Rhorna-
tum. Ostensibly, so shall 1." Mikhyel laid his shirts out on
the bed, narrowing the selection one more time, choosing
the plainest, most serviceable of the lot.
"Ostensibly?" Raulind, from his tone, was less than ex-
cited at the prospect Mikhyel offered.
"I'm going to Khoratum. You'll be in charge of the
entourage."
"I'll have only a token assemblage, then."
"No. I'm going alone. You'll have the lot. It's got to
appear as if I'm going back with you. We'll put it out that
I've taken illagain. The web ought to be accustomed to
that news by now. No one will question. I'll go to Khora-
tum on the public carrier."
"Khyel..."
Raulind's protest didn't extend beyond the single word.
Mikhyel smiled, setting his hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Get Ganfrion, will you?"
The tense muscle relaxed beneath his fingers. "You're
taking him with you, then. Good enough."
Raulind left in renewed spirits. Strange, that those two
should have joined forces. Following the night at Ramblin'
Rosie's, Ganfrion had delivered him, bruised, filthy and
bleeding, to Raulind, who had simply scrubbed him to pre-
sentability and declared him now content to leave spying
to those that knew what they were about.
If he were a suspicious sort, he'd have believed the two
men in collusion from the start.
He folded another shirt and maneuvered it into the edge
of the portmanteau he intended to carry with him on the
public coach. He'd be a student . . . better yet, an underpro-
fessor from Bernoi Judiciary Academy. On sabbatical. Hop-
ing to better his position. Studying legal systems firsthand.
Strange, how youthful dreams insinuated themselves
even at twenty-almost-seven.
A knock on the door interrupted his formative scheme.
"Enter."
Raul, of course, with Ganfrion in tow. And Raul left,
closing the door behind him, not giving Mikhyel even the
illusion of a second. He frowned at the door, then shifted
the look to Ganfrion, who met him, frown line for line.
"I'm leaving for Khoratum tonight."
"Yeah."
"You're headed for Rhomatum tomorrow, with the
lady Nethaalye."
"Try again, Rhomandi."
"I said"
"I heard what you said."
"You just don't believe I meant it."
"I thought you were smarter than this, Rhomandi. I
thought you'd learned your damned lesson! Surely Rhoma-
tum has ears and ears in Khoratum. Why not have them
investigate the woman's allegations?"
"If they were doing their job, we'd already know, now
wouldn't we?"
"Or your woman's lying."
"She's not."
"Sound real sure of yourself. Suds."
"Don't call me that. 1 am. Sure."
"I'll stop calling you that when you consistently act as
though you've something else in your skull besides bubbles!
Dammit, Rhomandi, every time I think I've got you figured,
you go and pull something like this! What the hell do you
think you're doing? Go, if you must, but take me with you!
Dammit, Khyel, you're going to get yourself killed!"
He biinked, quite . . . quite unprepared for such impas-
sioned anger.
"I assure you, that's the last thing on my agenda."
"Agendas don't matter, not when the agendizer's a fool."
"I'm not a fool."
"Saying doesn't make it so."
"I need no one with me, damn you. People travel about
the web constantly, men and women, alone and with
impunity."
"People aren't Mikhyel Rhomandi dunMheric of Rhoma-
tum Tower."
"I'm not going to be Mikhyel dunMheric. I'm going to
be Korelli dunKharin, underprofessor of social liberties,
Bernoi Judiciary Academy, on sabbatical."
Ganfrion's jaw dropped . . .
"I've thought it through. It's my world, this time. Secre-
taries  and  accountants  and  lawyers.  Believe  me.  You
wouldn't fit in."
. . . and snapped back, then he frowned, tipping his head
to one side, looking Mikhyel up and down.
"I want you with Nethaalye. She'll need you most of all."
The frown deepened.
"You make her laugh."
A grunt.
"Rings, Gan,  an underprofessor of social liberties!
There's no brain more full of bubbles in the web. I'll be
right in my element!"
A snort that might well be laughter.
"I need to do this myself, Ganfrion," Mikhyel said, and
wondered that he didn't sound or feel as if he were plead-
ing. But Ganfrion was listening, now, and Ganfrion under-
stood the need to be trusted, the need to have his own
judgment respected.
And finally: "Shave the beard."
Mikhyel sighed, knowing the battle won. "Thank you.
I will."
Ganfrion poked his way one-handed through the port-
manteau. Critiquing his choices, no doubt.
"So, I make her laugh, do I?" he asked, turning to the
discarded shirts still on the bed.
"You know you do."
A grunt, and one shirt pulled free. A judicious rip or two
of the lace and it joined the portmanteau. "Secondhand
for dressup," Ganfrion muttered. "Why should she need
to laugh?"
"It's good for what ails?"
That got him a raised eyebrow. "So I've been telling you,
Suds. Why?"
"She's going into potentially hostile surroundings. She
could be nervous en route. Once she's there, Deymorin will
set her at ease"
"Deymorin? Your brother's back in Rhomatum? Forget
it, Suds."
"That doesn't matter. / ordered you to return."
"Right. You think I'm going to Rhomatum and tell your
large, hot-tempered brother who patently hates my interior
that I let you go into the heart of the storm alone, because
you told me to? Thank you, no."
"Dammit, Ganfrion, if it takes arresting you, I'll order it
done! Ori's been waiting for weeks to hear me authorize
it!  I'm going alone."'
The big man's jaw worked, while his broad chest heaved
with suppressed anger. Then:
"I want a letter."
"Letter? What kind of letter?"
"I want a full pardon. I want my freedom, Rhomandi.
No questions. No conditions. No ties or obligations to the
Rhomandi. I want absolution from any responsibility where
your fate is concerned. I want my ass covered, you self-
serving,   narrow-minded   son  of  a  money-wallowing
bastard!"
"Fine.' If that's what it takes" Mikhyel threw himself
down at his desk and wrote furiously, ignoring the sound of
the door opening, of soft footfalls arriving behind his chair.
"Khyel, I can't allow this." It was Raulind, two-faced
traitor that he was. Mikhyel ignored him, and set his seal
to the hot wax.
"There!" He thrust the official parchment at Ganfrion,
who accepted it with an almost cheerful smile. But then,
he had all he wanted now. Free, he was, to go and milk
some other man's purse, to defy some other man's author-
ity. Free to land one more time in the Crypt.
"Don't worry, Raul," Ganfrion said. "I'll see you and
the mistress to Rhomatum." And without a pause: "And
then I'm off for Khoratum to save his arrogant ass."
"Hell, if you"
"Can't stop me. Suds," he said softly, and waved the
parchment. "Not now."
Interlude

Life was . . . getting better. Mother stretched, long and
hard, until her fingertips brushed the topmost edges of the
clouds, and her toes tickled the bottom of the deepest ley-
thium pool beneath Khoratum. Then she contracted again,
the misty essence of her body condensing to its preferred,
scaled form.
Easier to move, each time she tried, and the inclination
seemed to come more often. Soon, she might be inclined
to walk the surface world.
At times such as this, when her very scales itched for
activity, she wondered how her siblings could rest content,
aeon after aeon, beneath their mountains, how they could
resist the urge to walk among the surface creatures, to run
with  the  four-legged  ones,  to  eat,  to  breathe,  to
procreate....
Mother was especially fond of that, and her special chil-
dren had proven masters of the art. Unlike the other crea-
tures, who tended to feel the urge and act on it at once,
her human children understood anticipation. Her human
children took their time, tempting, teasing (which Mother
well Understood) stimulating body and mind before the
culmination.
It was all very interesting, and endlessly creative, among
the true connoisseurs. Of all the changes humans had made
in her existence, love-making was the most recent. It re-
quired great amounts of energy, adaptation, study . . .
and practice.
She'd really only begun to comprehend its complexities
when the progenitor threw his most recent snit and landed
her here indefinitely.
One of her most special children called overhead, asleep
and in lonely misery. It pained Mother greatly not to an-
swer, but that child, as had others in the past had grown too
like its Mother, and Mother had grown . . . concerned . . . that
it develop as one with its own world. She had seen a future
for it, in a dream, and that future would not come to pass
if it retreated into her caverns of mists and dreams.
Other children had, in the past, those whom the cave
welcomed, and Mother had watched them fade into their
own oblivions, and eventually had been forced to absorb
them, but such were her failures, and she tried to learn
from them, wishing to enrich her favorites' lives, not to
entrap them.
Sometimes, as with the one who called, she simply
started the process too young. But the one above had been
so close, from the moment she first brought it here, the ley
had engulfed it, nourished it, treasured it, until its scent
and sweet taste permeated the cavern as none before it.
Mother had had plans for her current special children,
had been forced into modifying those plans when Anheliaa
had set the rings spinning overhead, and her siblings and
progenitor had insisted she fall into their pattern.
Not all her special children had weathered that pattern
change well.
Another child brushed her perimeters. A mind of a far
different scent, an almost-familiar flavor. But her memory
still inclined toward unreliable. She reached toward it, curi-
ous, hungry for something new. ...
Chapter One

"Whoa-oa-oa-oa."
The public coach rumbled, swayed, and creaked to a halt.
Mikhyel, after his second day of fighting frozen feet, sun-
burned face, and the overwhelming battle of his compan-
ions' perfumes, had the door unlatched and the stairs
extended before the vehicle had finished moving.
Cool mountain air rushed in, driving out the overused
molecules within. The youngest woman squealed, as she
had when he'd tried to lower the window earlier that after-
noon, and drew a length of scarf up over her nose, pro-
tecting herself from the Evil Outside Humors.
One had to wonder why such dainty pieces were on their
way to Khoratum, but one truly did not want to ask, be-
cause one might find oneself obliged to listen to the answer.
The entire answer.
Mikhyel eased down the stairsthe slightest movement
jarred his pounding headthen turned to help his fair com-
panions out. At least, he assumed they were fair. From the
way they were bundled against those Humors, one of them
could be Ganfrion in his newest guise. Hunched over dou-
ble, but even that was possible.
Words came out of those mounds of fabric; a plethora
of words, as a matter of fact. And at least two of the three
found him and his fabricated life endlessly fascinating. For-
tunately, their curiosities frequently took varying directions
and they'd spent more time arguing over what to ask him
than in expectations of answers.
And as they disengaged from the coach, each clasped his
hand in vociferously heartfelt gratitude. He'd smile, pry one
set of fingers loose, only to find himself captured again by
the next lady to descend.
The possibility existed that by the time they reached
Khoratum, he would come to hate the young man, whose
name he didn't know, but whose experienced, quick think-
ing had landed him the sole outside seat beside the
coachman.
He picked up the portmanteau that thudded into the dust
beside him, hefted one of the women's bags, whose weight
threatened the limits of his strength, held on to it with grim
determination and pride, and limped into the staging inn
on feet barely able to feel the ground through his thin-
soled shoes.
Somewhere, Ganfrion was laughing while he sipped his
brandy.
He set the woman's bag down inside the door, where the
coachman would pile the rest, and went to sign his name
on the register and get his keyhis own key, this time,
please the gods; the quick-thinking young man had snored
the previous night through, after staggering in reeking of
spirits.
The young man complained, having counted on the re-
duced rate of a shared room, but Mikhyel assured him the
innkeeper had generously offered otherwise, not telling him
the offer was: if Mikhyel wanted separate rooms, Mikhyel
paid the full rate, plus half. It would be worth the extra
expense for a decent night's sleep.
Supper was a delight not to be contemplated, with break-
fast still heavy on his stomach and his afternoon bread and
cheese still wrapped, untouched, in his pocket. The ladies
made much of his obviously failing health, exclaiming over
his need of a separate room, his impaired appetite, the
"pain that furrowed his beautiful brow," until all he could
think of was that well-sprung bed, the room filled with
mountain freshness, awaiting him.
The bed was lumpy, and the window nailed shut.
The portmanteau slipped from fingers gone numb. Mi-
khyel's shoulders slumped, along with every other bone and
muscle, and he sank onto the hard, wooden stool beside
the rough carved table.
The stool . . . rocked.
From somewhere deep inside him, laughter happened,
helpless, but with a real sense of his own foolishness, the
crazed situation he found himself in, all of his own
deliberation.
He rubbed his eyes, then drew the hand down over his
clean-shaven face, encountering the tiny bandage from this
morning's worst mistake, wondering if tomorrow, he'd man-
age to slit his throat with his razor.
And he laughed some more.
Until his hands began to glow.
Leythium chandeliers, leythium-lace drapes, liquid ley-
thium bubbling in sweet-smelling pools . . . It appeared he
was back in the caverns beneath Rhomatum.
"Damn," he muttered, then said aloud, "Sir? Your, uh,
lordship? Forgive me, I . . . I don't know how to address
you, but I can't be here."
{0 oo-oo-oo, do I know you?)  Mikhyel spun on his heel.
His bare heel. Bare . . . as the rest of him was exposed.
"Sir, please might I have my clothes back?"
{Clothes? Why? Certainly not for my sake.)
He turned again, and there he was. Or perhaps not the
same creature, for this one was as female as the other had
been male.
Which seemed a silly conclusion, for something he'd seen
form out of the ley itself, then shift shape even as he
watched. This could as easily be a different manifestation
of the same being, chosen out of whimsy.
Still there was something in the . . . flavor . . . of the
thoughts that had floated through his mind that suggested,
if not female, then at least youth, a facile agility of thought
the Rhomatum being had lacked.
And the scent that filled the air here was not fireblossom-
tea, but . . . raspberries.
Almost as if in response to his thoughts, the creature
changed form subtly as it glided across the cavern toward
him, gaining humanlike, feminine curves. But if it catered
to his sensibilities in that shift, it only compromised: the
iridescent, scaled skin, the fanged, elongated face, and the
bare, webbed feet were many things, of which humanlike
was not one.
And though she declared clothing unnecessary for him,
she was herself covered in lacy leythium gauze, that trailed
off in floating tendrils and connected, weblike, to the sur-
rounding leythium formations.
A sort of sleepy curiosity encompassed him like a
cloud as the creature made a slow, drifting circuit
around him.
"I thought," her voice whispered through the tendrils,
setting them fluttering, "that I knew you. But I . . ."
She seemed puzzled, but Mikhyel hesitated to place any
human value on what such a creature might feel. That they
had emotions, he didn'tcouldn'tdoubt following his ses-
sion with the Rhomatum creature.
Self-preservation dictated caution, and healthy fear of
these strange beings, but curiosity overpowered all sensi-
ble faculties.
"Did you bring me down here?" he asked.
"Naturally..."
Her voice held none of the Rhomatumin creature's sibi-
lance, and it, as well as her form, seemed more easily
maintained.
"Why?"
"I told you . . ."
She drifted near, and her webbed, talon-tipped fingers
cupped his face. Instinct dictated avoidance. Escape. Logic
scoffed, and asked: Where would he go?
"Welcome home, my darling . . ." Her fanged face leaned
close, her eyes closed. She seemed to be smelling him.
He held himself very still, vaguely disturbed that calm
acceptance came so easily, particularly when very wom-
anlike lips pressed his, more so when his lips opened will-
inglyher will, a voice deep within him objectedand a
strange, delicate flickering investigated the inside of his
mouth.
He should, a different part of him pointed out, feel vio-
lated. He should be fearful of such intimate contact with a
being composed of a substance that in at least one form
absorbed human flesh. He should be wondering whether
these creatures considered him a viable candidate for sup-
per's main course.
But none of those fears reached maturity. Only love and
curiosity coursed through him in the wake of that flickering
exploration. Love, curiosity . . . and memories of the caves
beneath the Rhomandi hypogeum.
"Ee-ee-eck!" She pulled her hands away as though stung,
and herforkedtongue flicked out between her lips, over
and over as though ridding them of some foul taste.
"You've been with him!"
Free at last of her influence, those remote fears blos-
somed to full flower. He fought them down, determined
that panic would not rule his thinking. He had nowhere to
run, no way to escape this place except through the same
agency that had brought him here.
Besides, he reasoned with himself as he backed slowly
away, compared to Anheliaa or Mheric, this creature's
touch was exemplary, and the ley had never threatened
him, had, in fact, welcomed him with its cool-warm touch
at both Rhomatum and Barsitum. Had, in fact, saved
his life.
This creature was, he had to believe, responsible for the
unnatural calm that had held him steady for her examina-
tion. Anheliaa had used her own desires to manipulate his
thinking, he and Deymorin affected one another even with-
out consciously willing it. It seemed reasonable to assume
that these creatures, made of the ley itself, might project
eminently more compelling desires.
And yet, it was difficult to find threat in either being.
These creatures. He was increasingly certain this was not
Rhomatum. But if not Rhomatum, where. . . ?
He'd been on a cross-ley road about halfway between
Khoratum and Giephaetum. If each node had oneor
moreof these creatures beneath it, wouldn't Giephaetum
have "spoken" sooner?
They'd crossed the Orenum line, but the Orenum Node
itself was quite distant, far to the north.
Khoratum...?
{How clever you are . . .} The thought drifted into his
mind and the creature floated up to him again, cautiously,
or so it seemed, examining his face. Her fingertip, a talon
every bit as sharp as Anheliaa's honed nails, traced his
jaw. And again, foolishly, he felt no desire to avoid
that touch.
But it was a feather's gentle caress, not Anheliaa's vi-
cious torment.
A slow smile split her undeniably beautiful, though ut-
terly inhuman, face. "Ah, darling, I did a good job on
you."
"Job?" He blinked, wondering what she meant.
She disappeared. A finger traced his backbone, followed
the handful of near-invisible scars remaining from the terri-
ble burns he only half-recalled.
"I told them there'd be scars-s-s-s-s." And with that came
the first hint of the sibilant hiss he associated with the Rho-
matum creature's speech.
The webbed fingers smoothed his shoulders and
down his ribs. "Skinny, child. Chickens. You must eat
more chickens." And absently: "Did you bring one
for your mother? She grows thin with hunger these
days-s-s-s."
Delicate fingers cupped and caressed his buttocks, slid
around his waist and down his flanks. He shifted. "Uh . . .
excuse me . . ."
Laughter, light as the breeze, full as a storm-fed gale,
and she was back in front of him, her hands once again on
his face, soothing, reassuring. Until . . .
"Ptah! Fuzz!" Her hands jerked away. "His doing, isn't
it?"
"Excuse me?"
"Such a bother. Scrape it off it just comes back, scrape
it  off,  it's  back,  scrape  it  off  .  .  .  I  could  fix  that  for
you . . . again."
Her fingers entwined in his and she pulled him, with a
child's eager delight, toward the nearest pool.
"Thank you, no." He tried to jerk free, and in the next
instant discovered himself captive, his arm twisted behind
his back, forcing him into her solid as stone body.
Anger. It permeated the air around him, and the ley-
thium pulsed a deeper and deeper red. But he refused to
be frightened. Neither she nor Rhomatum had given him
any reason to believe his life was in danger from them.
Instead, he sought, and found, fascination within himself,
just as he had beneath the Rhomandi hypogeum.
Slowlyin the face of that curiosity or perhaps in re-
sponse to his indifference to her implied threatthe crea-
ture relaxed. The stone clamping him regained the warm
pliability of living flesh, and the red cooled, shifting to its
former iridescence.
"Darling, don't fight Mother. Never fight Mother. She
doesn't want to hurt her children, but when they fight,
sometimes it's hard . . . so very hard . . ."
Her tongue flickered out again, touching his face, sooth-
ing him with her strange fluttering kisses.
{Not so bad. You taste of him, but you temper his flavor.
Make him quite . . . quite palatable.)
It was that other being she referenced, he slowly realized.
The one beneath Rhomatum.
{Of course, darling. You do hear me, don't you? And
very well. Oh, you are clever. I'm not surprised he couldn't
resist. But Mother found you first. Don't you remember?)
Her thought tasted wistful. And he wished that he could
make that sadness go away, but
(Pain.)
It was sensation born out of a memory as vivid as the
day it had happened.
(Deymorin! Nikki!)
His brothers' desperate situation. Near, in his head, yet
far distant.
(A sense of being stretched, horizon to horizon.
(A snap
(Light. Pain. Falling. Pain. Burning. Pain.
(Dying.
(Mother.
(And another face, green eyes framed in a cloud of
shaded hair.)
{Oh, we do remember! And did you bring your mother
a chicken?)
He was lying on the floor, curled on his side, so con-
sumed with the memories, he had to check his own exposed
flesh to convince himself he was not once again burning.
The creatureMotherwas squatting next to him, her
bright eyes following his every move.
He pulled himself up, wrapped his arms around his
knees, not yet ready to trust himself to stand. The remem-
bered pain was gone, but his muscles were trembling.
Cramped.
From fighting memories.
"Oh, dear." Mother touched his forehead, and the pain
stopped. Instantly. The trembling did. Mother tipped her
head to one side, lifted a graceful shoulder in a lopsided
shrug. "Sorry."
Mother. Deymorin's shapeshifter; Nikki's Tamshi.
His . . . savior.
"Yes-s-s-s. Keep remembering, darling. Remember for
us both . . ."
He drifted, then, in a sea of memory, of childhood and
on, of Deymorin and Nikki, Anheliaa, and finally, those
months leading to the Boreton Firestorm.
"Yes-s-s-s..."
But the events after he'd fallen from the sky were bro-
ken, shattered sensation. His eyes (he suspected, and Moth-
er's  thought  confirmed)  had  been  sealed  shut  in  that
burning transfer.
And Mother supplied images then, of himself on the
ground, of Deymorin and Nikki and Kiyrstin, and a slender
humanlike creature spreading an oil over his repulsive
burns, burns that vanished with the oil's passing.
And he sensed excitement, an eagerness for the rest of
the story, for what had happened since that time of healing.
And his mind carried them both, moment by moment,
through his life, from then to the present, including what
he understood about the state of the web, and Khoratum's
line and Rhomatum and Anheliaa. . . .
f Thank you, my darling child,} and the touch on his fore-
head slipped away.
"Why?" he whispered, "What happened to you?"
She seemed . . . different now. Vitalized.
"I was tired, child."
Her speech and thought crisp and focused.
"Very, very tired. Had I known at the time how fractured
the web had become, I'd never have healed you."
"Forgive me if I don't say I'm sorry."
Her laughter filled the chamber with music. "You'd be a
fool, darling. And that, obviously, you are not. No, it would
have been . . . irresponsible of me, had I known. It weak-
ened me, at a moment in the course of time that I would
most have desired to be strong. I transferred back to my
source, and I've drifted here ever since, renewing my
essence."
"And are you . . .?"
"Quite well, darling, thank you, and thanks to you.
I'd . . . lost touch with my surface world. You have helped
me to regain it. But there were others . . ."
Her voice faded, her eyes closed, and her head rolled
back. Her seated figure seemed to dissipate, and to
float.
"Ah, child," she whispered, but not, he thought, to him-
self. And when she opened her eyes, it was as if she'd never
drifted off.
"So, where were you headed, child of Mheric?"
"I'd prefer it if you don't call me that."
"And do you prefer child of Darius?"
"I prefer my name, madam."
"And I prefer mine."
"Mother?"
"Quite. Mikhyel?"
"Quite."
"Not a common name."
"My mother chose it."
"Of course. Mothers always name their children."
"Mheric chose Deymorin. And Nikaenor."
"Only because your mother agreed."
He laughed and threw up his hands in defeat, and her
delight with his impertinence filled that under-sense.
"So, Mikhyel-darling-child, where are you headed?"
"You already know that."
"Of course, but conversation is such fun, and how am I
to offer to help you if we don't know what I'm talking
about?"
Even repeated in his head several times, he wasn't cer-
tain that made much sense; however, there seemed no rea-
son not to admit: he answered, "Khoratum."
"Of course. Where? The Tower?"
"Why?"
"I'll send you there."
"Like this?"
"Well, if you're that bashful . . ." She flourished a hand,
and a green-blue glow hazed the air about him, solidified
into the clothing he'd been wearing before she transferred
him here.
"You must be feeling better," he commented.
"The least you can say is thank you."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. So, where in Khoratum?"
"Thank you, no. The room you pulled me from will be
fine. I'm going to have enough explaining to do."
"Explaining? Why? They've already left, you know."
"Who? Left where?"
"Those silly humans who think you're not-Mikhyel."
"Left? How do you know?"
A floating shrug. "Mother knows."
His heart raced, then stopped. He thought of tales of
people disappearing . . . for years at a time, to appear
again, unchanged. And he thought of Deymorin, who had
simply . . . lost half a year.
"How long have I been here?" he whispered.
"Long enough. Not too long."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You can still beat the post to Khoratum."
"How can you be certain?"
"Mother never loses."
He clamped his lips on the retort that rose; Mother
grinned, a very sharp-toothed stretch of scaled lips.
"Tell me, Mikhyel-child, why are you pretending to be
someone you're not?"
"Because I" Feel like it, he almost said, then he sighed,
and resigned himself to his fate. "Because there are those
who won't speak honestly to Mikhyel dunMheric."
"Oh." Her eyes glowed with excitement. "Have you a
good story to tell?"
"You sound like Ganfrion."
"Mother sounds like no one. Others may sound like
Mother. Have you a good story?"
"Sufficiently so."
She fluffed out her leythium skirts and wiggled down-
ward, as if preparing a nest. And indeed, the leythium be-
neath her molded upward into at least the appearance of
comfortable pillows. "Let me hear it."
"Don't be ridiculous. I must get back. I've had no
sleep"
"Plenty of time." She waved a hand airily. "I'll deposit
you inside."
"Inside? Inside what?"
"The town. The Tower. The public bath . . . How about
a brothel? Wherever you like, Mikhyel-child. It's just
overhead, you know. It'll be fine. I want to hear your
story."
He made a final attempt: "What about my baggage?"
"What do you need baggage for?"
"My razor, among other things!"
"I told you, I can take care of that for you."
"You and Anheliaa."
"Oo-oo, how disgusting. Keep the fur, then, by all means.
Now, about that story . . ."
Chapter Two

There was a commotion outside in the Riverview Inn's sta-
bleyard: a large entourage arriving. Little doubting who it
was, Deymorin descended the stairs to greet them. Kiyrstin
was already in the front parlor, waiting for him and her
dinner.
Kiyrstin had insisted on coming along. Kiyrstin had said
Nethaalye needed an ally. Kiyrstin had said the drive back
to Rhomatum would give her and Nethaalye time to get to
know one another.
Kiyrstin had come because Kiyrstin wanted out of Rho-
matum, even for just a day or two.
He rounded the final corner just as the front door
opened. Nethaalye dunErrif entered first, laughing and
shaking her hair free of a spattering of raindrops. Behind
her
"What the hell are you doing here?" Deymorin barked,
and the smile vanished from Nethaalye's companion's face.
Dark, deep-set eyes lifted slowly to meet Deymorin's.
"Hello there, unfriend," Ganfrion said without the least
hint of confusion. He shifted position, but only giving to
pressure from those behind him wanting inside. His eyes
never dropped from Deymorin.
"Deymorin!" Nethaalye moved to the bottom step and
smiled up at him. "Have you come to meet me? How kind
of you."
"Nethaalye," he acknowledged, and dipped his head po-
litely, but his gaze, likewise, never left the scar-faced in-
mate. "Where's my brother?"
"The fop? Why? Have you lost him?"
"Gan," Nethaalye said, and placed a hand on the prison
scut's arm. "What's going on?"
Ganfrion shifted again, as more rain-spattered bodies de-
manded entrance. The servants pressed past him, then
squeezed past Deymorin, hauling luggage up the narrow
staircase, muttering obscenities to large fools who clogged
the passageway.
"For the love of Maurii, Rhomandi, don't just stand
there like a lordish lump." That was Kiyrstin, coming out
of the parlor. And Kiyrstin's bright, canny gaze seemed to
take in the situation at a glance. "Lady Nethaalye?" she
said, "I'm Kiyrstine romGaretti. I don't believe we've met,
but I've heard a great deal about you."
"A-and I you, madam," Nethaalye said, obviously, con-
fused and quite out of her depth.
Kiyrstin, who swam extremely well in a variety of waters,
tapped Ganfrion's arm, demanding attention. He turned a
scowling face to her; Deymorin took another step down.
"You, I take it, are Ganfrion." She smiled blithely and
held out her hand. "I've heard about you, too." Her glance
flickered toward Deymorin; he frowned. "From several
sources."
And while Deymorin pondered the multiple layers of that
revelation, Ganfrion's scowl faltered. He accepted Kiyr-
stin's hand gingerly, wrist to wrist, as she'd offered. Her
hand closed firmly, and Ganfrion, after a start, returned
the grip.
Her smile deepened, and she gave a little nod. "You'll
do." And with that cryptic remark, she took Nethaalye's
arm and steered her toward the parlor door.
Nethaalye protested softly.
"Don't worry, child," Kiyrstin said. "They'll growl and
spit a great deal, and compare biceps and other anatomical
parts, but nothing will come of it." And as she closed the
parlor doors between them, she called back, "Try not to
break anything, boys."
The thin wood did nothing to muffle her laughter.
Ganfrion, mouth slightly open, stared at the door, then
gave an answering shout of laugher. Deymorin, more accus-
tomed to Kiyrstin's tactics, ignored her and took the final
handful of steps to confront Ganfrion eye to eye.
"Why aren't you with him?"
Before Ganfrion could answer, the door opened again,
and fear replaced every other emotion.
"Raulind?" Deymorin asked, "is Khyel here, then? Is he
truly ill?" And in the next instant knew that couldn't be
the case. He'd know if Mikhyel were near. Dead, or alive.
"M'lord Rhomandi," Raulind said. "How pleasant to see
you. Sooner than we expected. Ganfrion, have you not ex-
plained? How exceedingly wicked of you."
"Raulind, dammit"
"Well on his way to Khoratum by now, I should imagine,
sir.  Might  I suggest we retire to the smoking room and
discuss the matter in a somewhat less" He hopped for-
ward as another portmanteau swung through the doorway,
"trafficked locale?"
Imperturbable as always, Raulind headed in the opposite
direction from Kiyrstin's parlor. Just as if he knew where
he was going. Which, like as not, Raulind did. Somehow.
Deymorin scowled at Ganfrion.
Ganfrion glared backuntil his rain-spattered shoulders
began to shake. His mouth twitched, resisting his obvious
efforts to control it.
"M'lord?" Raulind prompted.
And Ganfrion with a grand wave of his hand toward the
door, added, "Shall we go, uh, compare biceps . . . m'lord?"
Deymorin, with the ominous feeling he'd been caught
between three experts, preceded Ganfrion down the hall.
9 8 ~
The wind whistled out of the northeast, off the Gai'tishii-
lari glacier, cold enough to penetrate to Khoratum Tower
itself. An alleyway on the very edge of the umbrella pro-
vided no refuge whatsoever.
Thyerri huddled in the stolen cloak, that retained only
the faintest hint of ocarshi in its deepest folds, and tried to
ignore the cold as he tried to ignore the protests of his
empty belly.
The bulk of his hoard had gone for replacement clothing
(one could hardly term them "new" garments where
patches outweighed original material). He'd been grossly
overcharged by a merchant who had sized up his customer's
surreptitious ways in the first exchange, and judged his ca-
pacity to bargain accordingly.
But then, considering the ridiculous clothing he'd been
wearingclothing included in the description on the war-
rants posted throughout the district, clothing which, short
of theft, he could do nothing aboutThyerri's manner
might not ever have been at issue. And if he'd been willing
to steal, he'd never have had to go through that umbrella-
skirting thief of a secondhand merchant.
At least now, with his hair washed free of the black dye,
and dressed in the plainest of hill clothing, he could walk
the streets, buy a meal, and even gain the odd coin or two
without risking imminent arrest.
Besides, Rhyys seemed to have lost interest, for all the
warrants had not yet been officially removed. But when
-  one blew away, or was posted over, no one came along to
replace it, the way they had at the first.
Another gust. He pulled the edges of the hood closer
and let the shivers rattle his joints, hoping by that means
to generate the heat needed to warm the air within the
heavy wool folds. He had to leave the cloak, which was far
too fine and would be noticed, when he went after food,
or to perform one of the small jobs that kept his pockets
from going completely flat. That meant getting chilled, on
evenings such as this, and getting chilled to his bones meant
spending the rest of the night getting warm.
Better than the alternatives, or so those other alley-rats
he sometimes huddled with claimed. Himself, he wasn't yet
convinced. He'd share no bed, rijhili or otherwise, just to
survive, but there were times he truly wished the wind
would simply steal him away as he slept.
The shiver became a steady vibration in his back. His
feet, fingers, even his nose tingled. He buried his face in
his crossed arms, saving the warmth of his exhaled breath
within the cloak. Behind the darkness of closed eyelids,
hunger made sparkling patterns, a myriad of colors in a
spring-green glow.
His dream, coming to haunt him even in waking.
He cursed softly, tearfully, wishing the dream away, hat-
ing it and the disaster it had wrought in his life, until at
last, it began to fade, for once without consequence.
"What about my" A voice said, out of the dream.
A  glittering  tingle,  a  flash  blinding  to  his  dark-
accustomed eyes.
Thyerri smothered a cry and hid his face again, convinced
hunger had brought back the old delusions, the waking
dreams that had haunted him in the days following the
collapse of the web, like memories that weren't his own.
"Thank you."
That voice was no dream.
Thyerri scrambled to his feet, blinking himself awake.
A man stood in his alley. A man whose clothing, even
in leylit silhouette, declared him unwelcome in this elite
spot of destitution.
"Who are you?" Thyerri asked. His cold-hoarse voice
was barely audible, even to his own ears, but the man
seemed to hear him.
"Uh, hello." Another invader from the valley, from the
accent. "Where did you come from?"
But Thyerri had no intention of answering questions.
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm sorry. I'm . . . lost. I was . . . looking for a place
to stay."
Precise, his low tones; from the valley, but not of the
sort that had most frequently patronized Bharlori's. This
man might well have been one of Rhyys's guests that god-
forsaken night, were he not here now.
"You'll be wanting Tower Hill."
"By no means! That's where . . . I mean, the coach left
me off, and the place was much too expensive, and they
said to follow Steachli Lane, and I would find something
in my range, but there was nothing .. ." The narration
floundered to a non-end, and the man muttered something,
then picked up a large bag lying at his feet, and turned
back toward the light.
Thyerri laughed, a short, bitter laugh. Steachli was on
the far north side of Khoratum. Lost, indeed.
"Rijhili." He spat the word out, making no attempt to
conceal all the hatred, old and new, that word held for him.
The shadow paused and turned.
"Did you say something?"
He certainly wasn't about to repeat himself, not with this
shadow-man out of dreams walking the wrong damned way
again. Thyerri took a step back, seeking deeper shadows,
cursing his own stupid tongue.
"Did I offend you? I'm sorry. I've just arrived, and I fear
I am quite woefully ignorant of local manners."
"Go away."
"Please, it would be very helpful to know what I did,
since I'd like not to repeat the mistake with someone else.
Could I . . . buy you a warm drink? Dinner, perhaps? Any-
where you like? So that we might discuss it?"
"Sure, why not? Bonnechhii's?"
A graceful gesture of the hand. "Lead on!"
Harsh laughter hurt Thyerri's throat. "You can't afford
a room on Upper Steachli. Dinner for two at Bonnechhii's
would buy you Minta's Place."
The rijhili's responsive chuckle sounded easy and unof-
fended. "Very good, my friend." Another step closer to
Thyerri. An extended hand. "Compromise?"
"No!" Thyerri stumbled back another half-step. Into
-.    stone.  Trapped.  His  heart  began  to  race.
"I'd honestly appreciate"
"I said, go away'." Thyerri's voice broke, as fear, and
cold, and panic took over.
The shadow leaned its head forward, as if trying to see
better. "How old are you?"
"As old as the hills. Go away!"
The shadow stopped encroaching, but it didn't go away
either.
"I'd be quite happy to oblige, but . . . well . . . Do you
know a place with good, inexpensive lodging?"
"If I did, I would be there, wouldn't I?"
"I don't know. Would you?" The shadow shrugged. "Ah,
well, I've no more time to waste. It's getting late, and
damned cold. Certainly wish I could find someone who
might give me a hand with this bag. Maybe guide me to a
place that won't steal from an honest man. There'd be a
double biilli in it. If you see such a person, tell them to
look for the . . . rijhili . . . wandering the streets like a
damn fool, will you?"
The damnfool rijili swung the bag about and began a
slow, slump-shouldered amble toward the leylights of the
street. Thyerri sighed, thinking of the offered prize that
meant meals for a week, and sighed again and knew he
intended to snatch the proffered bait.
~    8    <gt
"Here." The cold-husky voice arrived first, as Mikhyel
had reckoned it would, and a thin, cold hand closed on the
handle next to his. As their skin touched, he sensed a tin-
gling ripple of . . . what? Recognition? Certainly, that touch
carried an awareness similar to that sense he shared with
his brothers.
Startled, Mikhyel stopped short and stared at the hood-
shadowed face. The boy, or perhaps young man, as they
were nearly of a height, seemed similarly startled. His pale
eyes, the only feature visible within the shadow, went wide,
then narrowed and his cold fingers released the bag.
"Follow me," he muttered, and flowed down the street
with unnatural grace. Or perhaps the heavy cloak, draping
from his narrow shoulders, dragging a bit on the ground
behind him, made it seem unnatural to the imagination of
a man who'd just spent some untold hours with a creature
made of leythium and dressed in leythium lace.
He did know that keeping up with the boy required an
effort that challenged his chilling knees, particularly with
the added weight of the portmanteau. "Boy, wait! Please!"
The figure's halt was as graceful as its movement, and
the heavy cloak formed a sweeping curve up to the shad-
owed hood, as the boy twisted to watch him lumber up to
his side.
"Rijhili!" Again, that muttered epithet, which Mikhyel
needed no interpreter to fathom. But he had no guide other
than this proud local. Mother having landed him in an area
not covered on his mental map, and he could not afford to
take offense.
Besides, he could hardly ignore that moment of percep-
tion. He and his brothers were the not only ones with this
strange gift. Mirym, at least, shared itand Mirym was also
from Khoratum.
He wanted to learn more about this boy.
So when the boy stopped and nodded toward a doorway
beneath a carved and painted sign, Mikhyel urged him
come in with him, to share a meal at least. But the boy
refused, and when the hostler arrived in answer to his bell,
the boy disappeared, without demanding so much as a cop-
per pildic for his trouble.
Chapter Three

(Khyel? Mikhyel Rhomandi dunMheric, damn you, wake
up!;
Mikhyel groaned, and rolled upright, holding his head
against the throbbing pain of intrusive siblings.
Deymorin must have seen Ganfrion's letter.
{Damn right I saw it. Nikki, steady on, lad, no time to
lose your balance. Khyel, where the hell are you?}
He ground his palms against his eyes, trying to remem-
ber. {Khoratum . . . I think.}
{Think?}
He yawned and looked about the small room. Mountain
air flowed in through the window; the remains of a simple
supper covered the small (but sound) table; his razor and
comb . . . he recalled laying them out on a small vanity,
next to a perfectly adequate bowl and pitcher of clear,
sweet-tasting water. There was even (this room's particular
luxury) a small, private bath with running water.
Compared to the last prospect, it was the next best thing
to his own bedroom back in Rhomatum. Particularly the
mattress pressing up against his tired legs, a surprisingly
firm, lumpless haven his tired back had been busily con-
sulting only moments before.
"Deymorin," he moaned aloud. "I hate you."
{If you expect sympathy}
{Deymorin, shut up!}
Surprise. Anger. And a dash of laughter. It was a taste
of his brother increasingly familiar. But Deymorin shut up,
save for a distinct sense of waiting.
He could almost feel Deymorin's foot tapping.
Mikhyel swept the hair back off his face, then shoved
himself off the tempting mattress to splash cool water on
his face.
iNikki, are you there, too?}

{Yes. Are you really in Khoratum, Khyel?}
{Last time I looked.}

(How?} And a sense of confusion, of only three days

passed out of a seven-day trip. Three days. So, Mother, had
kept him only a day. But he wasn't about to get into that
explanation. Not with Nikki. Not at the moment. Nikki
would want to know about Mother, would want answers he
didn't have.
And Nikki, he noted with relief and no small brotherly
pride, didn't push for that explanation.
He broke a piece of bread off the loaf, and threw himself
down in the simple wooden chair. Simple, but it had a back,
unlike other rented chairs of recent acquaintance.
A backand stable. Luxury, indeed.
(All right, Deymio, get to it.}
It was nothing more than he'd expected the moment
Deymorin's anger shattered his dreams: Deymorin, suspi-
cious  and  anxious,  had  gone  to  meet  Mikhyel's
entourage.
{And why, brother, didn't you just get back to the coast?)
Mikhyel asked.
{The same reason you aren't where you're supposed to
be! Things have come up}
{Don't you dare blame my change of plans.)
{And don't you flatter yourself. It's under control,
thank you.)
{So am 1. Thank you.)
Long silence.
{He's got a point, Deymorin.)
Hesitant input from Nikki thattastedof real under-
standing. Mikhyel sent his younger brother heartfelt grati-
tude with all the power his throbbing head could generate,
and on a return pulse, like a hand fumbling in the dark to
stroke his hair, Nikki sent sympathy, and a desire for the
headache to go away.
A wish that threatened to suck his hold on consciousness
right out of him.
Mikhyel severed the attempt with a thought that felt as
if he clasped  that fumbling,  searching hand,  and  held  it
steady, but "free" of his head, and sent back to Nikki that
he was feeling much better now, thank you.
(You're  coddling  each  other.)  Deymorin's  thoughts
floated over their hands, more soothing, in his dry humor,
than Nikki's well-meant attempt had been.
[Yes,  I  am.  You  shouldn't  have  yelled  so  loud,
Deymorin.}
{And I'm supposed to know what it takes to wake him
up? Would you mind telling me how? Last time I tried)
Mikhyel laughed. {Forget it, both of you. I'm fine. I'm
more than fine. Deymorin, tell me you didn't kill
Ganfrion.}
{Kill him? I got him drunk. Poor man deserved at least
that.}
Ganfrion  and  Deymorin  allied.  Perhaps  he'd  best
concede.
(Bet on it! Don't move. I'll have Ganfrion take Nethaa-
lye and Kiyrstin back to Rhomatum. I'll gather some men
at Darhaven and}
{No! Dammit, Deymorin, don't you dare! I'm fine. If I
need help, I'll call. We know I can, now, and I'm promising
you I will. I'm in a good position to listen for a while, so
don't you dare foul things up for me by sending an army
out looking for me.)
{You sound as if you're enjoying this.}
He biinked into the near dark of the room, and realized,
{Yes. Yes, I am.}
A pause, during which he could almost see the room in
which Deymorin sat, the golden glow of a heating candle
beneath the amber sheen of brandy. {I can't stop Ganfrion,
you made certain of that.]
{He made certain.}
Laughter, that bounced off the walls of that far-distant
inn.
{That he did. I begin to comprehend your fascination
with the jail-bait. If I promise to leave you alone unless
you call, will you accept him bringing your men to within
spitting distance of Khoratum, for when and if you decide
to make a proper appearance in Rhyys' court?}
Or a fast escape. Mikhyel smiled into the empty room.
It was no less than he'd expected when he sent Ganfrion
off with Nethaalye.
And it was more. If Nikki was learning to think beyond
his own needs, Deymorin was learning the art of graceful
compromise.
{I'll go you one  better, Deymio.  I'll check in every"
He considered the promise he'd been about to make and
revised it on the fly. {"other night. Deal?)
(Deal!)
Chapter Four

He supposed some would call it charmingly old-fashioned,
this Node City perched precariously on a mountainside, just
below the timber line. Like something out of a Tamshi tale,
but sufficiently endowed with modern amenities for the dis-
comforts to be picturesque rather than annoying.
For Mikhyel dunMheric, it nourished a bit too much
squalor for the fantasy to overcome. Or perhaps, for some,
that was the fantasy, to know there were destitute folk on
the verge of starvation, and knowing you were not among
them, that a coin from your pocket could provide them one
more meal, or that same coin, mercifully withheld, could
expedite their sad, but unavoidable descent into the ley.
It was an arrogance to sicken the healthiest mind.
He could well understand, in retrospect, the young local's
antipathy toward him that first night. To that boy, Mikhyel
dunMheric had been just one more rich man giving a poor
hiller one more meal.
On this, the third day since Mother had transferred him
to the surface, Mikhyel drifted through a market that was
not the open stalls of Rhomatum, or the massive, covered
shopping complexes of Shatum, but cozy, enclosed single
units with carved and painted signs in place of flapping
banners.
Creatures roamed the streets apparently at will: goats,
sheep, chickens, even a loose pony or two, though from the
way quadruped ears pricked at the sound of certain voices,
he'd judge they rarely strayed far.
Wandering the outer perimeter streets, those areas of the
city farthest from the Tower complex and modern buildings
looming uphill, he grew accustomed to the local dialect,
learned to tell locals from those who had moved in with
the capping, from those newly-imported, and all from those
just-visiting.
A great number of the latter. And too many groups trav-
eling about in what appeared to be uniforms for a visiting
Rhomandi's piece of mind.
The common talk centered around the upcoming radical
dancer competition and the festivities surrounding it. One
might assume, even without Nethaalye's advisement, that
these guards, or at least their employers, were here for that
celebration. One might also assume that that influx of visi-
tors was quite normal: at least one shop owner, who carried
leather and fur garments produced by local hiller families,
said the week or so before a competition were always her
most profitable.
Considering the cold mountain winds that regularly crept
past Khoratum's weather perimeter, a man from the tem-
perate valley could well understand the popularity of her
merchandise among similarly thin-blooded visitors. He had,
himself, picked up a pair of fur-lined gloves.
One might assume the visitors here for the festival, were
it not for the fact that the advertisements for the event that
met him at every posting board carried Mikhyel dunMher-
ic's visage as well, and one might wonder why those signs
(apologetically) proclaimed the date of the competition as
subject to change depending on that particular dignitary's
schedule.
At no other node had his visit been made public
knowledge.
A suspicious man might think Rhyys wanted to make
certain the city was in maximum turmoil while Mikhyel
dunMheric was in Khoratum.
That suspicious man might also note that the portrait
used on the poster was one he'd never seen before and one
he had to examine twice before recognizing himself. Not a
face he'd be inclined to trust, and that suspicious man had
to wonder what Rhyys intended, whether that unapproach-
able Rhomandi was a purposeful representation . . . or sim-
ply substandard artwork.
He'd never particularly cared for Rhyys. Rhyys, like
Lidye, had been Anheliaa's personal choice for the new
node's first ringmaster. And Rhyys, like Lidye, had always
pandered, to Mikhyel's way of thinking, to Anheliaa's
worst egotisms.
But so might some say of Mikhyel dunMheric.
For all he knew, Rhyys had been as much Anheliaa's
pawn as Lidyeand as Mikhyel himself had been. Perhaps,
like Lidye, now that Anheliaa was dead, Rhyys was finally
free to think his own thoughts.
It was possible Rhyys was as distrustful of Mikhyel as
Mikhyel was of him. He could be gathering reinforcements,
thinking Mikhyel dunMheric was on the way to Khoratum
to disinherit him. Possibly Rhyys believed Mikhyel blamed
him for the Collapse in the web.
And if Rhyys was indeed gathering the Northern Cres-
cent leaders to create a unified agenda, Mikhyel dunMheric
wasn't necessarily adverse to that. It rather well depended
on what the Khoratum ringmaster's intentions were in cre-
ating that union.
Sunset caught him by surprise, coming early and with
startling rapidity as the sun ducked behind the hills. One of
those cold mountain breezes wriggling past Rhyys' weather
perimeter set his teeth to chattering, and he ducked into
the nearest tavern, just as thunder grumbled in the distance.
He lifted three fingers to the bartender, the mountain
sign (so Deymorin had assured him during last night's con-
ference) for the reputation-at-stake homebrew, and settled
into a corner booth from which he could watch the patrons
without himself drawing notice.
The tavern had a curiously elusive ambience. Not at all
like Rosie's but equally unlike any of the restaurants of
Rhomatum he had patronized. If he sought a word to de-
scribe it, and for that matter, all of this older district of
Khoratum, he supposed that word would be innocent.
But the frightening innocence of a child toddling
among wolves.
As a town, let alone a node city, Khoratum was young,
not far removed from a tiny village community. Those na-
tives still living here radiated a trust that could frighten a
man not inclined to take advantage of them.
And attract those who were.
Even those who must have learned otherwiselike the
young alley-rat who had greeted him upon his arrival, or
the owner of the small hotel who had refused to take more
than a single night's rent in advanceseemed determined
to make each individual prove himself unworthy of that
trust.
A double-edged sword of righteousness that could only
hurt the innocent wielder. No matter how wrong it was,
how essentially unfair, the unscrupulous would never truly
be hurt. The honor, the self-respect that was gold to such
as that boy in the alley was so much sand to the ruthless.
At the moment, the vast majority of Khoratumin power
and wealth resided in foreign node hands. Mostly it was in
the hands of those Northern Crescent businessmen who
complained of the Southern Crescent's tendency to take
advantage of their trusting natures.
Khoratum must grow up and take care of its own inter-
ests. The Northern Crescent in general must care for theirs.
Not by power of arms, not by crying foul and creating laws
to punish those who preyed, but by realizing that, fair or
not, their world was now larger than their own small com-
munity and that they must learn to protect themselves,
rather than expect the wolves not to hunt.
On the other hand, while encouraging the young states
to grow up, the Syndicate, in fairness and self-protection,
should help ease that transitionfor both sides. Every node
in the Rhomatum Web had benefited from the capping of
Khoratum. (Even Shatum, for all certain factions would like
to see the case otherwise.) They owed their child at least
the time to reach maturity.
Somehow, he doubted these were quite the insights the
Syndics had hoped he'd gain when they demanded this
tour.
Thunder again, and lightning. .Moments later, rain de-
scended in large, very loud, wind-driven drops. They were
on the perimeter here, and the storm seemed practically
atop them.
He'd never been this exposed before, not to a true, natu-
ral storm, and for one insane instant, as the drenching
stream flowed down the windows, he had the strangest in-
clination to run outside into that storm and let those drops
pummel his body.
Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
A young man came over and set a mug on the table.
Like the other servers in this tavern he was a local, one of
the natives from before the capping. A high-cheekboned
face, naturally beard-free, small, to a Rhomatumin's eye,
and slight, dark, almost black hair . . . Mikhyel could well
understand the mistake the inmates of Sparingate Crypt
had made regarding his own origins.
"That'll be ten p, sir," the serving boy said, his voice
low, diffident.
When Mikhyel asked for an open tab, the fellow bit his
lip, looked over at the owner behind the bar, whose atten-
tion was elsewhere, nodded, and left.
Too late, Mikhyel wondered if the lad had understood
him.
Among themselves, the servers spoke the native dialect
that was so deceptively similar to the language of Mauris-
lan, which all the descendants of the Exodus spoke. The
two languages were similar enough that a Rhomatumin
could believe them the same, once long ago; similar enough
that, if said Rhomatumin didn't really work at listening, he
could convince himself he understood every worduntil he
tried to respond, and realized he had no idea what the
hiller had just asked.
He took a cautious sip from the mug, and discovered the
ale more drinkable than most, which was something of a
relief, as (according to Deymorin) a man did not, in the
hills, order anything less potent.
Of the patrons he could see, most were male, all, from
their dress and accents, from the Northern Crescent. And
most wore uniforms. Evidently he'd happened on an upper-
common meeting spot: too rich for the locals, not good
enough for the masters.
The sole nonmartial group were all on the adolescent
side of twenty, and evinced the capacity to become mem-
bers of a mindless mob. As happened, there were only a
handful of them, thus their failure to attain mob status
here, but if a mob were in the making, they'd be certain
to join in.
They had the look and sound of Giephaetum. Possibly
offspring of those who had come in to help settle the new
city.  More  likely they were just  visitors, attachments  to
those personages flooding upper Khoratum. They were of-
fensively out of place here, with their rude handling of the
slight-bodied servers and their loudly voiced opinions about
hill-folk and Khoratum and the mountains in general.
One, not the eldest, he would judge, but the largest, pro-
vided the thinking, such as they could handle. The rest were
nodders, those who would endorse whatever the thinker
thoughtso long as that thought wasn't too challenging.
It was a pattern he recognized well, and one hardly lim-
ited to the young of Giephaetum. He'd seen it often enough
in the lobbies outside the Rhomatum Council Hall.
The mob's rather pretty waitress teased and taunted
them, seemingly in full control, and flaunting her unavail-
ability in their faces. The more frustrated they became, the
more outrageously she flirted. It remained in tolerably good
humor, but to Mikhyel's way of thinking, no good could
come of it.
As the waitress swayed her way back toward the kitchen,
another employee, an exceedingly slender young woman,
emerged. She was carrying a closed container of some ap-
parent weight, and moved through the room like a pale
shadow, eyes downcast, her face hidden behind a fall of
dark hair that lightened toward the ends as if bleached in
last summer's sun.
The leader of the would-be mob, bored without his wait-
ress to harass, grabbed as she passed. A smooth sideslip
foiled the attempt, and she was beyond range before he
could do more than curse at her.
Without so much as lifting her head, she aimed for the
side door near Mikhyel's table. Mikhyel reached the door
before her, and swung it open, then stepped back to let her
pass. Pale eyes flickered up at him through a veil of sweat-
streaked hair.
Up, but most of that height difference came from the
bend of her body around the large container.
"May I help you?" he asked.
She biinked, long lashes tangling in that shaded hair, then
looked toward the owner, polishing glasses behind the bar,
and shook her head. Mikhyel bowed slightly and returned
to his table. Moments later, she returned, the container
notably lighter, the rope handle suspended now from one
slender hand.
He smiled at her, but that hair remained a veil between
herself and the world and he had no idea if she noticed.
Though dressed in hiller clothing, she was tallish for a
hillerwhich still meant below average height for a Rho-
matumin: Lower Khoratum was the first place Mikhyel had
ever felt tall. Her extremely slender build, which seemed
natural as opposed to emaciation, enhanced her apparent
height.
Perhaps it was that build that made her every movement,
as she made her way back to the kitchen, almost mesmeriz-
ing in its grace. Curiosity piqued, Mikhyel raised his hand
for another ale, and caught the serving lad's eye to order
supper, intending now to stay.
Musicians arrived: guitar, lute, drummer, and a flautist
whose face and hands were so badly scarred, Mikhyel won-
dered whether the instrument belonged to another. But the
lute player smoothed a clear ointment over the scars, and
the flautist flexed lips and hands, and tried a few practice
runs which slowly gained confidence and speed.
He stopped for another coating, and tried again.
The young woman came out from the kitchen, carrying
a bowl and a pewter mug, and slid into a small, dark nook,
where she would be invisible to the majority in the room.
But not to Mikhyel. He wondered, briefly, if that excep-
tion was conscious, decided it was personal vanityhis
wishing she'd noticed him, and if she was oblivious to his
interest.
She ate and drank slowly, with the care and attention a
connoisseur would grant marsh chicken and fine wine. Only
the thin, shaking hand that lifted the spoon betrayed how
rare that meal might be.
His ale arrived, and the bowl of stew. Mikhyel paid the
announced price plus ten, which generosity got him a sly
sizing, then a politely eager, "Thankee, sir." But he never
took his attention from that dark little booth.
The music began, guitar and lute first.
The young woman paused in her meal, folded her hands
quietly in her lap. When the flute began to ripple among
the strings, her head swayed and dropped forward, her rag-
gedly cropped hair once again masking her expression.
She lifted her napkin to her lips, folded it carefully, and
left it on the table before she headed for the door.
Taken by surprise, as he was certain she had yet to finish,
he sought another bite of the stew, and washed it down
with the ale, torn between the desire to follow her, and the
sure knowledge he was being a fool.
"I said, let me by!"
Anger set uncomfortably on the musical voice. The
young woman had been cornered near the main door by
the handful of Giephaetumin, and the oversized leader was
forcing her into an empty booth.
Mikhyel was outraged. The other patrons, either truly or
selectively deaf, had evidently chosen to ignore the assault
taking place. But even as he ached for the young woman
and wondered what he could possibly do that wouldn't
bring extremely unwelcome attention to himself, the young
woman brushed the groping hands aside, darted like quick-
silver through the huddle closing in around her, and slipped
out the door, the ill-mannered pack hot on her trail.
The music never even faltered, the conversations about
the room never paused. It was all Mikhyel could do not to
stand up and demand an explanation. Instead, he drained
the ale, nodded his approval to the owner, and followed as
unobtrusively as possible.
They'd disappeared by the time he reached the evening-
quiet street, but he heard them, and he followed that laugh-
ter and the hissed objections into a twilight-shadowed alley-
way. There, under dripping eaves, they had the girl
facedown in the mud; two were holding her captive, the
leader was standing over her, his breeches half-pulled.
The pack had, however, suffered in the pursuit. Two
bleeding lips that he could see, one out cold, and another
rolling in a puddle and moaning.
"Here, constable," Mikhyel called with all the force in
his lungs, and waved his hands wildly at his fictitious law-
keeping authority, deliberately choosing the Giephaetumin
term. "I told you there was trouble. Hurry!"
The pack froze, the leader half-turned, his face twisted
in disbelief.
The young woman rolled, curled, and struck. Her heel
contacted its delicate and highly exposed target in a light-
ning fast snap; the leader howled. A second snap flipped
her feet over her head in a roll that had her free in one
moment, and at Mikhyel's side in the next.
The now-mindless ruffians scattered, as they were able.
The staggering leader disappeared between two buildings,
at least one companion close on his heels. Two others shuf-
fled away, dragging their semiconscious companion.
The young woman made a fast, down-the-street assess-
ment that undoubtedly took in the lack of impending aid,
and a second that assessed him. Then, she snorted and
dodged awayafter the group's leader.
With a swallowed curse, Mikhyel ran after her, caught
her when she had to pause at a branching and seized her
arm, holding her despite her protests.
Her hair hung in mud-soaked rattails, the simple wrap-
around shirt hung loose on one side, pulled nearly free of
the strip of ragged cloth that acted as a sash, exposing a
heaving chest and one practically nonexistent breast. Poor
skinny thing was not exactly the sort one would expect to
find on the receiving end of such a group activity.
In the next moment, all thoughts of her physical attrac-
tions vanished as through that hold on her elbow, and for
the second time since arriving in Khoratum, he had that
sense  of awareness,  of almost-recognition.  This  time,
clearer-headed, he blocked it off the instant he suspected
it: the last complication he needed was some local recogniz-
ing him.
Still, he wondered where he could he have met her, then
knew that he had not. He'd never have forgotten such
haunted eyes.
"Let me go," the girl spat, breaking the silence, and
those haunted and haunting eyes narrowed in anger. She
jerked her arm, trying to pull free.
"Let the law handle it, mistress, please."
"Mistress." Her eyes scanned him. "Like that, is it? Well,
the law doesn't exist for me, rijhili. And no one challenges
that lot."
"You know them?"
"The leader . . . he's Giebhaidii."
Giebhaidii. Nethaalye's family. Mikhyel no longer won-
dered at the selective deafness in the tavern.
"They've threatened me before," the young woman con-
tinued, "but this was the first time they followed. Now I
have to take care of it myself, if tomorrow's not to be a
repetition of today, and that means making that berinjhili
useless for a month."
Berinjhilithe mountain equivalent of bastard, but it im-
plied much about the recipient's genitalia as well. He'd
learned any number of useful bits from Deymorin last
night. Bits not found anywhere in Nikki's notes.
He controlled a smile. "I think you probably took care
of his love life for the next year."
"Rakshi should be so kind." She shivered, and the elbow
in his relaxed hold jerked free.
"Where's your home?" he asked. "Would you like me
to see you there?"
"You? What good would you be, you who can do noth-
ing more than call for nonexistent authorities?"
She tugged her shirt into alignment and stormed past
him, bound for the main street. But she was shaken, the
blindest man could see that, and limping.
"Mistress, please wait."
Her steps never faltered. Feeling a fool, he chased after
her, fell into step beside her and pulled out his purse, wish-
ing he'd brought more with him.
"Here."
He held it out to her, received the briefest, disdainful
glance.
"At least let me buy you a decent meal."
"Then what? What about tomorrow? Or the next day?
or the next? My stomach knows its allowance. I'll not lie
to it to satisfy your altruistic-deed-for-the-day quota."
He lifted the purse. "There's enough here to satisfy your
stomach for a month."
She plucked it from his hold, bounced it lightly in her
hand. "At least a year, valley-man." She tossed it back at
him, not looking to see if he caught it.
Not caring.
"Dammit, girl." He grabbed her arm and planted his
feet, forcing her to stop and face him. "I'm not the one
who attacked you. I'm sorry everyone in there ignored what
was happening to you. I didn't know why. I don't know
why. I don't care. I'm just trying to help someone who
doesn't seem to deserve the fate she's been handed. Ex-
plain, if you will, how that makes me the villain?"
Her eyes raked him up and down.
"In return for what, you who call me 'mistress.' "
"Nothing. "
"You see? Even to yourself, you lie, You offer because
it makes you feel superior to think you can help one of us.
Our lives were so meager before you arrived."
He winced, hearing his own evaluation of the situation
here applied once again and so ruthlessly to his own
actions.
"Well, fuck you!" she hissed, using the lowest, com-
monest of those words Deymorin's mind had supplied. "I'm
not your mistress! I'm nobody's mistress!"
And in one smooth motion, she whipped around, pulling
free and flinging a bare foot in his direction. But her ex-
hausted reflexes robbed the move of its earlier snap. He
stepped back, caught the flying foot, sending her off-
balance, released the foot for her wrist and, flung an arm
around her tiny waist to keep her upright.
He meticulously released her the instant her balance was
back, but not before he felt the chill permeating her thin
body.
"Please, come back to my rooms with me." He held up
a hand to stop her protest. "Just to get warm. And a small
meal. I'll not lay another hand on you. I certainly won't
force you. Not here, not in my room. But I assure you, I've
no designs on your virtue. I'm just protecting myself."
She frowned suspiciously. "How?"
"I'll not get any sleep for the rest of my stay wondering
what happened to you."
Her eyes dropped, her head angled down and away, and
the thick fall of muddy hair obscured any expression.
"My room has a private bath," he persisted, sensing a
weakening resolve.
With a faint hint of laughter edging her voice, she asked:
"Who are you, lowlander, and where are you from, that
you persist so?"
"Who? I My name's Mikhyel." The truth was out be-
fore he remembered, and once committed, he realized that,
deep within, he wanted no lies between them. "I'm from
Rhomatum."
She stared at him a moment. Then took a step closer,
and stared, and laughed again, a heart-lurching, half-sob-
bing sound. "Well, who am I to say no to Mikhyel of
Rhomatum?"
Despite her brave front, the young woman was stumbling
with exhaustion by the time they reached his rented room.
The manager looked at him strangely when he requested a
cot and more towels, but didn't question his personal addi-
tion to his room's . . . accoutrements.
At least not to his face. The rumors would undoubtedly
be flying by morningbut nothing more than Korelli dun-
Kharin's reputation could handle.
"Bath?" he asked, when they'd reached the room.
The young woman, standing in the middle of the room,
arms wrapped around her, nodded, and in a tiny voice an-
swered: "Please."
The claustrophobic bath cubical contained only a footed
tub, a simple drying tube, and the towel-warmer. Hardly
the private pool he had at home, but it had running water
and a door with a lock. For the young woman waiting out-
side on legs that could barely keep her upright, it meant
privacy, warmth, and an end to the mud in her hair and
clothing, and he doubted she'd seen better.
At least, not recently. Before . . . as with Ganfrion, he
didn't think she'd been born to her current lifestyle. She
had about her the air of survival, not acceptance.
On his return, he discovered the cot had arrived along
with a maid bearing extra towels and a voluminous robe.
Older, with a plump, motherly face that smiled at the world
in general, the maid hustled about the room, changing the
sheets on the cot, then into the bath. She emerged and
pronounced the room ready whenever Miss desired, and if
Miss would just hand out her clothes, she'd see they were
washed and ready by morning.
"Miss will damnwell see to miss' self," was the hissed
response.
The maid nodded calmly and went off to see to the din-
ner for two Mikhyel had requested. The moment the door
closed behind her, Mikhyel hissed back, "That was unkind
and unnecessary! Act however you like to me, but"
"Oh, shut up," she said wearily, and she slipped into the
bathing room. "I'm already sorry enough."
"I'll tell her."
"Not just her. For agreeing to come here in the first
place." She turned and leaned her head against the door-
frame, and she looked so sad and weary he was hard put
not to take her into his arms . . .
As he would a child. Or one of his brothers, he assured
his conscience.
"I'll use your bath, and thank you sincerely for the op-
portunity, Mikhyel of Rhomatum, but then I'll leave. I've
no wish to abuse your hospitality."
"That's not necessary. I didn't bring you here to . . ."
And then he wondered exactly why he had brought her
here. It seemed quite probable that she had a home and
family far safer than a stranger's rental rooms.
But she wanted the bath, and considering her lack of real
resistance to accompanying him here, Mikhyel suspected
that she, like the boy who had met him that first night,
spent her nights in those shadowed alleys.
She smiled, though that stretch of lips failed to wipe the
sadness away, and wilted backward, closing the door softly
between them.
And slid the bolt to. Noisily.
Food arrived before the bolt slid back again, simple fare
of cheese, fruit, and bread, with a pleasant, local wine. But
the young woman, in an opinion stated through the closed
door, adamantly refused to join him.
Wisdom of experience, he supposed recalling her earlier
protests regarding her stomach and lies, but still Mikhyel
found himself unable to swallow. She was going to finish
her bath and leave, and nothing he could say would stop
her.
He was a fool to care, but some part of him had assumed
responsibility for her the first time their eyes met. Collect-
ing stray dogs, Deymorin would say. Habits of a lifetime,
his own logic mocked.
Something deeper said neither Deymorin nor logic had
the right of it. He wanted her to stay to proveto himself
as well as herthat he was not the . . . rijhli she and the
boy accused him of being.
Inside the bathing room, she'd begun, from the sounds,
to dry her hair in the warm pressurized air flowing up from
the heating caves, the final luxury of this unpretentious
room. But that shoulder-length mass, thick as it was,
shouldn't take as long to dry as she spent, and he wasn't
surprised when she emerged dressed in clothing stained and
wrinkled, but overall clean and mostly dry.
She stood just inside the room, pleating her hem between
nervous fingertips. "I want to thank you, Mikhyel of Rho-
matum. I know you didn't intend me any harm, and I want
you to understand my leaving is not because I don't trust
your word or your honor. Unfortunately, if I stay here, I'll
bring trouble on you, and I don't want that to happen. So,
thank you, and fare"
"Well? I don't think that's possible, if I let you leave
like this."
He'd stood when she entered, wineglass forgotten in his
hand. He set the glass down, and crossed to stand in front
of her, cupped her chin in his hand and raised it, until she
relented and met his gaze.
At this close range, her eyes took on a familiar cast; the
gray, like his own eyes, was streaked with a tiny webwork
of spring-green. Unlike his, hers held a melancholy, a wild,
tender innocence.
He was more loath than ever to condemn her again to
the streets.
"Please, stay here tonight," he said. "You'll have the bed
to yourself, and I'll not come near you. I've . . . not much
appetite for such activity under the best of circumstances,
and my health lately has not been the best, which leaves
me with little energy to spare. Certainly none for such . . .
athletic endeavors."
Her uncertain look deepened.
"I just want to know you're safe for tonight, child. That
you've not taken ill from their treatment, and that you've
had one good night's sleep before I send you out to face
those ill-mannered street-scum again. I wish I could con-
vince you to eat something . . ." He looked suggestively
toward the small table, had the satisfaction of seeing those
fine eyes blink away dampness, and the mouth quiver with
obvious desire. "Please?"
Her hands clenched white-knuckled on the pleats. Then
her shoulders dropped, and the wrinkled hem fell free. She
edged over to the table, and lifted a small apple with hands
that shook pitifully to a mouth that forced itself to take
just one small bite. Long-lashed lids obscured her haunting
eyes as she chewed and swallowed deliberately.
Another small bite, similarly savored.
Then the eyes opened wide and her head dipped as
though a decision had been reached.
"All right. But just tonight. And you take the bed."
"But"
"It's not negotiable, Rhomatum. Argue, and your con-
science can find another cure."
He found a smile happening from some devilish person
inside him. "But you've already eaten my apple."
"So I have." She dug in her sash, surfaced with a tiny
packet, a many-folded strip of cloth. Producing a coin from
within this makeshift purse, she laid it on the table, and,
chin determinedly thrust out, surveyed the rest of the meal,
and wrapped a loaf and sizable chunk of cheese into a
napkin, tied the corners and tucked it as well through the
rag-belt. "I think you come out somewhat ahead. Barris-
ter." She brushed past him, reaching for the door.
All altogether different internal devil grabbed her elbow
and forced her around.
"What did you call me?"
"Barrister? You are, aren't you, Mikhyel dunMheric?"
"Yes, but . . ." Only after a fashion. And no one called
him that except Deymorin. "How long have you known?"
She shrugged. "Your picture's posted all over. I suppose
your clean-shaven face might throw some in passing, and
you're early . . ." She shrugged again. But the memory of
that sense of something that had passed between them
when they first touched, flared anew.
"Why didn't you say something before now?" he asked.
"Who am I to interfere with the whims of the rich?"
And yet, she'd not called him dunMhericnot first.
She'd called him Barrister. How could this starved waif
know...
But, of course, she couldn't. And the challenge in her
eyes was just that. He picked up the coin, tucked it in her
belt when she wouldn't take it.
Ignoring her, he stripped, as freely as if she weren't
standing in the room, put on his sleeping shirt, and re-
treated to the bed.
"Get the light before you go to bed, will you?" he said,
and turned to face the wall, striving for sleep he by no
means wanted. He tried, and failed, to ignore the sigh and
the rustle of blankets.
And when the muffled sobs began, he was quite irrevoca-
bly awake.
The quiet sobs continued long after consciousness had
left them, became the lonely sounds of a lost and lonely
child. A child too tired to stay awake, too frightened to
truly sleep. Sounds that cut deeply into the memory of
Mheric Rhomandi's child.
And Mheric Rhomandi's child knew he could not leave
that loneliness unanswered.
Mikhyel laid back the covers and crossed to the shadowy
corner where the young woman had curled under a single
blanket, scorning the cot. Evidently she was not of a mind
to lie to her bones and muscle any more than to her
abused stomach.
". . . home, Mother . . ." A shaking, sleep-muffled whim-
per rose from the shadow. "Let me come"
He knelt beside her, and the mutter ended in a swal-
lowed exclamation. A moment later, the shadowed profile
turned, burying itself in the pillowing arm, the other hand
tucked up under, and the shoulders shook with soul-deep,
fully conscious sobs.
"Mistress," Mikhyel whispered, and touched her shoul-
der ever-so-lightly. "Please, let me help you."
Her shoulder stiffened. Her hidden hand appeared to
brush his touch away.
There were teeth marks, oozing blood, on her wrist, at-
tempts at control Mheric Rhomandi's child also recognized.
"Oh, child." Disregarding her protests, he pulled her up
and into his arms, was unspeakably relieved when, despite
her verbal protests, her arms wrapped around his waist,
holding onto him as a drowning swimmer would clutch a
floating log.
Every muscle was tight as a drumhead, and she felt as if
she were frozen through. Reaction, he was certain: it wasn't
that cold in the room.
He tried to lift her, found his strength, never outstanding,
utterly inadequate for the task and had to admit, humili-
ated: "You'll have to walk, child. I'm sorry."
She nodded wearily against his neck. Once on her feet,
she startled him by turning toward the door, startled him
more when she didn't object at having that course angled
toward the bed.
And the ultimate surprise: once in bed, she pulled him
to her and kissed him, a fluttering, uncertain brush of lips,
then tucked her face, damp with tears, against his neck
while her hands moved blindly to his shirt buttons.
"No, child, that's not"
"No?" And her hand traveled lower, touched him where
his body gave lie to his protest.
"Never mind that," he said firmly, and gently removed
her hand, hating his body for its betrayal, disgusted that it
could find anything exciting in the current situation. "My
head's firmly in control, and I've no wish to have a relation-
ship of that nature with a woman whose name I don't
know. Especially one I'm trying very hard to protect from
such a fate."
"Hardly matters now, anyway."
Which made little sense to him, but he didn't ask. She
sighed and curled into him, pent-up sobs still very much
alive within her tense body, however silent. Tense, hard . . .
strong. Her slender body had no sharp corners, but a sleek
covering of solid muscle.
Such a body was no accident. Hard work had created it,
and hard work kept it. He recalled a night in the Crypt
with Deymorin's arm about him, a sense of Deymorin in
his head, and Deymorin's dismay at his brother's bony
shoulders,  and  was  embarrassed  to  have  her  touch
him . . . anywhere.
She was blinking up at him again, her brow tight, and
her long-fingered, work-roughened hand touched his jaw.
"S-so, payment pending, Barrister?"
He forced a smile. "Not at all, child. Icheated you.
I promised an undisturbed night. So far, I've failed quite
miserably. You've every right to stay until I get it right."
Her head tucked back down, and a ripple passed through
her body.
"And if you don't?"
He barely caught the tiny whisper.
"I suppose I'd be stuck with you for life."
One of those sobs escaped, and he rocked her gently,
patting her back, the way Raulind had once done for him,
and he wished, just for the moment, that it were possible.
They were, he would judge, much of an age, although
she could be anywhere between seventeen and twice that,
but she was like all of Khoratum: an innocent's ability to
trust lurking behind a facade of maturity. She deserved, at
least once, not to have that trust betrayed.
He'd adopt her in an instant, if she'd have it.
But she had family somewhere. A mother, at least. One
she wanted very much to be with. Perhaps, somehow, he
might be able to reunite them. Which led him to wonder
what so young a woman could possibly have done to war-
rant such a hideous exile, wondered if she had sold herself,
and whether her determination to avoid him might not
have to do with her ability to return home.
A soft mutter against his chest.
He drew back, and she looked up at him, her eyes seem-
ing to glow with an inner fire, though logic said it was only
the light filtering in from the streetlamp.
"Did you say something?" he whispered.
"T-Temorii, Khy," she said, and suddenly it was he who
shook with suppressed emotion. "My name is Temorii."
Interlude

Mother laughed. And the sound shivered among the infinity
of leythium stars. One star, among all the others, shim-
mered with renewed joy.
She was awake, now, as she hadn't been for far too long.
Awake and able to enjoy her children.
All her children.
The newest pattern neared completion, and Mother,
though she could read its destiny if such was her desire,
enjoyed the suspense of wondering, savored the sense of
danger.
For within its intricate webbing her own fate lay waiting.
Chapter Five '

Kiyrstin rolled in his arms and pressed her backside against
his lazy, early morning erection, and arched backward as
his hands sought her familiar curves.
She'd lost weight, was his first, marginally coherent
thought, and without opening his eyes, and at the same lazy
pace, he explored more fully.
Slender, hard-muscled, ribs his fingers could count
And flat-chested.
His second thought was: Kiyrstin was in Rhomatum. He
was not.
His third thought was: Kiyrstin is going to kill me.
~ ~ 8
fKhyet? Khyell If you love me, wake up and tell me
you're with a woman!)
{I'm with a woman,} Mikhyel answered, out of love, then
realized, when the pillow he bugged to his chest squeaked
and protested, that he told Deymorin nothing but the truth.
Relief, and a sense of brotherly surprise echoed from the
distance, and Deymorin sent back a hazy, (Have fun . . .}
and drifted away.
Meanwhile, the young womanTemorii, he recalled the
name with mixed emotionsflopped about, precarious ac-
tivity on the narrow bed, but settled as soon as she again
faced him, having somehow, in the miracles of sleeper's
survival, managed to turn away during the night.
Have fun, Deymorin had so blithely advised.
He supposed that his actions last night, what he did now,
as he eased her into comfort and safety against him, did
constitute fun, though not, perhaps, the fun Deymorin pro-
posed. Together, he and Temorii had also, however inad-
vertently, paid his brother back for all those disturbed
nights back in Shatum.
He balanced Temorii against him, pressed his back to
the wall to give her as much room as possible, and let his
mind wander aimlessly, taking unabashed pleasure in the
feel of her body against his.
That she was asleep, he had no doubt in his mind. That
it was a restless sleep became increasingly clear. Her hands
slithered around him, and her body began to ripple against
his in a rhythmic sway he could in no fashion blame on a
search for warmth. Any doubts he retained vanished when
her leg slid over him to draw them still closer together. Her
face buried in his neck as her body strained against him.
Dreams, he told himself, there in the faint glow of dawn,
and as his own blood began to race. Dreams of the sort that
Deymorin had and that occasionally plagued his own sleep.
Morning dreams, he reminded himself fiercely, as her
movements sparked answering ripples through his own ner-
vous system, and he held himself quiet, certain that, should
he awaken her, she'd be mortally embarrassed.
Hell, he would be, he thought in personal disgust. But
he fought his own response to morning and her wanton,
but painfully innocent actions, shifted to keep her from
encountering the manifestation of his losing battle until, as
he hoped it would, her nature-drivenand blindneed
eased, and she relaxed in his arms.
His legs and shirt were damp, but it had gone no further
than that, for all he could wish nature had spared them
both. With luck, she'd sleep soundly yet a time, and awake
none the wiser.
For himself . . . he wished she'd not been asleep, and in
that admission, he abandoned all thoughts of adoption.
A groan, and a shift of the narrow mattress pulled Mi-
khyel up out of a comfortable doze.
Temorii sat on the side of the bed, holding her head with
all the unequivocal signs of an eye-crossing headache. Not
a hangovershe'd had nothing to drink last night, but con-
sidering the pent-up emotion, the tension in her body as
she'd fallen asleep, not to mention the awkward-for-two
bed, he wasn't surprised.
"I suppose 'Good morning' is not in particularly good
taste," Mikhyel murmured. "Stay still. I've just the thing,
being prone to them myself."
He eased himself along the wall to escape the bed with-
out disturbing her, got the pill box from his bag, and
poured her a glass of water from the pitcher. When he
- turned to face her, she was staring at him.
In horror.
But not at his face.
He didn't have to ask what was wrong. Didn't have to
look down at his clothing to know what she saw.
"Nothing happened, Temorii. I promise you, nothing
happened."
Her luminous eyes lifted to stare blankly, as if she didn't
even remember coming here or ever having seen him be-
fore. Then, she stood, slowly, looked down at the bed, and
with a wordless cry, ran from the room.
8 8 ~
"Temorii?"
It was a hushed call, imperative, yet discreet, and dun-
Mheric ran halfway down the alley, then stopped, panting
heavily.
Thyerri edged farther into the shadow, pulling the cloak's
folds in, trying to ignore his empty gut that twisted painfully
this morning.
Precision elegance would not describe Mikhyel dun-
Mheric this morning, but striking, with his raven's wing hair
hanging loose, his bare throat rising from a hastily buttoned
shirt . . . Yes, striking covered his appearance quite well.
"Dammit, girl" The Rhomatumin's voice broke on the
soft curse.
Thyerri supposed he should make himself known, should
tell dunMheric where the girl he sought had gone, but Thy-
erri was embarrassed not to have recognized dunMheric
right from the start. Of course the posters, with the beard
and the grim expression, had not done the Rhomatumin
justice, and over the weeks, that image had overpowered
hazy memory.
Except for the eyes. And now, in the early morning light,
those Tamshi eyes that had haunted Thyerri's dreams for
weeks searched for the young woman who had run down
this alley moments before.
The Rhomatumin's shoulders slumped, he searched the
shadows a final, hopeless time, and turned slowly. His pain,
his fear permeated the very air, even to Thyerri's dead-
ened senses.
Thyerri sighed, knowing himself a fool, and stepped free
of the shadows.
"Khy?" He called softly, using the mountain diminutive
of the Rhomatumin's mountain name, helping, should any
be watching, to keep dunMheric's secret.
"Tern?" DunMheric whirled, .saw him, and paused.
Thyerri pulled the hood more closely around his face.
"I'm" Thyerri's protest was smothered as dunMheric's
arms closed about him, and dunMheric's lips closed on his,
and for a startled moment, the cursed dream returned, full
force, and Thyerri returned the kisses with a passion that
at once thrilled and terrified him.
"Is this what you want, Khy?" he whispered on the heels
of that terror, kissing the Rhomatumin mouth, eyes, the
Rhomatumin throat, trying to remember who this man was,
what he had done, why he must be here, and what he would
do to Temorii, striving for indignation to force his reeling
emotions back into control. "Is this? And this?"
"Oh, dear gods . . . " DunMheric's groan rippled down Thy-
erri's throat, past his cramping gut, all the way to his toes. And
dunMheric pulled his mouth away to press Thyerri tightly to
him. "Tern, I'm sorry, whatever I did . . . I'm. . ."
Mikhyel dunMheric's pain and guilt broke the spell be-
tween them, succeeding where Thyerri's own methods had
failed. He shook himself free of dunMheric's arms, though
he could not free himself entirely of dunMheric's insidi-
ous attraction.
"Sorry, Khy?" He flipped the hood back up over his
head to conceal his own uncertain expression, and from
within its concealing shadows said, with forced indifference:
"Oh, you are cruel."
"Cruel?" DunMheric, for all his hands lifted, seemingly
inclined to reach of their own will, didn't pursue Thyerri's
retreat. Instead, breathing harder than ever, in an admira-
ble fight of his own, he clenched his fists and forced his
hands to his sides.
At least, it would be admirable if Thyerri were inclined
to be generous.
Which he was not. In point of fact, Thyerri, at that mo-
ment, could wish Mikhyel duuMheric dead and buried,
farvery farfrom Khoratum. Thyerri had found the
source of his dreams, and traced his own internal subver-
sion directly to that damnable poster's first appearance out-
side Bharlori's Tavern.
And if Temorii weren't careful, this Rhomatumin, with his
Tamshi eyes and hot rijhili blood, would do the same to her.
"Who?" dunMheric asked when he seemed to have him-
self under control. He tipped his head, trying to see Thy-
erri's face beneath the hood. The black hair slid forward
in a silken wave. "Rings." He turned his head, hiding his
face in that black silk. "You're the lad who helped me that
first night, aren't you?"
Aloof. Embarrassed.
"Obviously," Thyerri responded, "you believed other-
wise."
"Obviously." DunMheric's narrow shoulders heaved be-
neath his dark coat, and his head came up, though he still
didn't really look at Thyerri. "My extreme apologies."
Thyerri dipped his chin.
"What . . ." dunMheric began, seemed to reconsider,
then repeated: "What did you mean, I'm cruel? You, who
allowed me to believe you were someone else?"
Tempting, to let him wonder, to let him suffer as he'd
caused others to suffer. But he hadn't known. And who
could imagine the confusion that must dwell within a rijhili
with Tamshi eyes.
But to explain . . . Bharlo hadn't understood. Rhyys
mocked. How could a rijhili possibly understand?
"The girl you followed? The girl you would maul so ca-
sual"
"There's nothing casual about my feelings for Temorii,"
dunMheric interrupted, and his eyes flared with sup-
pressed passion.
"No?" Thyerri mocked that passion as well as his own.
"Is so deep an understanding possible in three days? Or
do I mistake my time for your arrival? Perhaps you knew
her before you arrived and came here specifically to pursue
your acquaintance?"
DunMheric shook his head, slowly at first, then emphati-
cally, until that beautiful hair rippled in the early sunlight.
All the time he refused to meet Thyerri's challenging stare.
"Well, then, let me tell you something about Temorii."
"You know her?" dunMheric's head came up, his eyes wide,
excited. "Help me find her! I'll make it worth your while."
"Why?"
"What do you mean, why? I'm worried about her."
"Then leave her alone."
"Why?"
"Why was she running away?"
"I don't know."
"Not? Obviously, she was demented, and you're well rid
of her. I'll be going then." Thyerri took two steps down
the alley before:
"Wait! There . . . there was blood . . ." A cursing pause
that hid, Thyerri suspected, an embarrassed search for
words. "I encountered her in a tavern yesterday evening. I
took her to my roomNot for what you think"
"You've no idea what I'm thinking, rijhili. What then?"
"We . .. we slept in the same bedbut that's all I did!
I just . . . slept."
"So defensive, Khy," Thyerri mocked. "Then?"
Appearing somewhat taken aback, dunMheric finished in a
rush. "This morning, she woke up with a headache; I got up to
fix her a tonic; she cried out1 thought in fearand ran out."
"Fear of what? A medicinal tonic? That's foolish. De-
mented, I tell you."
"I . . . I don't believe . . . There was blood on my shirt,
you see, and on the sheets. Her . . ."
"Obviously, the girl was a virgin."
"Nothing happened!  At  least,  not with me.  But
yesterday . . . She was assaulted, and if one of them . . .
well. I'm truly concerned. You see, I must find her. Make
certain she's all right!"
"There is," Thyerri said cautiously, "another possible
explanation."
"What? What could there be that a doctor's exam could
not improve?"
"Many things, I assure you, rijhili! But Temorii . . .
That name means dancer, did you know that?"
DunMheric shook his head. "What would that have to
do with"
"Possibly nothing. Possibly a great deal. Would you
know more?"
"Of course."
"No 'of course' about it, rijhili. Most don't care. Was her
hair cropped? Like . . ." He pulled the ends of his own
hair free with the tips of his fingers.
"Yes. And sunbleached, like yours. That was one reason
   I, well, mistook ..."
"Ah."
"What do you mean 'Ah'? Stop playing with me. Do you
know something about her or don't you?"
"It's possible that this young woman you seek has aspira-
tions of dancing, perhaps the rings."
"I still don't"
"You are ignorant, rijhili. Khoratumin ringdancers can-
not also be lovers. Ideally, they think of nothing but the
dance, and most specifically, they do not think of those acts
lovers perform."
It was Thyerri's turn to hide his embarrassment, to stum-
ble after words to express that which he, himself, was expe-
riencing for the first time in his life. Confusions this hot-
blooded Rijhili had undoubtedly long since forgotten.
"For some dancers, such denial . . . stunts . . . sexual . . ."
"Maturity?" DunMheric finished for him, and Thyerri
nodded, grudgingly thankful.
"Are you trying to tell me she might simply have begun her
menses?" Said without embarrassment. As a physician would.
Or as a man would who had no concept of the true
meaning of such bodily changes.
"That could explain the headache," dunMheric contin-
ued musingly.
"And you, a bachelor without sisters, have such vast
knowledge," Thyerri mocked him.
"I" Those Tamshi eyes flashed with sudden intensity.
"How do you know I haven't a dozen sisters?"
"A dozen." Thyerri folded his arms. "Nikkitia,
Demoria . . . Who else?"
From the long, cold silence that greeted his deliberate taunt,
the challenge had not passed unnoticed. But dunMheric's reply
clung stubbornly to the illusion of anonymity. "I had an aunt...
who hated that particular aspect of her . . . existence." Dun-
Mheric's voice was tight with emotion and Thyerri wanted no
more details. "So . . ." A deep-drawn breath. "She was embar-
rassed. But why just. . . disappear?"
"Don't you see? If it was her first time, inin her own
mind . . ." Thyerri had to swallow hard, before he could
continue. "She might feel she's lost the rings forever. She
might feel that just lying with you could, well . . ."
"And that is why you call me cruel: for pursuing her."
"For exuding desire, dunMher" Thyerri caught him-
self, but not in time.
Another long silence. At last, "So. You do know as well."
Thyerri shrugged.
"Rather silly to continue the charade, I suppose."
Thyerri shrugged again. Hardly his place to judge.
"All right, lad. I'll . . . let her go. But . . . you said . . .
Do you know her?"
"Farewell, Khy." Thyerri turned to go.
"Wait."
He paused.
"If you If you see her, tell her, please, to come back.
Tell her, I'll keep my promise."
"To do what?"
"Just tell her."
"Perhaps. If I see her."
"Fair enough." DunMheric half-turned. "About what I
did..."
"I'll  tell  her,  dunMheric,"  Thyerri  interrupted.  "// I
chance across her."
DunMheric nodded and left slowly. Defeated.
Thyerri sank down to squat on his heels, arms pressed
to his aching gut, hungry, yet convinced anything he ate
would run right through without pausing to make more
than  passing  acquaintance  with  his  stomach.  Which
sounded to him like ill health, which frequently meant, for
one living on the streets, death.
Perhaps he should see if dunMheric's invitation might
extend to include himself. Somehow, he doubted it would,
not when dunMheric knew all there was to know, and what
one Thyerri of Bharlori's had done to those who last ex-
tended him the hand of friendship.
Thyerri was waiting for the cramps to ease, or lay him
flat, when a hand clamped on his shoulder, heavy enough,
strong enough, that he had no hope of breaking free of it.
"In the name of Rhyys dunTarec, Ringmaster of Khora-
tum, you're under arrest."
Chapter 5i~

Exuding desire . . . one did have to laugh. Certainly Dey-
morin would.
Mikhyel tied off the end of his braid, and flipped it back
behind his shoulders. The strands around his face were cer-
tain to work loose the moment he stepped into the moun-
tain winds, but a disheveled appearance would only make
him that much less like his poster.
The simple woolen greatcoat and colorful muffler the re-
doubtable Ganfrion had supplied, completed his non-
Rhomandi look. Perhaps that explained the street-boy's
cryptic remark. Perhaps "Korelli dunKarin" was . . .
He struck an appropriate pose before the mirror . . . and
decided the boy had unquestionably been making fun of
him, as he had with the remark about his sisters. Nikkitia,
Demoria . . . he'd known all along.
But either the others in this strange almost-city were less
astute, or they also took delight in bailing him. They were
free enough with their opinions. Particularly of the upcom-
ing visit of Mikhyel dunMheric and the ill-health that had
placed a DELAYED banner across the posters, putting
their festival on hold yet again.
Today, as he had for the past several days, he would
roam the streets of Khoratum, listening, observing. Like
yesterday, he'd also be looking for Temorii. Hopefully, he
could avoid assaulting any more alley-rats.
A full day after the fact and his face still grew hot just
thinking about that encounter. Even had the young man
been Temorii, Mikhyel's actions would have been uncon-
scionable. He certainly hadn't chased her in order to . . .
Or had he? He could not deny she roused feelings in
him he'd never had to deal with before. His relief, when
he believed he'd found her, had expressed itself . . . ener-
getically.  Perhaps,  had  the young man  not called him
"Khy," as she had, perhaps had he not responded . . .
But he couldn't blame the boy. His was the behavior
in question.
And yet, the boy's response was a curiosity in itself.
From their first meeting, he'd obviously resented Mikhyel's
presence in Khoratum, Mikhyel's and all rijhili. Likely he
had encouraged Mikhyel's outrageous behavior in order to
mock him, as he mocked him with that personal as-
sessment.
Exuding desire . . .
He should be thankful, he supposed, that the fellow had
also deigned to give him valuable insight into Temorii.
Such a simple explanation, though obviously, not simple
to Temorii. Or the young man. The motherly maid, who
was, it turned out, the proprietor's good wife, had listened
to his embarrassed explanation, and confirmed the likely
harmless nature of the stains (though how she could know
was beyond his male comprehension). She'd clucked with
understanding, called him a good laddy and told him not
to worry about the Poor Young Thing, and lamented how
many there were on the streets and in the alleys these days.
When the woman had left, he'd added her name to the
list of Khoratumin business owners the Rhomandi intended
to support in the future.
It was a very short list. One thing had become abun-
dantly clear in his daily tours: Rhyys dunTarec did not de-
serve to be in power in Khoratum. Neither did those who
endorsed him. Rhyys had bullied his people into consider-
ing him something like the old kings of Maurislan, but gave
them nothing in return. The outside investors he'd lured
in, Nethaalye's father included, were so obsessed with their
own short-term gain, they'd willingly supported his despo-
tism to the detriment of the natives.
From Nikki's reports, one would assume Khoratum pros-
perous and developing right on track for a new node. How-
ever those analyses were purely theoretical. There had been
no nodes capped in recent history. The original satellites
had all been similarly struggling and intersupportive in the
first century after the Founding.
Not so Khoratum.
Khoratum was being raped by her elder siblings. Her
mineral-rich mines were being stripped, her fur-trapping
and sheep-herding natives were being robbed (he'd seen
what their wool and furs brought elsewhere in the web
particularly on the Shatumin export tables) and the money
was going into the pockets of the Northern Crescent rich
and Rhyys dunTareC in particular.
He'd learned enough to start asking more pointed ques-
tions, and he no longer fooled himself that Rhyys' intents
were defensive. If he understood correctly the gossip of the
uniformed individuals crowding the streets, he'd learned
yesterday that this petty demagogue was urging revolt
against Rhomatumor at least, the Rhomandi.
But Rhyys, so the most vindictive claimed, needed to do
something. Rhyys had ruled by virtue of Anheliaa's back-
ing; and with Anheliaa gone, the guards maintained, Rhyys
would be deposed within the year.
Mikhyel settled the scarf around his neck, and headed
out the door.
Today, with luck, he'd learn the details of that revolt.
With a bit more luck, he'd find a certain, rather skinny
native girl with a headache.
d ~ ~
"Now, where have I seen this before?"
The scarred hand stroked the heavy wool weighing Thy-
erri's shoulders down, then jerked back the cloak's hood,
grabbing a fistful of hair in the process, exposing Thyerri's
anger-flushed cheeks to the chill of winter, that radiated
still from the stone walls of the old fortress.
Scarface stepped back to Rhyys' side, a puzzled expres-
sion twisting his already twisted features. Rhyys just looked
bored, one leg propped on the prison-master's battered
table.
As a dog lifted its leg to mark territory, was Thyerri's
sullen thought.
Thyerri had spent the night in a cell as black as death
and empty except for himself and the rats. He'd been taken
there without explanation, and this morningat least he
thought it was morninghe'd been brought to this place.
He was cold, he was tired, he was hungry . . , and he
was scared.
Without giving Thyerri more than a cursory glance,
Rhyys said, "This is a waste of time. Street-scut won't find
us dunMheric. Besides, it can't be duuMheric. This dun-
Kharin has been in Khoratum for at least four days; dun-
Mheric was in Giephaetum seven days ago at most. There
have been no private entries into Khoratum in two days,
and the common coach takes at least six daysfrequently
seven. It's so annoying the Syndicate hasn't financed that
new road"
"Rule one of a ringmaster, dunTarec," Scarface inter-
rupted. "Never base your sense of what is possible on the
experiences of the masses."
And how, Thyerri wondered bitterly, did this Scarface
know so much?
"The tavern owner claimed resemblance," Scarface con-
tinued. "Captain Eelanghi heard this . . . charming young
creature call him dunMheric, to which he responded. Think
what you will, I believe your street scut might indeed help
us follow his movements. Well, scut?"
Thyerri said, in the language of the hills: "May the ley-
mother eat your flesh and piss it to the twelve winds."
Rhyys lurched upright and signaled Thyerri's guard, who
struck Thyerri a backhanded blow that spun him to the
stone floor.
Stupid, he thought, pushing himself up with arms whose
elbows seemed to bend every way but normal, and he won-
dered how the gods had ever allowed so great an idiot to
survive as long as he had.
But Rhyys and Scarface roused hatred in him. Hatred
and anger, the two emotions more destructive to a dancer's
gift than lust. Emotions he'd been trained to control.
Further proof, as if he needed it, that the rings were lost
to him forever.
Hands pulled him up and to his feet, and recognition
dawned in Scarface's eyes, so close now to his. "You cut
your hair." Those scarred fingers combed through the rag-
ged tangle. "How sad. The fire perhaps? One does trust
the flames damaged nothing essential."
Thyerri said nothing.
"I think, dunTarec, you've a valuable asset here. I sug-
gest you don't waste it."
Rhyys approached him then, scanning him down the
length of his prominent nose. Then he grabbed Thyerri's
chin and held him for a different kind of examination. And
suddenly, his eyes narrowed, his mouth hardened, and he
turned abruptly away.
"Remove the cloak," he commanded the guard, who
jerked the garment free, letting it drop to the floor. "And
the rest."
"No!" Thyerri protested, but he had no real hope against
the guards, and within moments, they had him stripped and
spread on the floor, like a beast for gelding. Eyes closed,
Rhyys knelt on one knee beside him, dragging a hand over
his naked, chilling flesh. Face, neck, hands and arms . . . a
dehumanizing, intimate examination that extended to his
toes.
All without ever looking at what he touched.
It wasn't the first time Thyerri had been forced to endure
this type of inspection. Rhyys claimed that after such a tour
of their bodies, he would always know them. They all en-
dured it once: it was one of the prices to pay for the dance.
They universally hated Rhyys.
Without a word, Rhyys rose to his feet and moved out
of Thyerri's limited view. Someone threw the cloak across
Thyerri's body, but the guards at his wrists and ankles still
held him immobile.
"Are you quite finished?" Scarface drawled, and Rhyys
returned to Thyerri's range of sight, wiping his hands deli-
cately on an embroidered cloth.
"Do what you want," Rhyys said. "Make what promises
you choose. It will avail you nothing. I've dealt with this
person before."
He strode abruptly from the room.
"Leave us," Scarface said, and when the guards hesi-
tated, "Now!"
Thyerri was free. He jerked upright, fighting stiffening
limbs to grab his clothing. He was decent again before the
door closed behind the final guard.
"Now," Scarface said, handing him the cloak, which he
pulled on against the room's chill and Scarface's flagrant
interest. "Let's talk."
Thyerri threw himself into a plain wooden chair, drew
his bare feet up and huddled in the cloak's concealing folds.
"That was Mikhyel dunMheric in the alley with you, was
it not?"
Thyerri refused to meet the scar-rimmed eyes. He knew.
He didn't need a street-scut's endorsement.
"And have you enchanted the middle Rhomandi the way
you enchanted us? Is he keeping you?"
Thyerri shook his head, a brief, fierce denial.
"Ah. Then who did he follow into that alleyway, directly
from his room?"
So, they'd been tailing dunMheric all along. They didn't
need him at all.
A back-handed slap rocked his head to the side. "Who?"
"Temorii." If they'd been following dunMheric, they al-
ready knew anyway.
"A young woman?"
Thyerri shrugged.
"How disappointing for you."
Thyerri jerked to his feet and paced the room. "Dun-
Mheric's interests mean nothing to me. They mean disaster
for Temorii."
"Because she would be a dancer?"
More insightful than Rhyys, this scarfaced man.
"Well. What is your name?"
"Thyerri," he answered sullenly, past a lip already swell-
ing from his last insolence.
"Well, Thyerri," his name was clipped and ugly in this
foreigner's speaking, "I think you would do well to encour-
age this young woman to return to dunMheric, in whatever
capacity he wants her."
Thyerri spun to face him. "You can't be serious!"
"Oh, but I am. child. I think you will do this because I
think you want, above all else, to live."
Before Thyerri could avoid him, Scarface reached out
and clamped his long fingers around Thyerri's head, holding
him in a flesh-and-bone vise. And it was as if those fingers
grew right through his skull, sending tendrils throughout
his body. A touch more horrifying and base than Rhyys'
crude methods could hope to match.
Worst of all, he couldn't move, couldn't escape that inva-
sion, until the tendrils retreated, and the hands left him.
The moment he was able, he jerked away, toward the door,
knowing, all the while, that escape was impossible. Ever.
"I do know you now, child," Scarface's velvet voice con-
firmed his fears. "You can't hide anywhere within the web,
that the Khoratum Rings can't find you."
"You're not Khoratum's master."
"No? Perhaps you are right. Perhaps you are wrong. It's
your life you wager. You are wanted for murder, child, and
for arson. And for attempting to assassinate the Khora-
tum Ringmaster."
Thyerri tried to conquer his shaking limbs, found his only
safety in the wedge between floor and wall.
"Whwhat do you want of me?"
"Very good, Thyerri." That velvet approbation made his
gut quiver in horrified objection. "It's quite simple, really.
I want to know where dunMheric goes and why he goes
there. I want to know why he's living in squalor when he
could be living in Khoratum Tower luxury, sampling
Rhyys' hospitality."
"I All right. II'll try."
"Good child. And, I want a hold on him. Emotional,
rational, whatever and as much as you can get. I want con-
trol over him, sweet Thyerri, as I have control over you.
Do you understand?"
Thyerri did understand. All too well.
Chapter 5even

"Aand then, Ringmaster loniia, sh-she began scream-
ing." Though the rather lumpish Orenumin kept his voice
to a near-whisper, nothing could hide the tremor com-
pletely. "We could hear her even through those great thick
doors, saying they were all crazy and dunTarec was going
to land us all in Sparingate, if they didn't destroy the web
and all the nodes in the process!"
Urichi dunRondri reached a shaking hand for his mug.
It was empty. Mikhyel caught the eye of the waiter, who
brought replacements for both their mugs, for all Mikhyel's
was untouched.
It maintained the illusion, for anyone sober enough to
take note.
This was Mikhyel's third encounter with the assistant to
the Orenum governor's legal advisor's secretary. The first, a
chance meeting in a small inter-node bookstore in Greater
Khoratum, had led to supper in this tavern rather farther
downhill, during which they'd compared notes on Bernoi
professors. (Mikhyel hadn't mentioned to the much older
dunRondri that those same professors had been his private
tutors.) By the close of their second shared meal in as many
days, dunRondri had ceased to think of Korelli dunKharin
as anything but a fellow traveler through the maze of a
world grown too complex.
Tonight, the man was shaking with the ramifications of
what his superiors were concocting in upper Khoratum's
back rooms.
"It's enough to drive a man mad." Mikhyel kept his voice
hushed, conspiratorial. "They treat us as if we're furniture.
As if we have no consciences. They say anything, do any-
thing and we must live with tl)e knowing, the wondering
when the powers will come down on our heads because
theirs are so well-protected!"
DunRondri's head nodded mournfully.
Mikhyel dropped his voice to a near-whisper and dun-
Rondri's head bent closer. "I used to work outside old Pen-
eriiac's office. He'd be raging inside, saying things I knew
I didn't want to know about, but if I left my desk, it would
mean my job." He took a sip of his ale and set the mug
down, letting it rattle a bit, then hid his hands beneath the
table. "And the students who came to 'conference' . . .
rings, if I didn't care if I never worked again, I could tell
the admin a thing or two about their favorites. But some-
how, I doubt Peneriiac's neck would be the one cut."
A hand touched his sleeve under the cover of the table.
"And I'll bet it wasn't just students who bad to conference
with old Pen, was it?"
He hadn't considered that interpretation of his comment,
and wondered briefly, and in some irritation, what it was
about him that inspired such notions. Careless of him, Gan-
frion would say. Ganfrion would say of course he should
have expected it, along with many other possibilities.
But he saw no reason to deny it. It wasn't as if he was
maligning an innocent man's name. He flicked a glance up
at the compassionate, round face, and lifted his shoulders
in a slight shrug.
"Hardly matters now. I'll finish my paper, defend it be-
fore the board, and then I'll be free of him forever."
"Surely he's not still employed at the academy?"
Mikhyel shrugged. "He did nothing illegal."
"That could be proven."
Mikhyel shrugged again. "He's a damn fine lawyer and
professor.  Perhaps  the  students  considered  it  a  fair
exchange."
"And Korelli? Did he consider it a fair exchange?"
Exasperated, Mikhyel dropped his eyes. When he looked
up again, the small, tired eyes behind the thick spectacles
had gone misty with sympathy.
"Poor lad. Well, we'll just have to get this paper of yours
written, now won't we?"
With a sense of filth about him, inside and out, Mikhyel
dragged himself up the narrow stairwell and limped down
the hallway to his room.
DunRondri had been his best opportunity. He'd hoped,
with that softening over supper, that the information would
be more forthcoming, but all the assistant secretary had
said was that the general consensus held that the era of the
Rhomandi was over. That the Southern Crescent had to be
put in its place and that everything was pending Mikhyel
dunMheric's visit, which had been delayed due to illness,
which everyone knew was a lie, and everyone was getting
damned antsy about the situation, saying Mikhyel dun-
Mheric wasn't coming at all, because he'd made such a fool
of himself in the south that the Rhomandi had recalled him.
He'd become amazingly adept at calmly hearing himself
denigrated in the past handful of days.
Listening to conversations not his own, milking informa-
tion from a stranger on a topic regarding which he knew
absolutely nothing, pretending to be someone he wasn't . . .
such prevarication had become second nature to him. Gan-
frion would be proud.
Listened, milked, but learned little of substance regarding
Nethaalye's presumed caucus, other than something was,
without question, drawing significant numbers of significant
individuals from all over the Northern Crescent, and that
something was enough to drive the likes of dunRondri to
drink and indiscretion. But overall, he'd gotten nothing,
likely, worth the risk to his influential neck.
Or at least, nothing an impartial observer would consider
worthwhile; for himself, he'd never felt more alive, certainly
never felt more in control of his own life. He'd foiled three
robbery attempts (two on himself, thanks in part to Dey-
morin's advice about where to keep his money), two as-
saults, and numerous shoplifting attempts.
Deymorin would also say that if he'd kept to the areas
of Khoratum the individuals he most wished to tap tended
to frequent, his life would have been far less exciting.
He'd had, he would be the first to admit, a secondary
agenda over these past five days. There wasn't a spot in all
of Lesser Khoratum that he hadn't investigated, not a
strange food he hadn't tried, not a store he hadn't browsed,
not an alley he hadn't searched.
All that experience, including examining the stables of
three different brothels, and he'd found no sign of either
Temorii or the young man in the cloak. He was a fool. An
obsessed, guilt-ridden idiot. He .could wish . . .
But no, that was too selfish. Temorii, the street-lad and
the truth behind that illusive perception would have to wait.
If the political climate in Khoratum awaited the arrival of
Mikhyel dunMheric, it was time Mikhyel dunMheric en-
tered Khoratum.
Tonight, he'd contact Deymorin and set the final plans
into motion.
Ganfrion was, according to Deymorin's last report,
camped a day's ride outside of Khoratum. Deymorin him-
self was on maneuvers on the Harriisidumin line, two days'
ride to the south. He'd contact Deymorin, Deymorin would
send word to Ganfrion, and he'd be gone, free of Khoratum
in three days.
He set the key in the lock and turned. It resisted with a
grating noise that had set his nerves on edge the first day,
and the effect had only worsened with familiarity. But the
lock worked; a man's privacy didn't need anything more.
He stumbled into the dark room, the only light a shaft
of leylight seeping through a gap in the curtains. Blindly
weary, he dropped scarf, greatcoat, and dress coat in a pile
he'd regret in the morning, and dropped himself onto the
mattress, kicking his shoes one at a time onto the floor.
His braid made a lump at the base of his skull. Ex-
pending his final bit of energy, he pulled the clip free and
flipped it across the room in the general direction of the
table.
A pale hand reached into the shaft of light and caught it.
Mikhyel, discovering a hidden reservoir of vigor, jerked
upright.
"Who's there?"
"Matron let me in." A ghostly shadow rose from the
chair. "You told Thyerri you were concerned for me," the
shadow continued,, and the voice was as beautiful as he
remembered, and he wondered how he could ever have
mistaken anyone else's for it.
"Thyerri?" he whispered back. "The street-lad?"
Like a ghost, Temorii drifted into the shaft of silver light.
Her shoulder lifted in a graceful shrug. "I am, as you see,
well enough." She turned toward the door. "I should, I
suppose, apologize for any distress I caused." And one pale
eye glittered back at him. "I . . . I am sorry, Khy."
Her hand was on the doorlatch before his aching legs
could carry him across the room to her side. He covered
her fingers with his own.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters. I've been all over this city looking
for you!"
"Why?"
"Because" Fool that he was, he had no sound answer,
settled on, "Because I want to help you."
"Help me. That's rather miserly of you."
"Miserly? I . . . don't understand."
"The entire web is in need of help, Mikhyel Rhomandi
dunMheric, and you want to waste time on one lone
beggar."
"I've spent my life helping the web; I don't intend to
stop now."
"Ah. I'll be going, then." She turned the lock with her
free hand.
He tightened his hold on her other hand. "Does dedicat-
ing my life to the web mean I'm not allowed to help a
friend?"
"I'm not your friend, Mikhyel dunMheric."
Simply said. Coldly enough said to make him wince. He
should have known. She and the boyThyerri, she'd called
himwere of a kind. Proud. Resentful of any valley-born
man's interference in their lives. He was rijhUi. The in-
truder. No different than the rapacious investors. Never
mind he meant better.
"Forgive my presumption," he said, weary to his bones,
and let her hand slip free. She jerked the door open.
He turned and slumped into the nearest chair, not want-
ing to see her leave, only then realizing just how much the
hope of seeing her again, of solving the puzzle that was
Temorii, had sustained him these past days. His exhaustion
returned tenfold; he propped his elbow on the table, closed
his eyes, and propped his forehead in his palm.
The noisy latch slid into place; he crossed his arms on
the table and let his head fall forward, thinking maybe he'd
just fall asleep right there.
"Help me what?"
He jumped; the chair beneath him slid, tipped and
crashed to the floor. Her hand on his elbow was all that
kept him from following it down in an ungainly sprawl.
Heart racing, he got his feet under him, and stood
straight. Temorii quite matter-of-factly set the chair right
and pushed him down in it, before settling herself into the
other chair. She leaned her elbows on the table and stared
at him.
Waiting.
He ran a shaking hand through his hair, trying to resur-
rect all the times he'd thought of her over the past days,
what he'd planned to say when they met again, though this
interview in no way resembled that fantasy encounter.
Searching for something approaching composure, he got
to his feet, and twisted the overhead lamp into alignment.
He got no more from the leybulb than the faint glimmer
that said all other lights were on in the building, but that
shimmer was sufficient to highlight her face.
He poured himself a glass of water, a second for her, set
it on the table between them when she refused to take it
from him.
"Never mind," she said, and placing both hands flat on
the table, shoved herself to her feet. "Farewell, Mikhyel
dun"
"F-find your mother." He steadied his voice and contin-
ued. "If that's what you want. Go home, wherever that is."
A startled look vanished between one breath and the
next. "In my sleep?" She asked.
He nodded.
"You're cruel to use it against me now, dunMheric.
Mother is long ago. Past history. There was only one thing
I ever wanted, and it's closed to me now. Not even Rhoma-
tum's premier barrister can change that fact. So best you
forget me."
This time he didn't try to intercept her dash for free-
dom. Physically.
"Is it the dance you want?" he asked.
She froze, her hand poised above the latch.
"The street-ladThyerriimplied as much."
Her breath caught; her head dropped.
"It doesn't matter," she said, and the music in her voice
soured. "Rhyys determines who competes, and my opportu-
nity passed."
"Are you too old?"
"Hardly."
"Incompetent?"
She turned slowly. "I'm the best damned radical to ever
challenge the Khoratum Rings."
"Then why'd you lose?"
"I didn't."
"Then why aren't you dancing?"
"I never got a chance to compete."
"Why not?"
"Because the damned web went down and the rings
crashed!"
"Oh. Well, then, I guess we'd better get you another
chance to compete."
Her mouth opened, closed. "You can't." She said flatly.
He grinned, relieved at having breached her cold indiffer-
ence at last. "Never tell a lawyer 'can't,' Temorii."
She drew a deep, shaking breath and hissed: "I missed
my chance, damn you!"
"Only one?"
"For me, yes."
"Not for others?"
"I'm not others."
"Temorii, do you want to compete?"
"Yes!"
"Then stop giving me unsubstantiated conjecture, and
answer my questions!"
Her mouth set, lips pressed tight in anger. Unimpressed,
Mikhyel grinned, his blood moving faster with each passing
moment, now that he had a specific goal. He pulled his
notebook and a pen from the outside pocket of the case
on the floor behind his chair, tested the pen's cartridge,
and began taking notes.
"The next competition is scheduled for"
"Canceled." Still sullen, but she hadn't gone out the
door.
"Canceled?"
"Delayed at least." Her mouth twitched. "You're ill,
remember?"
The public announcement. He'd forgotten.
"So" Mikhyel raised an eyebrow and made a note.
"First: Mikhyel recovers. I can manage that." And with a
flourish, checked off the line. "Then, we find out the new
date." He sensed her proximity, made a point not to look
up. "Third: practice. Are you in . . ." He thought of that
thin body, and poverty and obviously short rations, and
wondered: "How soon could you . . . I mean . . ."
"You get me in. Barrister, I'll be ready." Her breath was
short, quick. Frightened.
Afraid to hope.
He dropped the pen and twisted around to face her.
"What happened, Temorii? Why shouldn't you get another
chance, if others will?"
Her eyes flickered away from his to stare at her toes, and
one shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. "It's hard to explain."
"I'm not going anywhere. But if it's a long story, would
you mind sitting back down, before my neck is perma-
nently kinked?"
She swallowed hard, biinked, but rather than return to
her chair, she sank down where she stood, as if her knees
had given out beneath her. Her fingers began that nervous
pleating of her patched and dirty tunic. And when she
began, he wasn't certain she remembered the question, but
he didn't interrupt, content for the moment, that she hadn't
run away again.
"The competition is more than the dance. First, there's
the maze. You're led blindfolded into the courtyard, and
there, you await your turn to compete. Staying warmed up
and readysometimes for all daythat's part of the
challenge."
She leaned against his chair until her shoulder and hair
brushed his thigh. Her hands were foldedclenchedin
her lap.
"When they call your number, you try to reach the dance
stadium. The maze is . . . more than a puzzle to test logic.
It's full of hidden trapsmost potentially lethal. Some of
the most expensive seats are the hidden viewing areas for
those traps."
"Dancers in the maze," Mikhyel murmured, and she
looked up through the ragged fall of hair, her expression
puzzled. He smiled, and brushed the strands free of her
improbably long lashes. "A game I used to play. A child's
game of sticks and stones. I never thought where it came
from."
"Oh," she said, though he didn't think she truly under-
stood. She was staring at him, eyes wide, unseeing, and he
realized, somewhat belatedly, that his hand was still in her
hair, finger-combing the tangles out of the sunbleached
strands. He felt his face grow hot, but before he could think
what to say, her shoulders heaved, and she relaxed, settling
down onto the floor, letting her head rest full against his
knee.
"I waited all day," she murmured, talking into the shad-
ows. "I waited for the arbiter to call my number. But he
never did. There were three still to compete when the rings
went down . . . as I later discovered."
"So you never got to run the maze, never danced-. . ."
She nodded. "From the time he accepted my application,
Rhyys had said I was to be led in once only. I'd have one
chance to run the maze, and one chance to dance. I sent
Rhyys a petition to try again. . . after, but Rhyys says I
chose the competition I'd take part in. Rhyys says I lost
my chance. Rhyys says, obviously Rakshi doesn't want me
to dance for him, or Rakshi would have made my number
rise to the surface before the rings went down."
"Rakshi? Is Rhyys a believer in the old gods, then?"
"Not that he will admit."
"But you are?"
A shrug. "I'm a dancer."
As if that explained everything.
"And he uses that belief against you?"
No answer.
"What about the others left to compete? Did Rakshi also
frown on them? Will they get another trial?"
"Probably, though I can't swear to that. Rhyys delights
in controlling our . . . the dancers' lives. But it's rare that
he doesn't let them try again. He . . . likes having the
students and trainees around."
"Why would he single you out?"
She shrugged. "Because I am a child of the mountain
and not his precious Khoratum? Because I was a better
dancer than his favorite? Because he dislikes the color of
my eyes? Rhyys dunTarec doesn't need logical reasons to
wield his whip."
An analysis that certainly corresponded to his sense of
the petty tyrant Anheliaa had chosen to control Khoratum
Tower. A petty tyrant he would enjoy outwitting. And
there might be a way, though not one Korelli dunKharin
could use to advantage.
"It appears," he said slowly, "that the time has come for
Mikhyel dunMheric  to make  an  official  entry into
Khoratum."
She tilted her head back to look up at him.
"Care to become part of his entourage?"
8 ~ d
"He's taking Temorii with him to join his men, some-
where outside the city wall."
"Where?"
Thyerri shrugged, hating himself already, then staggered
as the scarred hand reminded him that insolence would not
be tolerated in this elegant Tower room.
"I don't know," he protested, dabbing blood from his lip
with the back of his hand. "They'll take the Orenum stage
and then leave itsomewhere. Someone will pick them up
and then he's to come back to Khoratum. Officially."
"When?"
"I don't know."
Scarface raised his hand again, but the blow didn't come,
and Thyerri stared dully at the hand that glinted with gold
and silver in the leylight. Rings, several per finger. One, at
least, bore Rhyys' crest. Scarface gorRhyys, then, though
Thyerri doubted Rhyys was the real master.
The beringed hand fell.
"Where did he go today?"
"Downhill. All day."
The brocade-clad shoulders shook with silent laughter.
"Looking for his Temorii."
Thyerri said nothing. Scarface began pacing, a wild cat's
impatient prowl.
"And did he meet again with the Orenumin?"
Thyerri began to nod. Caught himself and muttered,
"Yes. At Louinnii's again."
"Why?"
Thyerri controlled his shoulders in mid-shrug. "He said
something about a gathering here, and some concern that
the Northern Crescent nodes are unhappy. I think he wants
to find out why, is all, and that's why he was just . . . here."
Scarface scowled. "I'm not asking you to think. How
does he intend to get Temorii this Second chance at the
dance?"
Thyerri shook his head. "I wish I knew."
Scarface paused in mid-prowl. "Why?"
A shudder ran through him, and he thought of those
holds over people that this man treasured so highly.
"Just . . . curious, that's all. It does seem an impossible
task, don't you think?"
Scarface grunted, but he continued to watch Thyerri with
a hawk's interest in a field mouse.
"I think, perhaps, I will tell Rhyys about this plan. And
you will tell Temorii that Rhyys knows and is prepared and
that when she returns to the Tower, she had best play along
with whatever Rhyys does."
"Temorii wants to compete."
"I can't guarantee that."
"Then I can't guarantee her cooperation."
"No? And you, Thyerri. What do you want."
"You can't guarantee it."
Scarface laughed, a long, hard, cruel laugh.
"May I go now, sir?" Thyerri asked.
"I think I'd like you to stay a while. I'm in a festive
mood. As I recall, you were a competent dancer."
"Please, sir. I'd rather not."
"I don't care what you'd rather. Dance for me, Thyerri
of Khoratum."
"I will try, sir," Thyerri answered slowly, "but I fear
you will be much disappointed. You asked that first night,
whether anything essential had been damaged in the fire.
The fact is, sir, the answer was 'yes.' "
"You will, nonetheless, try."
In the end, even Scarface admitted it was a meaningless
exercise and sent Thyerri on his way, untouched. As he
rushed through the back corridors of the Tower, and into
the streets, Thyerri hoped he was in time: Temorii had
promised dunMheric she'd be back by midnight.
Thyerri slipped out the door that barely opened, stuck
now as it was between old and new construction. He
squeezed down the narrow space between the buildings,
paused behind the hedgerose to listen for passing guards,
then slipped out into the open.
And a vast mountain of a man.
Thyerri ducked back between the buildings, but a huge
paw gripped his arm and hauled him out. The next instant,
the living mountain had him backed up against a building,
and a knife point pricked his throat.
"Who are you and what's your connection with Mikhyel
dunMheric?" the mountain hissed in his ear.
"W-who?"
"Don't try to play the innocent with me, hiller. I know
you. I know your kind. I've been following you for three
days now, and I don't like what I'm seeing. Who are you
selling him to?"
"I1 can't . . ." Thyerri let his words and eyes drift, let
his body wilt, as if he were about to collapse.
The mountain cursed. The vast weight shifted, and Thy-
erri shoved off the stone wall with his feet, driving his
shoulder into the mountain, sending him staggering farther
off balance.
Thyerri tapped and jumped, as those days with Zeiin had
taught him, driving his hands, then his feet off the huge
shoulders, gaining the height and the loft to make a nearby
roof. The mountain's fingers brushed his ankle, caught and
nearly pulled him back.
He snapped free, hauled himself to his feet, and ran.
Chapter Eight

"There." Mikhyel gave the cravat's top fold one final tug
and stepped to the side. "Well?"
Temorii swallowed and lifted her chin as if trying to
avoid the lace, then met his mirrored eyes suspiciously.
"Why is yours so plain?"
He grinned. "Your father's a timber baron and I'm your
humble tutor, remember?"
She made a face at his reflection, then stepped back, to
fit more of herself in the mirror. She tugged the coat lapels
and struck a pose so reminiscent of Nikki at his most self-
aware, that Mikhyel almost choked on his stifled laughter.
"You'll do," he said, and threw his grooming kit into the
portmanteau and buckled the bag closed.
By the whim of Rakshi (as Ganfrion would say) under-
professor dunKharin had escaped Bernoi forever. He'd
been hired as companion and tutor to one Thyerri dunMa-
trii  of  Orenum  (which  Mikhyel  complained  showed  a
marked lack of imagination; Temorii said Thyerri wouldn't
mind, that it was a common enough name in the Northern
Khoramali and easier than remembering a new name).
Young dunMatrii, having declared himself bored with
Khoratum, was being sent home following an Embarrassing
Incident with a local heiress.
A (Ganfrion would say) far too elaborate story, and one
Temorii had endlessly embellished over the past days. In
fact, once he'd convinced her to trust him (a formidable
task in itself) Temorii's enthusiasm for her role had flour-
ished. Temorii had wandered about the Khoratum market
wearing his spare clothing, spending his money on items he
pointed out, because (she insisted, and he soon conceded)
she could get a better price.
They were, as he'd noted the first day, much of a height,
though he had the slight edge, and his clothing, though
tailored to his measurements, seemed somehow to fit her
better than ever it fit his too-bony frame. In fact, in his
clothes, with her hair pulled back into a simple queue, she
cut a figure well able to turn a variety of heads wherever
they went.
Or perhaps it was just his increasingly prejudiced eyes
that interpreted her effect on people.
Time and familiarity had done nothing to diminish his
fascination with her. He'd tried to hire a second room, but
that had proven impossible, thanks to the growing number
of outsiders coming in for the festival. He'd had the cot
brought back in, and a sheet hung between the beds for
privacy, but while he was awake, he remained conscious of
her every action on that far side, and twice he'd waked to
discover her curled at the foot of his bed.
Both times, morning had found her back in the cot,
which she claimed was quite comfortable.
She didn't mention the late night shifting about, there-
fore neither did he, but he'd seen her eyes widen when he
left her alone to go "listen" in Greater Khoratum, and he'd
noted the eagerness with which she followed him about the.
market, and he wondered whether having thrown her trust
into him, she feared that trust would be betrayed and he
would desert her, and whether that fear ruled her late-
night actions.
It would be too much to hope that her motives bore any
resemblance to the insane urge he felt simply to be close
to her. And it was undoubtedly best for her if they did not.
Fortunately for them both, she felt at times such as this
more like a younger brother than a young woman.
Best, he told himself, to encourage that relationshipin
both of them.
Either way, in an hour, they'd be on the coach to Ore-
num and by tonight, (thanks to late night conversations
with his brothers) a long-lost cousin would have met them
and carried them off for a family reunion.
And hopefully, he thought as he pulled the door closed
for a final time and followed a haughty Thyerri dunMatrii
down the hallway, along with that family reunion would
come a return of his old serenity of mind.
It  was  evening  when  the  cart  pulled  into  the  camp.
Campfires dotted the darkness like a painting of the origi-
nal Darian Exodus. Rather more numerous than Deymorin
had led him to expect, those dots of light lay in orderly
rows, along a black mass of hillside that, according to
Deymorin's thought picture, should have caves where the
men could shelter in the event of a lightning storm.
As the cart bumped and rattled to a halt near the central-
most fire, Mikhyel slid off the open back amid a small cas-
cade of straw. He turned and held his hands out to Temorii,
but she harrumphed and jumped down alone, with a mut-
tered: "You wouldn't help Thyerri, would you?"
In answer, he hoisted the valise from the cart bed and
heaved it at her; she caught it with greater ease than he
had thrown it, grinned, and set it down gently.
"Well, Rhomandi, I see you survived."
He swung around to face the owner of the distinctive,
gritty voice. "Rhomandi?" he echoed, and before he could
prevent it, an idiotic grin stretched his face. "I'm coming
up in the world!"
Ganfrion's large paw surrounded his hand and he real-
ized a ridiculous satisfaction when Ganfrion's other hand
gripped his shoulder.
"/ see you brought backup for your backup," he said,
and waved his arm to indicate the campfires.
"Just in case, Khyel. Just in . . ."
Through that double hold, he sensed Ganfrion's sudden
tension, and Ganfrion looked beyond him to where Thy-
erriTemorii stood waiting. The lace-edged cravat hadn't
endured beyond the last sight of the posting inn. Her coat
hung free, her shirt lay open halfway to her cummerbund,
her hair was straggling free of the queue and with her hip-
cocked, hands-on-hips stance, she looked like a would-be
rakehell-in-training a good half-year short of his first real
shave.
"And who is this?" Ganfrion asked, in his most unwel-
coming tone.
While Mikhyel hesitated, Temorii stepped boldly for-
ward, into Ganfrion's fire-cast shadow, and held out her
hand.
"Name's Thyerri," she announced cockily. "Thyerri dun-
Matrii. And you?"
Ganfrion frowned and shifted, taking his shadow with
him, casting Temorii into full firelight. Temorii shied back-
ward, blinking, but then moved willingly enough into the
light.
Ganfrion grunted and took her offered hand. "Call me
Gan."
"Yessir!" Temorii snapped into a salute rather like the
most pompous of the guards crowding Lesser Khoratum,
then hefted Mikhyel's portmanteau to her shoulder. "And
where should I take this, m'lord Khy?"
"Over here, lad," a cool voice answered her from the
largest tent's open flap, and Mikhyel felt the last of his
tension slip away, as he crossed the firelit camp to greet
Raulind.
Temorii's attempted deception lasted no longer than
Raulind's decision that "Thyer.ri" should share Mikhyel's
tent rather than sleep outside with  the men. Temorii
watched Mikhyel like an eager puppy, waiting.
Mikhyel took Raulind inside the tent and explained, to
Raul and to Ganfrion. Raulind said he'd suspected as much;
Ganfrion said nothing.
And, in fact, over the course of the following days, Gan-
frion proved less thrilled overall about the sudden addition
to Mikhyel's personal entourage. The ex-inmate, ex-guard,
ex-soldier said nothing overt, but the way he watched Tem-
orii's every move left little doubt that his interest had noth-
ing to do with her femininity, and everything to do with
her city of origin and the circumstances under which she'd
come into Mikhyel dunMheric's life.
Raulind, on the other hand, had obviously decided she
was a much needed addition to Mikhyel's life. And since
the last thing Mikhyel could claim was impartiality where
Temorii was concerned, he tried very hard to listen more
to Ganfrion's caution than to Raulind's smiles.
If he was a fool to trust her, he'd rather know that before
entering Khoratum Tower than after.
They spent two weeks, there in the mountainside camp.
Eighteen days for the official announcement of his revised
plans to arrive in Khoratum, and to allow for fictitious
travel time from Rhomatum. Eighteen days for Mikhyel to
answer the accumulated mail and paperworkand eighteen
days for his beard to grow back, a surprisingly tedious task,
lacking the influence of Rhomatum's leythium pool.
And he had time to acquaint himself with the additional
men Ganfrion had brought. Ganfrion was not, he was re-
lieved to discover, actually in charge of the small army.
Ganfrion wasby his own choice, according to Raulind
fulfilling the exact function Mikhyel had hired him to per-
form, taking independent forays, keeping track of Mikhyel's
interests and Mikhyel's safety.
And in fact, during that time of waiting, Ganfrion twice
disappeared, to return bringing updates on who was newly
in Khoratum and with what agenda and what forces.
Temorii arose early, exercised, ate, exercised, ate, exer-
cised and ate again. Mikhyel heard stories about her activi-
ties, but he had work to do, and endeavored not to give in
to her allure. Besides, he imagined the last thing she wanted
was him for an audience, although that excuse might well
be wish fulfillment on his part.
Halfway through the fourth day, however, his hand
cramping with fatigue, he excused himself to Paulis, who,
like Raulind, had come of his own will to assist Mikhyel,
and escaped into the mountain sunshine. He stretched and
inhaled the brisk air . . . and wondered if he dare comman-
deer Raulind's hands for a rubdown in the middle of the
morning.
But the stiff joints were merely the result of too much
sitting. Even in Rhomatum, he'd spend much of the day
walking, and in Khoratum, he'd grown accustomed to a
great deal more activity. He had insisted Paulis take exer-
cise with the men, but hadn't dared expose himself so
closely to Temorii's presence.
That, he knew, was foolishness indeed. And so, this
morning, rather than disturb Raulind, he wandered down
a goat path widened and trampled by hundreds of human
footsteps.
Somewhere the path met a river . . . or so he'd been
told. The farthest he'd been from his tent was the offi-
cer's latrine.
Some small creature darted across the path in front of
him and he paused, watching it scamper up a tree. A breeze
rustled down through the trees and tried to insinuate itself
inside his coat, blowing strands of hair in his eyes. His
attempts to lodge the strands back into the simple braid
succeeded only in setting more strands free.
On a whim, he pulled the pin from his hair and let the
braid slither free. The wind infiltrated the strands like the
slenderest of fingers and lifted it from his scalp. It was a
wild feeling. A feeling of freedom. A minor freedom, with-
out doubt, but an accomplishment, even so.
He leaned his shoulder against a tree and closed his eyes,
feeling the strain seep out of his body into the tree's sturdy
bole, receiving, in his turn, a strength and vitality, almost
as though from the earth itself.
Slowly, around the edges of the breeze, came a sound so
like the wind and the birds in the trees that it took a mo-
ment for him to realize it was man-made.
A flute.
Curious, he followed the sweet sound to its source and
found a group of about a dozen trainees on their midday
break. They were lounging about the edges of a clearing,
where the torn and trampled ground, the practice weapons
and padding stacked at one end of the grass indicated
they'd spent the morning practicing.
The sound of the flute came from a slight figure dressed
in hiller garb and sitting among the men. Farther down the
hill, sheep dotted the grass.
In the center of the clearing ...
Mikhyel's heart stopped. His head grew light. He reached
a hand to the nearest tree and braced himself against its
solid mass, seeking, without success, that earlier stability.
Like a bird in flight, Temorii leaped and dived, swooped
and twisted in and around the flute's light melody. She was
everything of beauty he'd ever seen and like nothing he'd
seen before.
He told himself firmly he'd seen dancers before, dancers
of all varieties, and the best always had this ability to hold
an audience breathless. And ringdancers, with their gym-
nastic twisting flights among the rings were some of the
most spectacular.
But none had ever made his heart soar with them.
And this ringdancer had no rings, only her slender body
clothed in little more than a loincloth and one of his old
shirtsand a rope. She carried a short length of rope that
sometimes whippedlike a dance ringaround her as she
soared through the air, and sometimes snaked around her
body in undulating pathsthe way the radical streamer
slithered among the Tower rings. And at times the rope
floated high into the air, seemingly forgotten, until a toe
caught it and returned it toJher waiting hand.
Like a childan impossibly skilled and beautiful child
playing with a toy.
It was common knowledge that in Khoratum the radical
dance was different from all other nodes, but he'd been led
to believe, by the legal arguments, that it was the Khoratum
dance rings with their sharpened edges that created that
difference, not the dancers themselves.
For the last three years there had been ongoing debate
over whether or not the Khoratumin radical dance should
be outlawed. There were those who said the Khoratum
rings with their sharpened leading edges were too danger-
ous, and that the mystery surrounding the dance training
held too much religious connotation.
No one ever mentioned the magic that lay within the
dancers themselves. Seeing Temorii, he could well under-
stand why others might fear the standard such a dancer
might set.
Or perhaps it was only Temorii who could cast this par-
ticular spell. And perhaps only Mikhyel dunMheric who
could be so mesmerized.
(Oh, Tern . . .} he thought, and bit his lip to keep from
saying her name aloud. Her head twisted up and around,
and he thought, for a moment, she'd heard him, the way
his brothers could. But her eyes flitted past his shadow, the
flute shifted to a more sultry mood, and her dance flowed
to a different pace.
He rested his head against the tree, unable to pull himself
from the view. Only he, Deymorin would say, would fall in
love with the one person he knew he couldn't have. And
yet that inaccessibility was probably her greatest charm, his
most cynical self pointed out. She was safe for Mikhyel
dunMheric to love: she couldn't return his affection, and by
her very birth, she was utterly unsuitable for a Rhomandi to
wed.
He was (horrifying thought) as blindly, foolishly romantic
as Nikki.
But here in the trees, he could indulge, just for a mo-
ment, the sort of foolish dreams he'd never even thought
to have before.
Cheers rang out. She'd finished. He was free.
While the lounging men thronged about her, laughing
and exclaiming, and throwing "Thyerri" high in the air,
Mikhyel pushed away from the tree and began walking
back toward the camp. With half the distance yet to go,
the men began to rush past him, running, laughing, chal-
lenging one another to foot races.
Mikhyel stepped well off the path, moving slowly, sa-
voring his fleeting images.
"Khy? Khy, wait!" The voice of his dream cried out. A
voice that made a song of his name. "It came back today!
Khy, did you see? It was back!" And in the next moment,
light footfalls ran up behind him, and a hand grabbed his
arm. "Did you see, Khy? Did you?"
Her voice was breathless as she skipped along beside
him, the smile on her face wide and bright.
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
The smile dimmed, a line appeared between her brows.
"Well?"
It was Thyerri's cheeky demand, and Temorii's uncertain
plea all wrapped into one word.
He sought the control and the words, and neither came.
Temorii biinked and bit her lip. Then her face hardened,
the lower lip pouted ever so slightly, and his little brother
Thyerri said, "Never mind. I don't"
He stopped and caught her arm, interrupting her, forcing
her to face him.
"I think" His voice came out in a hoarse rush.. "I think
that you lied to me."
Her eyes went wide, her face blanched. "I"
"You said," he continued, "that you were the best
damned radical to ever challenge the Khoratum rings."
"I am."
He shook his head. "If that" He tipped his head back
toward the clearing. "is any indication, you're the best
damned radical to ever challenge any rings."
Her mouth snapped shut. Her head tipped, and then sun-
light again ruled her face. She laughed and grabbed his -
hands and began swinging him about.
He-protested and pulled her to a stop. He was gasping.
She stood staring at him. His hair had wrapped fine ten-
drils around their clasped hands as they whirled, keeping
them close. Without looking down, she freed the strands,
then twisted her fingers in and around them, absently play-
ing with his hair as she'd played with the rope, slowly add-
ing new strands to those she already held captive.
Breath came shallow and shaken. He opened his mouth,
wanting to free himself of her, but, eyes still locked on his,
she took a step uphill, away from the camp, and tugged
gently on the hair bridge between them.
"Come with me?" she pleaded. "Just to walk."
He thought of Paulis, and the letters, and what Ganfrion
would say about his going off alone . . . And then, he saw
Ganfrion, standing deep in the shadows of the trees . . .
which meant, Ganfrion wanted him to see. Which also
meant, Ganfrion would follow him.
And he could follow his . . . hand.
From that time on, it became a tacit agreement. Twice a
day, dressed in simple clothing of Ganfrion's provision, he'd
follow her up the mountain slopes. She teased him into run-
ning, albeit for very short distances, and showed him exer-
cises that had him finding muscles he'd never dreamed
existed.
Finding, but not debilitating them, as Ganfrion (from the
wicked jibes leveled at him across an evening fire) obvi-
ously anticipated. Thanks to Raulind's nightly massage and
healing  oils,  Ganfrion's  anticipation  was  doomed  to
disappointment.
It wasn't as if he'd led a sedentary life. Every city dweller
knew the dangers of growing too lazy. There was walking,
swimming, even the occasional workout in the gymnasium
with the Tower trainers. He wasn't Deymorin, who despite
his leg could challenge the best horsemen and fencers in
Rhomatum, and he certainly wasn't Nikki, whose youthful
vigor and enthusiasm more than made up for any lack in
talent or training. But he was healthy, in an average sort
of way, his body sufficient for the tasks he'd set it.
Compared to Temorii, he was an unformed child.
Temorii danced, even without music. Or her movellRent
was . . . visual music. Or she made any sound into music.
There were no words to describe that which the sight of
her skipping and tumbling and spinning along a mountain
trail created inside him. His greatest difficulty in following
her instructions was the constant temptation simply to
watch her move.
For himself, he considered it an accomplishment when,
on the morning before they were scheduled to leave for
Khoratum, he finally managed thirty pushups with some
ease. Even as he congratulated himself, Temonii laughed
and crawled onto his back, bugging him, and ordered ten
more.
He struggled through two, collapsed, and cursed.
She laughed. "You're too easy on yourself, Khy."
"So why don't you try it?"
She poised on hands and toes; he stared at her.
"Climb aboard," she said.
"Tern, for"
She jerked her head toward her back. He knew, by now,
better than to argue with her.
The first few she managed without noticeable strain. At
seven, she struggled far more than he had at two, and by
nine, she was shaking so badly he feared for her joints. But
she refused to stop, and he dared not move. She'd taught
him how vital balance was, and he wasn't confident enough
of his own skill to get off without ruining one of those thin,
straining wrists.
And she, who had taught him that precaution, straight-
ened her arms for the tenth time, and lowered again, her
body all the while tight as a drumhead beneath him.
"Now, Khy," she whispered, and he was off.
She  collapsed,  sobbing  with  effort.  And  cursing.
Vehemently.
He stroked her back and her hair, fighting the desire to
take her into his arms. "I'm sorry. Tern," he said, "I should
never have challenged you."
"I sh-should have b-been able to . . ." Her whisper
caught, and she buried her face in an arm.
"Should, maybe, but to push yourself too hard . . . to
risk permanent damage. Nothing can be worth that, Tern."
"And that was nothing compared to the challenges we
used to make to one another in practice."
She rolled over and lifted herself cautiously, seeming to
check each joint and muscle, rising clear to her feet, stretch-
ing, testing, until she was satisfied. Then she settled beside
him, legs crossed, back straight but relaxed.
"Risk,  Khy,  is  attacking the  rings with  insufficient
strength. Risk is not being willing to challenge death with
each and every breath, because uncommitted moves are the
essence of failure, and failure on the rings is synonymous
with death."
Real death, or figurativeto a dancer like Temorii, there
was no difference. He'd watched, with his heart in his
throat as she tumbled along a sheer cliff edge, or jumped
an abyss without a second thought to the death that lay a
misstep away. For Temorii, to dance was to live. It was also
to defy death.
A fact of which he reminded himself as his longing flared
without warning. But it was easier, now, than it had been a
week ago, to tame his passion. He knew now that whatever
happened in Khoratum, he could not be responsible for
preventing so great a talent from fulfilling its obvious
destiny.
Which altruism did not mean he didn't regret the loss.
Just his luck, to finally find those elusive urges in himself,
only to have to deny they existed.
A callused hand covered his. A hand that, save for her
calluses and his manicure was not so different. She was an
illiterate entertainer from the Khoramali Hills, he was from
the center of the civilized world, beneficiary of the greatest
tutors of the age, and yet they had the same long, thin
fingers, the same prominent knuckles and veins.
Who knew what else they might share?
Almost without conscious thought, he turned his hand to
clasp hers and reached for that inner spark he believed he'd
sensed the first time they met, the awareness he himself had
shut down. And for the first time since they'd left Khora-
tum, he realized how . . . empty he felt, that he actually
missed that sense of {Deymorin} and {Nikki} underneath
his skin.
And for a moment, he thought he did sense a shimmering
on the other side, her side. A shimmer, but no more, a~dd
even that much could have just been imagination. T<* i
much of wishing, perhaps, for that ability to exist beyoi*
himself and his brothers, too much of hoping for that king

of similarity, that level of . . . sharing.                  J*
He retreated to discover her luminous eyes fastened on
him. Wide, unblinking. The tinge of spring green pulsed
deeper with each passing moment. He couldn't move,
couldn't look away, and Temorii seemed similarly trans-
fixed. She gripped her lower lip between her teeth, and her
hand clenched his.
Then her other hand lifted, trembling, and touched his
face, traced the narrow line of his close-cropped beard. Her
index finger brushed along his lips
With a painful inner strain, he wrenched freeenough
at least to close his own eyes. She gave a soft cry and
collapsed against him.
Somewhere, he found an ice within himself that held him
steady and kept his arms from encircling her until she gath-
ered herself together, jumped to her feet, and raced down
the hill.
By the time he caught up with her, they were in camp,
and swept up in the flurry of packing for Khoratum.
Chapter Mine

Mikhyel sat passively beside the open window while
Raulind combed the morning tangles from his hair and
braided it in the old, familiar pattern.
On his own, Mikhyel had settled for less. Far less.
Outside that open window of the third-story Khoratum
Tower complex ranged a vastly different view of Khoratum
than the one he'd grown to know in those foot-flattening
treks. From here, the alleyways, and trash-ridden wind-
eddies of Lesser Khoratum where those like young Thyerri
fought to survive, were nothing more than blue mountain
shadows among multitextured rooftops.
Clustered in a band around the Khoratum Tower com-
plex, and insinuating tendrils outward into those relatively
crude structures of the previous mountain village, were
buildings more familiar to a Rhomatumin eye. Large build-
ings, with impressive, complex facades, but somehow out
of place here in the wild beauty of the Khoramali.
Closest to his window were the oldest structures in Khor-
atum: the final remnant of a pre-Rhomatum fortress. Local
legend, according to Nikki's notes, provided no clues to
the original owners of the fortress. Like many similar ruins
scattered about the Rhomatum Web, Rhomatum-bred his-
torians attributed the fortress to an unknown people who
had abandoned their massive stone fortresses long before
the Darian exodus and the capping of Rhomatum.
The current, most popular theory, placed the blame for
that withdrawal on the capping of Persitum, an act that
made the Rhomatum Valley the perimeter of the Mauritum
Web, and subject to violent, uncontrolled storms. Seeing a
sample of those ruins restored here, Mikhyel questioned
that theory. The massive, solid stone structure would have
provided their makers protection as effective as those caves
Ganfrion's men had camped near.
A man whose window on history was confined to one
man's viewpoint had to wonder if that one man had al-
lowed the entire truth to survive living memory, had to
wonder whether Darius' high-handed bid for independence
hadn't affected the lives of far more individuals than those
who had followed him out of Mauritum.
It made a man anxious, who wanted to be a good law-
maker, who wanted only the best for his own City, made
him wonder what his valley shadows concealed, made him
wonder who his own ancestors had summarily displaced in
the name of personal exigency.
From here, the native Khoratumin were simply tiny bod-
ies bobbing about the streets in seemingly aimless patterns.
From here, it was all too easy to believe one's own way of
life superior, and those bodies downhill mere sheep in need
of hording.
Mikhyel understood now, in a way he never had before,
why Deymorin had so vehemently fought the capping of
Khoratum. Deymorin had fought for the rights of the valley
farmers who had owned and worked the land closest to
Rhomatum and who had been displaced when the Rhoma-
tum umbrella expanded, but their situation was not all that
different than the villagers of this once-thriving community.
In the way of node umbrellas, the capping of Khoratum
had caused once vital soil to go infertile within the vicinity
of the node. Developers had moved in and built, ready to
take advantage of the new and growing market, as miners
moved in, ready to tap the surrounding hills.
But the village and farms that had occupied these lands
before Anheliaa's expansionist supporters had taken con-
trol of them had supported hundreds of people, honest,
unsophisticated people who either adapted to the city life
or tried to relocate in a land already well populated. Forc-
ing that choice arbitrarily upon people, he was willing now
to make the judgment, was wrong.
Deymorin would be amused. Deymorin was also going
to gloat for at least a month after he admitted that.
He pulled his dressing robe more securely against a sud-
den breeze, but had no inclination to close the window.
Deymorin would also be amused at this preference he'd
developed for the scent of the wind off Mount Khoratum.
It wasn't, he decided, that he believed progress in and of
itself was wrong, it was the destructive employment of that
progress to which he objected. There was nothing the Syn-
dicate could do for those long-dead victims of their ances-
tors' actions, but for those victimized by the Syndicate's
own actionsthose like Thyerri and those other dots wan-
dering about Khoratum's streets through no fault of their
ownfor those, there had to be a fair and new beginning.
A beginning that could not include Rhyys dunTarec; of
that, he was certain.
Mikhyel dunMheric had arrived in Khoratum five days
ago. He'd arrived on schedule, with a very small entourage,
and an utter lack of fanfare. A minor attendant to Rhyys
had seen them settled here in the Tower Complex, had
handed Mikhyel an itinerary of tours that Rhyys had ar-
ranged in his honor, and a list of those individuals currently
in residence within Khoratum that he might care to contact,
and that was the last they'd seen of Rhyys' personal staff.
Of Rhyys himself, they'd seen nothing. The official word
from Rhyys' staff to Mikhyel's was that Rhyys had been
thrown off-schedule by Mikhyel's early (according to his
original itinerary) arrival. The plans for the celebrations
that were to precede the dance competition that was to be
the highlight of Mikhyel's visit were all of them falling
apart, and Rhyys was too distraught to see him.
It was a tactic, Ganfrion assured him, familiar to Rhyys'
household staff. Rhyys, according to his staff, would drop
out of sight for days at a time to give the appearance of
great demands on his time. Sometimes, this retreat took
place into the Tower, more often than not, these days, into
his bedroom.
When asked who minded the Tower at such times, the
staff had no answer, except to say that since the energy
flow from the Tower improved, no one complained. Appar-
ently the Khoratum Rings, like the Khoratum Tower staff,
were more efficient without, than with, their hand-picked
master.
A fact Mikhyel dunMheric conscientiously recorded in
his notebook.
Considering the length of the list he was compiling
against the Khoratumin ringmaster, he was increasingly
perplexed at Anheliaa's selection of Rhyys in the first place.
Anheliaa might have enjoyed those who catered to her van-
ity,  but her first  and foremost consideration had  always
been for the web.
He had to wonder whether this Rhyys was the same one
she'd trained, or if somethingperhaps even just the han-
dling of so much powerhad changed him.
History notwithstanding, while Anheliaa had chosen
Rhyys and recommended him as the first ringmaster, his
appointment had been ratified by all the stockholders of
the young City. No Rhomandi could depose Rhyys, but
those same investors might well be induced to get rid of
him should he be exposed as incompetent in terms busi-
nessmen understood.
However with leaders and ringmasters from all over the
Northern Crescent crowding into tiny Khoratum as Rhyys'
personal guests, now was hardly the optimum moment to
challenge Rhyys' hold over his little pocket kingdom.
In every sense, Rhyys was the weak link in their plan to
restore the Khoratum line. For the time being and in the
interest of the web, he had to convince Rhyys to cooperate
with all the other ringmasters. Northern and Southern, long
enough to repair the Khoratum line. Keep things calm,
keep them cooperative until the web was at full strength.
Prove to themselves and the web that Rhomatum was
under control, and he would be able to legally request
Rhyys' replacement.
On the other hand, perhaps, a simple bribe
"Breakfast!" The cheerful announcement accompanied
an organized chaos that took over his sitting room. Mikhyel
sat back and enjoyed the performance of the young man
authoritatively arranging the items to his satisfaction. When
the harried footmen finally departed, the lad hopped over
to Mikhyel's chair, bowed deeply over an exceedingly
shapely leg, and announced, through an unruly flop of hair:
"Your breakfast is served, m'lord dunMheric."
Mikhyel laughed, and rose from the grooming chair to
settle into the imperiously indicated throne at the head of
the table. But when the cocky brat flipped a napkin into a
neat triangle and spread it across Mikhyel's lap, he grabbed
the cloth up and snapped the lad with a technique his fin-
gers remembered from childhood with Deymorin, though
his mind had long since forgotten.
"Thyerri, sit!" he demanded, and the brat, rather like
one of Deymorin's well-trained hounds, flopped to the floor
beside his chair, to stare up at him with a puppy's adoring,
and rather vacant expression.
He buried his face in his hands and strove for control.
He nearly achieved itthen he made the mistake of again
looking down.
Raulind had settled at Mikhyel's right (the same side as
the puppy) and was helping himself to a hearty breakfast
(Mikhyel having long ago established that he'd rather have
company for breakfast than a servant hovering about in the
corners) and the fact that Raulind ignored the puppy made
its behavior increasingly outrageous.
But when Raulind tossed "it" a scrap of ham (which it
caught, amazingly, in its mouth) Mikhyel shoved his chair
back, hauled the youngster up, and plunked him into his
chair on the left hand side of the table.
"Behave," he said firmly, and the puppy miraculously
transformed into the young woman he'd spirited out of
Khoratum thirteen days before.
Raulind passed her the basket of hot, hard-crusted rolls.
Mikhyel laughed and began dishing up his own breakfast.
So much depended on factors as yet opaque to him. The
men Deymorin had sent with Ganfrion had joined the
ranks of the other armed guards encamped at various
points around the lake that spread southward outside Khor-
atum's city wall.
There was, Ganfrion reported, an uneasy truce among
the  various  companies.  Men  hired  and  trained  for
peacekeeping within their home territory, suddenly and
without explanation drawn into close association with other
trained men, from other nodes, were naturally suspicious
of one another. They'd been left to wonder if they'd been
brought to Khoratum to protect their employer from these
men camped to either side of them or to join forces with
them against some as yet unspecified common enemy.
The largest contingent was out of Giephaetum, and no
small part of it were Giebhaidii men. Nethaalye's father,
Errif, was indeed in Khoratum, along with several of Neth-
aalye's cousins and uncles. One of those cousins had been
the leader of the pack that had attacked Temorii.
Such coincidences did make a man at least wonder about
Temorii's Rakshi, and whether or not that fickle godling
did indeed rule this area of the world.
Ganfrion had obtained revised estimates on the private
guards gathering outside the Khoratum perimeter, and
while substantial, Ganfrion felt they couldn't really pose a
meaningful threat to Rhomatum, decentralized as they
were. Which analysis had not stopped Mikhyel from re-
porting to Deymorin, via that internal link, that transferring
his training maneuvers to the Mount Khoratum district
might not be a bad notion. To which Deymorin agreed.
Mikhyel pretended not to notice that Deymorin was al-
ready on the Khoratum leyline. Pretended as well that the
thoughts of messengers already sent to several coastal
camps had not seeped through.
Such forethought and maneuvering was, after all, why
Deymorin was sleeping out under the stars and he was here
in the rather cumbersome Tower of Khoratum, smiling po-
litely at men who patently distrusted him.
While Mikhyel had not avoided Nethaalye's father, nei-
ther had he sought him out, having decided he was here
primarily to react, not to act. He'd have preferred as well
to watch, not be watched, but that was a forlorn hope in-
deed. He was quite certain his every public exhalation
made it into at least one notebook.
He'd seen Errif at a formal dinner in the house of one
Mosharni dunSharn, originally of Giephaetum, and one of
the few valley investors who actually maintained a house-
hold here in Khoratum. As there had been some fifty-odd
guests and nearly as many servants to attend them, 'a.nd as
Errif always chanced to have his back to Mikhyel whenever
the crush eased between them, it was possible no one no-
ticed that they never exchanged so much as a nod.
Possible, but not highly probable.
For the most part, he was ignored. Ostensibly. The fact
was, these men didn't know how much he knew, or how
much of his image was conjecture and how much an accu-
rate assessment of his affiliations. He was here to meet with
Rhyys, and their actions, it appeared, were geared toward
that meeting: their animosity was not likely tQ change until
he could meet face-to-face with Rhyys. When that encoun-
ter finally materialized, he might, with luck, gain Rhyys'
confidence. If he could convince Rhyys they were both An-
heliaa's men, he might uncover all their sordid plans.
And he had a secondary reason for pressing a meeting
with Rhyys. He was still no closer to fulfilling his personal
promise to Temorii. He was, he feared, a fool to worry
about such a minor failing, when there were so many
greater problems to be solved, but it wasn't a minor failing
to Temorii.
And he had promised to try.
Temorii insisted that he shouldn't worry. She left each
day and went into the hills alone to exercise. When he
asked how she got in and out, she laughed and said that,
considering the warren of passages beneath the old fortress
that comprised half the Tower complex, he shouldn't be
surprised if he should one day wake up inside the mountain
and beneath a pile of rubble.
But even as she laughed, her eyes would drift toward the
northwestern wall of the room, beyond which lay the dance
stadium. Her face would grow somber and that haunted
look that was the first thing he'd noticed about her returned
to her eyes.
Temorii believed in him and in his intentions, but she
didn't trust him, didn't expect the miracle to happen.
There was still time. The precise date for the competition
was still pendingthe integrity of the dance rings them-
selves now being in question. But that problem would soon
be solved, the competition would be scheduled, and Temor-
ii's opposition, who even now trained daily on the practice
rings,  would  soon  be  given  time  on  the  dance  rings
themselves.
If she was to have any chance at all, she would have to
join their ranks soon.
But Rhyys had ignored his attempts to see him, and with-
out facing Rhyys directly, he had no leverage to get her
included in the upcoming competition. Somehowtoday
he had to get in to see Rhyys.
As if in answer to that thought (except that similar
thoughts had come to him several times a day since he'd
entered Khoratum) the door to his guest suite crashed
open, and without so much as a by your leave, Rhyys dun-
Tarec himself strode through.
Rhyys looked older than Mikhyel had expected. The last
time he'd seen the Khoratumin Ringmaster had been at
Nikki's wedding, only some three months ago. It might
have been thirty years. But Rhyys, according to Nikki's
notes, was an ocarshi addict, and the experts said, after a
certain point, the narcotic never quite left your system, and
your muscles and nerves never quite worked again.
Considering the way Rhyys slouched there in the door-
way, considering the pouty sneer that appeared a perma-
nent fixture on his face, and the heavy-lidded eyes that
sluggishly took in the room, Mikhyel could believe that
assessment. And in that assessment, could also believe he
saw the source of Rhyys' decay from the man Anheliaa
had chosen to rule Khoratum.
Like an actor, Rhyys waited until all eyes in the theater
were upon him, then slammed the door shut on the guards
waiting to follow him into the room. There came no protest
from the guards still in the hall. Neither did they reopen
the door. Which made Mikhyel wonder whether they cared
if anything happened to their exalted employer.
"Hello, dunTarec," Mikhyel said blandly. "Joining us
for breakfast?"
But Rhyys ignored him, assuming Rhyys heard him.
Rhyys addressed Temorii directly.
"So," he hissed, "the kitchen-scut was telling the truth.
I thought I told you never to come in here again."
Temorii's chin raised proudly. "Since when has it been
polite to ignore a visiting dignitary's request for dinner?"
"Dinner? A bit early for that, isn't it?"
"You know very well when I came in."
"More importantly, I know when you're leaving.
Guards!"
The door openedmore politely than Rhyys had done.
The two surly guards stepped in and posed on either side
of the door, arms akimbo, staring straight ahead.
For a moment, Mikhyel thought Temorii was going to
resist, but then, her eyes flickered toward him, and her
shoulders slumped:
She stood up and faced Mikhyel. "Farewell, m'lord. And
thank you for the meals and the bath, and . . . well, thank
you. This creature will fry to embarrass you over my being
here, and I'm sorry for that. I tried to warn you."
"Creature? I'm a creature?"
Temorii flushed. "M'lord Rhyys, please. I'msorry."
Mikhyel could tell she nearly choked on the apology.
"Let it be enough," she continued, and the defeated note
in her voice ripped at Mikhyel's heart. "I was filthy and
cold. Lord dunMheric offered me a bath and a place to
stay"
"He has none of those things to .give! They were mine.
Not his."
"Rings, man, I'll pay you for them," Mikhyel broke in,
"you unfeeling"
He caught himself, rather appalled at his lack of control.
Antagonizing Rhyys was by no means his intention.
"Don't say something you'll regret later, dunMheric."
Rhyys stared down his nose at them both. "You've no idea
what this individual did."
"I'm certain you intend to enlighten me, so why not get
on with it?"
"I gave this uncivilized hill creature a safe harbor for
years, gave it time on the ringsout of the goodness of my
heart. Just because it might be a distant relative."
"You gave me nothing, Rhyys. Nothing. I worked"
"When it suited you. When you were not off roaming
the hillside like the wild goat you are. And in the end, it
was all for nothing. Talent you might have. But courage,
cleverness . . . those, you lack in embarrassing proportions.
I lost a great deal of money, that day, not to mention the
humiliation."
Temorii just stared at Rhyys as if he'd gone mad. But to
Mikhyel Rhyys always sounded rather as if he were speak-
ing from a script. It would be perfectly well in character
for Rhyys to have spent the past several days editing and
practicing the script for this moment, particularly if Rhyys
had known all along, as Temorii had accused, that Temorii
was here with him.
"Money?" Mikhyel repeated. "Humiliation? Would you
care to explain?"
"This individual to whom you gave safe haven, dun-
Mheric, is a would-have-been ringdancer."
"Yes," Mikhyel answered. "So?"
"On the day of the trials, one after another of the com-
petitors made it through the maze. Some faster than others,
but all made it through. All but one. The arbiter called
number thirteen. I held my breath until I nearly passed out,
the suspense was thrilling, I assure you. And we waited.
And waited. And waited. Until well into darkness. But no
number seventeen. All my bets lost, because this creature
was too stupid and too cowardly to confront the maze.
Days later, it showed up at the Tower door, starving, de-
manding entry..."
"Lies . . ." Temorii's whisper brushed the air. "I never
came back here. The rings had crashed"
DunTarec's hate and scorn raked Temorii's determinedly
straight figure. "After the competition was complete."
And not even you can get it for me, Barrister.
"Lies," Temorii's response was a breath deep in her
throat.
"I have your petition. . . . It's in the files somewhere
as if I'd ever let such an ungrateful creature beneath my
roof again."
Temorii's mouth curled in a snarl, but her head bowed,
and she took a step for the door, but Mikhyel placed a
hand on her arm. He had all he needed to know on which
side truth balanced. Rhyys had been in Rhomatum for
Nikki's wedding. The web had collapsed two days later fol-
lowing the Boreton Firestorm. Without Mother's help,
Rhyys could not have been here for the competition.
And something told him Mother would not welcome
Rhyys within her lair, even had she had been able, with
the damage to the Khoratum line.
"You say Temorii showed up at your front door, not at
the gateway to the arena," Mikhyel said, assuming a modi-
fied court-voice. "Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"No one saw her leave the maze?"
"Of course not. As I said, it was days later"
"As I understand the arrangement you made with Tem-
orii, she was to be led in once, and come through the maze
and into the arena once, on her own."
Rhyys frowned impatiently. "Yes. Yes! Once. One time
only!"
"And you say no one saw her exit into the maze?"
"No! Coward, I say!"
"Since no one saw Tern walk into the arena, who can
say she did? And if she can enter the courtyard, without
being led in, shouldn't she be allowed to dance?"
"Khy''
"It is what you want, isn't it. Tern?"
"Yes, but"
He shook his head, a quick jerk, and she shut up, but the
hand she reached to ease herself into the chair was shaking.
Rhyys was watching them with narrowed eyes, taking in
gods knew what. Then, in a run that had the sound of a
rehearsed speech, Rhyys said:
"I see why Rhomatum Council jumps to your call, dun-
Mheric. You make even the impossible sound plausible.
Fine. Keep your bed warmer here. Enjoy it while you can."
He turned to leave, paused with his hand on the door,
and swung back with a theatrical flourish. "By the way," he
said, in a thoroughly pleasant tone, "welcome to Kho~atum,,
Mikhyel. I do hope you enjoy your stay."
And then they were alone.
Temorii was shaking.
"That was your great solution?" She thrust herself from
the chair and paced the room. "I can't believe I let myself
trust you."
She slammed across the room and into the antechamber
in which she slept. Doors slammed. Drawers did. She ap-
peared moments later, wrapping a sash about the hiller
clothing she wore in her outside excusions.
"Tern, please, sit down. Talk sense with me."
"No! I've listened to you too much already."
"Tern, dammit, it was too easy! We've got to talk"
She shook her head, a violent wrenching motion. Tears
were streaming down her face, and shaking fingers made
her movements with the sash awkward. He tried to still her
hands, tried to calm her, but she jerked free, cursed at him,
and fled out the door.
He stared at Raulind, who, for once, looked as con-
founded as Mikhyel felt.
<gt    <gt   ~
"I want to dance," Thyerri said. He sat cross-legged in
one of Scarface's best chairs, his elbows propped on his
thighs, his chin propped on his clenched fists.
"I told you the scut would come," Rhyys said, not to
Thyerri, but to Scarface, sitting at his ease in another chair.
"I want to dance!" Thyerri hissed.
"So . . . dance!" Scarface waved a languid hand. The
ocarshi was thick here today: Scarface must be in greater
pain than usual.
Good, Thyerri thought, and then threw that anger away.
Cool head. Confidence. That was what he needed to dance.
Not anger. Not thoughts of Tamshi eyes and rijhili thieves
and rijhili lies.
"I want to compete."
"Oh, now that's different, isn't it, Rhyys?"
"You'll compete again when I'm reborn a woman,"
Rhyys sneered.
"Then you'll get no more from me."
Thyerri snapped his feet free and jumped out of the
chair. An explosion inside his head sent him reeling back.
When his vision and mind cleared, he was sprawled awk-
wardly across the chair, and a scarred hand gripped his
neck, holding him there.
"I warned you, boy," Scarface said.
"Go ahead," Thyerri spat. "Kill me. If I can't dance,
dead is better."
"Has dunMheric bedded her yet?"
"No! Nor will!"
The hand released him and cracked across his face. For
a moment, he couldn't hear past the ringing in his ears.
When he could, he hauled himself straight in the chair.
"So, dunMheric's lost interest."
Thyerri shrugged.
Rhyys laughed. "Don't believe it, Mauritum. / saw him
this morning."
"Interested, but chaste. How noble. And if I said that's
the price of your competing?"
"No!" Rhyys shouted. "I told you, I wouldn't allow"
Scarface turned that smile on Rhyys. Rhyys blanched,
then muttered, "What difference does it make?" And left
the room.
"Now, boy," Scarface said, "let's talk about you . . ."
~ ~ d
A gilt-edged invitation to dinner arrived from Rhyys.
Mikhyel sent his own card back declining, politely. He had
the headache.
Which was only the truth. But if he hadn't had, he'd
have cultivated one; let Rhyys explain his absence to his
fine friends.
Of course, he might have felt differently if Ganfrion
hadn't shown up well into the evening with a fancy variety
platter of breads and fruits and cheeses from a kitchen
supposedly too busy to come up with a bowl of soup.
"Did you find her?" Mikhyel asked as he settled into a
chair, wine on one side, the bread and cheese on the other.
On the far side of the cheese, Ganfrion lounged side-
ways, one leg thrown over the chair arm. He accepted a
wineglass from Raulind, took a sip before he answered:
"No."
"Rings, she's been gone for hours. She must have gone
outside."
Ganfrion shrugged. "You got her her competition,
didn't you?"
"She doesn't believe I can make good on my side of
the bargain."
"Can you?"
"I think so."
"She'll return."
Mikhyel didn't dispute. Likely she would. But he'd not
be surprised if she didn't. Temorii, for all she captivated
him, was in every way the wildest creature he'd ever
been near.
Besides, there were more important issues in his life than
who would be the next radical dancer of Khoratum.
"I've a question for you, Gan."
Ganfrion lifted his glass in invitation.
"When Rhyys came in this morning, his attitude was . . .
well, just a bit too . . . He's always seemed rather melodra-
matic, so I might be reading something into his perfor-
mance that wasn't there, but it felt as if he came in ready
to perform a role. And when he agreed to my terms, it was
too pat. Could he have known what I planned to ask? I
mean, regarding Temorii. Or did he even care? Would he
have agreed to any request? Is he setting us all up with the
competition, refusing her so arbitrarily? Rings" He
nearly choked on the thought. "Could she be part of his
plan?"  -
This time, it was Ganfrion's eyebrows that lifted. And
Ganfrion's eyes shifted to Raulind. "Did you say something
to him?"
Raulind shook his head. Raulind did not look happy.
"Very good. Suds."
"What's that all about?"
"Only that Raul and I were discussing that very possibil-
ity earlier. Raul, it seems, had the same impression. Just
complimenting you on your growing acuity."
"And?"
"I'd say" Another glance toward Raulind, and a sigh.
"Yes, Rhomandi, there's a damned good chance he knew."
"How?" He steeled himself to hear Temorii had been
planted on him, but:
"The . . . street-boy, Thyerri? I've been following him."
"Thyerri? Why? How long?"
"Off and on. Since before you came out."
"Checking up on me, were you?"
Ganfrion shrugged.
Mikhyel grunted. "Why Thyerri?"
"Followed him from your hidey to the Tower. Several
times. He's been a regular visitor. Both sides, unless I miss
my bet. I think . . ." Ganfrion shifted, dropped his foot
down and leaned forward to balance his elbows on his
knees.  Glanced  again  at  Raul,  then  faced  Mikhyel
straightly. "Just be careful, Khyel. I'll watch Thyerri. You
watch Temorii. I'm . . . impressed that you are even able
to suspect her. But by Rakshi, man, be careful what you
say and do. You're talking about a true dancer. And noth-
ing stands between a dancer and a chance to dance."
"Experience, Gan?"
"Experience." Ganfrion drained his glass and stood up.
"I think I'll be going now."
"Aren't you going to help me with this?" Mikhyel asked,
gesturing toward the food.
Ganfrion shook his head. "Got plenty while I was talking
them out of yours. Save it for Temorii. The mountains
make a man hungry."
Mikhyel nodded.
"Just in case you're interested," Ganfrion added, hand
on the door. "I've a lead on what these rijhili might be
up to."
"Damn you, Ganfrion. Why didn't you say so?"
"Didn't ask, did you?"
"Too fixed on the woman?" Mikhyel asked, and Gan-
frion shrugged.
"They're planning a demonstration. Involving the nodes.
When, where, and exactly what, I don't know for certain.
I suspect they're going to coordinate all right. Maybe a
shutdown. Whole Northern Crescent."
"Complete what Persitum started?" Mikhyel asked, and
Ganfrion nodded.
"I'm also quite certain at least one Mauritumin is in-
volved. High up. Very high up." He nodded and opened
the door. "I'll be in touch."
Mikhyel glared after him, tempted to follow and demand
a better explanation, but knowing there was no more. Ru-
mors passed on, that's all it was. But rumors Ganfrion had
a great deal of confidence in, else he would have said
moreor less.
Ganfrion was trusting him to be able to put two and
three together and figure the possibilities on his own. If
Mauritum was involved, they might be planning something
far more ambitious than a shutdown. With Persitum back
in line, they'd have the entire Northern half of the web,
and ten of the eighteen nodes. One of them directly con-
nected to Mauritum.
And Garetti wanted Rhomatum. Ruined or healthy, he
wanted Rhomatum.
He'd contact his brothers laterafter his head stopped
poundingand warn them, such as there was to be
warned against.
In the meantime . . . "What was that all about?" he
asked Raulind.
"The web, sir. I believe he was saying the Northern Cres-
cent plans to shut out Rhomatum. Which seems suicidal to
me, but"
"Not that, Raul. Temorii. Thyerri. Gan was lying to me."
"Not lying, m'lord."
"Not telling all he knows! Or, rather, not telling me."
"He did speak to me first, sir. And rightly, under the
circumstances, I believe. He doesn't know anything. He con-
jectures. I suggested he keep his conjectures to himself."
"You suggested."
"Yes, sir."
"Conjectures. Regarding Temorii? And her involvement
with Rhyys' conspiracy?"
"Indirectly, sir."
"Directly?"
"I'd rather not say, sir."
Mikhyel wasn't certain whether to laugh or dismiss his
oldest companion.
"Is this mutiny, Raul?"
"No, sir. Equity."  .
"And if I ordered you to explain?"
"I'm afraid I'd have to quit, sir."
"Quit. Just like that."
"Yes, sir."
Suddenly, the conversation lost any hint of humor. Tem-
orii had been a personal project, an indulgence. Now, she
seemed to be encroaching directly on the safety of his real
purpose here.
"Who are you protecting, Raul?"
"You, m'lord Mikhyel."
"Explain."
"If Can is correct, and you are not told, no one is hurt
when the truth comes outand it will, if Gan is correct. If
I am correct, and he tells you his suspicions, I might never
recover a friend I've come to hold very dear."
"Meaning, whatever Thyerri and Temorii are involved
in, I should allow them to play it out for a while."
"Something like that, m'lord."
"Damn it, Raul, this isn't a game!"
"I'm well aware of that, m'lord."
And Raulind knew as much about web politics as Mi-
khyel dunMheric. And far more about people.
He pressed fingers into his eyes, striving to counteract the
pounding, internal pressure. Whatever Ganfrion suspected,
whatever Raulind did, it could wait until morning. Perhaps
longer. He could order Ganfrion to explain, and Ganfrion
would, but he would lose Raulind if he did ask. Raulind
didn't make meaningless threats.
And it was too soonmuch too soonfor that sacrifice.
"Do m& a favor?" he asked.
"Of course, m'lord."
"Help me get rid of this damnable headache."
He was lying facedown on the grooming table, half-
asleep, with Raulind's spidery fingers working their magic
on the knots in his back and shoulders when the entry bell
rang. Insistently.
"I'll see who it is, sir," Raulind murmured, and draped
a bathing sheet over him.
He kept his face buried in his crossed arms, trusting
Raulind to get rid of whoever it was. After some unmarked
time, Raulind returned and was once again working on his
back. Tentatively at first, then hard enough to wake him up.
"Raul. what"
A murmur and fingers poked his ribs. He yelped and
struggled upright, still groggy. But the tickling fingers pur-
sued him, and giggles filled the room.
"Dammit!" He swung his legs over the side of the table,
swept his blinding fall of hair back, while simultaneously
defending his ribs from Temorii's relentless pursuit. Even-
tually, he got his hands on her wrists and held them away
long enough to catch his breath. She was still giggling.
He thought, from the smell of her breath, she might be
drunk. When she collapsed forward against his chest, he
was certain of it. He cursed softly, put his arm around her
shoulders, and brushed the hair off her face.
Her head fell back, she smiled up at him, for all she
couldn't see him, not with those distended, half-crossed pu-
pils. Her fingers tickled his ribs again; he jumped, she gig-
gled, and wrapped her arms around his neck.
He searched the room desperately for Raulind, but
Raulind had deserted him, gone to his own peripheral room
and shut the door.
"Tern," he said, "I think we should"
Her mouth stopped him. He groaned and fought the in-
clination to crush her to him. She was fully clothed and
drunk. He was bare beneath the sheet and too damned
sober.
"I came back, Khy," she whispered against his lips. "I
wasn't going to, but I came back." She pressed against him
and buried her fingers in his hair. "You lied to me. Said
you'd get me the dance, and you can't. But you didn't mean
to lie to me, did you, Khy? You didn't mean to be cruel
and make me hope?"
"Tern, please." He held her back, and for a moment she
hung between his hands, swaying, then she wrenched free
with a cry, and flung herself at his waist, holding as if for
her very life.
"You do want me, Khy, don't you?" she murmured into
his side, and one hand ran up under the sheet to caress
his thigh.
"More than life itself," he said, and his voice sounded
hoarse, even to his ears, but he pulled free of her, never
mind it left the sheet behind, found his quilted-satin robe
and buttoned it securely, as she sank to the floor in a ball.
If she was Rhyys' plant, it was only the offer of the dance
that had driven her to this action, only the excess of wine
that made it possible. Rhyys might well hope to establish
some hold over Mikhyel dunMheric through this painfully
vulnerable conduit.
Painful indeedfor both of them. He wanted her, he
couldn't deny that fact, but not this way. She thought she
had no options.
He knew better.
When he had himself under control, he returned to her
and drew her to her feet.
"More than life itself," he repeated. "More than my life.
But not more than yours."
She put her arms back around his neck; he pulled them
free.
"Listen to me, Tern." And when her mouth sought his
again, he shook her. "Listen to me! I wasn't lying to Rhyys.
We can get you inside without anyone seeingat least, I
think we can."
The momentary spark of hope faded from her eyes and
her head fell forward to lie against his chest.
"I should have warned you before I brought it up with
Rhyys. I'm sorry. I'd simply lost track of what I'd told you
and what I had not. There is a way, but I haven't been
able to test it yet. If not? What have you lost?"
Her head came up, and her tear-filled eyes said:
everything.
He brushed the hair back from her face. "I want to go
with you into the hills tomorrow."
Chapter Ten

"It's getting late, Nikki," Lidye's breath brushed his ear; he
noddedand added another figure to the growing column.
"You must sleep, darling."
"And Deymorin needed these supplies yesterday. It's
early in the season. We've had two indifferent crops here
in the valley, so even if we could afford to buy food indefi-
nitely, the supply might not be there. There's the City's
supply, but if Kirish'lan takes offense, as your father threat-
ened"
"He didn't threaten, Nikki. That was a warning of what
promises had been made."
"Well, Kirish'lan expected part interest in a Tower that
might not happen for years, if at all. They supply half our
grain and dairy supplies."
He dropped the pen and buried his face in his hands,
rubbing his eyes fiercely.
"I simply had no idea, Liddi, how dependent we'd
become."
"How could you, when Shatum has been the clearing
house. You-all the nodesbuy grain from Shatum. That
Shatumin fields have not produced the grain they sold was
not their responsibility to reveal. Their profit margin was
better on silk worms."
Nikki grunted. "I wonder if they're edible."
"What?"
"Silk worms," he answered, but his attention drifted back.
to the papers in front of him. "Perhaps, if we trained the
men, then let them return home, keeping only token forces
in the watchtowers . . . We'd need reliable quick-muster
procedures, but"
"Nikki, come to bed. You can't solve it all tonight."
He sighed, and pushed back from the table still staring
at the maps and columns of figures, knowing the perfect
solution existed, somewhere in the mass of information.
Except, they didn't have all the information. Not the giv-
ens, not the variables. The Northern Crescent situation
needed resolution. They needed to know they weren't
fighting two battles . . . or three, if Kirish'lan truly took
offense and attacked.
Supposedly, Mikhyel was investigating that situation, and
they received daily reports from his men encamped just
outside Khoratum. Reports delivered through a highly effi-
cient mounted relay system of Ganfrion's establishment.
Deymorin said Ganfrion was just full of surprises.
But rumor out of Khoratum, nearly as fast as Ganfrion's
system, maintained a different vision of their brother's do-
ings. Rumor claimed Mikhyel dunMheric was making a fool
of himself over a Khoratum ringdancer, which even he
knew was beyond measure stupid.
And because Mikhyel was being stupid, Deymorin had
moved his training maneuvers to a point partway between
Khoratum and Rhomatum, and he was having to find the
means to feed those troops.
"Come, Nikki," Lidye said, and drew him to his feet.
"At least you have Nethaalye now," he said, and as if
she'd been following his every thought, she nodded.
"And grateful to have her, my darling," she said.
"Please, come to bed."
They started for the office door.
Lidye had spent time in the Tower with Nethaalye and
expressed confidence in Nethaalye's good will and basic
ability. With Mirym for backup, Lidye said, the possibility
of stable prosperity and regrowth was very real.
If they were given that chance. The meeting with the
Kirish'lani and Shatumin had gone as well as could be ex-
pected. They had time . . . at least until the attempt to
repair Khoratum had been made. But if that attempt
failed
{Nikki? Deymorin? Can you hear me, brothers?}
"Khyel," he whispered aloud, and Lidye stopped; he al-
ready had.
(I'm here, Khyel,} Deymorin's thought whispered in his
head; their communication grew easier, clearer, with each
use.
{I think we know at least what Rhyys wants to do.}
{Rhyys is behind a conspiracy then?) Nikki asked.
{Ostensibly.  Ganfrion  claims there's another man, a
Mauritumin, so he believes.)
{Mauritumin? Who?)
(Ganfrion has no names yet. They're being remarkably
discreet.)
And maybe this Ganfrion was making it all up, Nikki
thought.
{/ trust him.) Mikhyel's thought chastised, with the impli-
cation that if he did not, he was petty and stupid.
{Who's the stupid one, brother? Who's the one flirting
with a ringdancer?}
Silence, and a blackness in the area of his head that was
Mikhyel. Then:
{I haven't the time, Nikki. Deymorin, we think they're
planning a shutdown.)
{What kind of shutdown?)
{The entire Northern Crescent. The way Persitum did.)
"The idiots!" Lidye hissed beside Nikki, and he realized
she was holding his hand, and must be getting at least some
of the conversation. "That's suicide."
{Quite,} Mikhyel answered. {Hello, Lidye. I'm glad you're
here. It's possible they just plan to initiate a blackout, to
shut Rhomatum out at a coordinated time to make a point
of some kind.)
"Perhaps we can hold them . . . if we know the exact
time...."
{I'll try to find out. I assume Khoratum will instigate, but
I'm not even certain of that. With the talk of Mauritum
and Garetti's involvement...)
"Garetti might be trying to take Rhomatum down."
{That's what I fear as well. By what I've heard and what
Nethaalye said. I'd like to believe they intend it as a dem-
onstration only, to intimidate us into some as yet unspeci-
fied agreement, but even so, the ramifications}
"Are completely unknown," Lidye said. "Nikki, tell him,
we'll do what we can. I have an idea. I've been wanting to
run some tests . . . It's possible that, among us, we can
force them to stay aligned from here."
{I heard that. Nikki, keep that lady around. Dey-
morin, are you as close as you feel?)
{On your doorstep, fry.)
{Thank the gods. I'll see you soon.)
Looking forward to it. Life's been too dull here.
I don't know. I think I'm ready for dull.)
Had enough adventuring?)
I'm . . . tired, Deymio. Very tired.)

(So, why aren't you asleep? You damn well woke me up.

Sense of sorrow, of impending loss, of a cherished body
held close.
(So it is true,} Nikki sent. {Rings, Khyel, do you real-
ize}
(More than you can possibly imagine, Nikki. Good
night, brothers.}
~ ~ ~
As if the feel of Temorii in his arms hadn't been enough,
Nikki's accusations kept him awake.
Rumors. Of himself and a Khoratumin radical dancer.
Rumors undoubtedly designed to further undermine Mik-
hyel dunMheric's already faltering image. And in Rhoma-
tum already. Damned difficult to explain unless someone
deliberately started them, before the deal was made.
And Rhyys had known Temorii was with him.
It was a setup. It had to be, and willing or not, Temorii
was a part of it.
...  nothing stands  between a dancer and a chance to
dance...
Temorii believed Mikhyel had failed her.
Temorii believed Rhyys was her key, now, to the dance.
She'd come here, drunk, to make love with him.
Rhyys' city was the source of the rumors regarding Mik-
hyel dunMheric and a Khoratumin radical competitor.
{Oh, Tern . . .} he whispered, in his mind where it was
safe, and she sighed and snuggled closer. That she was a
dancer, there could be no doubt. What else she might be,
might still be mutable, given the right stimulus.
Perhaps, a little ley-driven magic might provide that
stimulus.
{Mother . . .} he called tentatively, wondering whether
she would hear.
{Ah . . . Mikhyel-child. Where have you been?)
Temorii stirred again and whimpered. He spoke softly to
her, and when she was quiet, he continued.
{Mother, might I come visit you?)
{But of course, Mikhyel-child. I told you just to call . . .}
His hand on Temorii's arm began to glimmer.
{No, Mother! Not yet. Tomorrow ...}
{Ah!  Subterfuge/stealth/deception.  How  delightful.  Of
course, my child. Just. . . call. . -f
Mikhyel sighed, startled and relieved at the ease with
which contact had been made. His mind at last at peace,
his eyes grew heavy. Suddenly, as he hovered on the very
edge of sleep, Mother's voice returned. {And try to remem-
ber a chicken, this time . . .}
Temorii awakened the next morning to the effects of her
first major battle with a wine bottle. She groaned and ac-
cepted Raulind's tea, and groaned and tacitly ignored the
fact that she'd come to, fully clothed, wrapped in a blanket
and his arms.
He ordered Raulind to cancel his meetings for the day
(he still had the headache), took a light meal, then went
with Temorii down a narrow hallway and into the dark
tunnels beneath Khoratum. Mikhyel thought, as he fol-
lowed, his hand in hers, that perhaps Rhyys had not alto-
gether  misrepresented  Temorii's  tenure  within  the
Khoratum Tower. Certainly, she knew how to escape with-
out detection.
Within an amazingly short time, following passages of
dubious origin and great age, they were outside the city,
on the uphill side of the Tower complex. Unlike Rhoma-
tum, where Tower Hill was the center of the umbrella,
Khoratum spread like a fan, downhill, toward Rhomatum.
But it was small, for what he'd expected, given the size
and importance of the node within the web. The umbrella
should, by comparative size and number of lines, be compa-
rable to Shatum or Giephaetum, and it was . . . tiny. And
the power within the umbrella weak.
He wondered whether th~t deficiency was another mani-
festation of Rhyys' improper spinning. Or perhaps it was
due to the fact that Khoratum's buds had not yet been
capped. There was so much they could be learning by moni-
toring the development of Khoratum, and instead
"This was where I first saw them." Temorii crawled
under an arch of rocks and settled on her stomach, glanced
back and waved Mikhyel forward. Reluctantly, he joined
her, though the two of them barely fit, and he wasn't at all
certain those very heavy looking rocks would stay put.
"See?" She pointed downslope, and nestled in a courtyard
behind the Tower, hidden by high walls, were the prac-
tice rings.
"I used to sit here for hours and watch them practice.
All the village youth did, you know. They were looking for
a troupe for the capping ceremony, and wanted it drawn
from local talent."
She leaned forward, arms crossed beneath her chin, star-
ing down the narrow viewing channel. He propped side-
ways on one elbow and with his free hand brushed her hair
back from her eyes, drawing an inquisitive glance.
"And that was what drew you down to the city for the
first time?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Then what . . . ?"
"Watching Kashiri dance."
Kashiri. The name was familiar.
"That was the first Khoratumin radical, wasn't it?"
Her eyes widened slightly. "Very good. Barrister."
"You needn't look so surprised. It was in my brother's
notes."
"Ah. And did your brother also tell you who and what
Kashiri was?"
"If he did, I wouldn't tell you."
She frowned.
"I'd rather hear your version."
"Ah. Meaning, Nikki said: Kashiri was the first Khora-
tumin radical dancer. He performed once only, on the
opening ceremonies, and then he died."
"Well..."
"I've read your rijhili texts. Barrister."
"You can read?" The question was asked before he
thought.
"You needn't look so surprised. All Rhyys' dancers learn
to read and write. Even those he dislikes. Rhyys likes to
show off his dancers . . . like fancy toys, to everyone who
visits. He couldn't have them look or sound like fools, now
could he?"
She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
"Being a Khoratum dancereven a dancer in training,
means never wanting for any creature comfort. You wear
beautiful clothing, eat the most delicate foods, drink the
best wines . . . And we learned to read and write . . .
and some of us must learn just to speak, the language of
the invaders."
"The invaders." Mikhyel winced. "Rijhili."
She nodded.
"Like me."
The faintest smile quirked her lips. "Like you, Khy.
Sometimes."
"Not always?"
"Takes more to be rijhili than parents, Khy. Rhyys is
more rijhili than you."
"Rhyys was born in Khoratum."
"Exactly." She shifted about to face him, propped up on
an elbow, her head cradled in her hand. "We learned to
read and write, we learned the history of the web . . .
according to Rhyys' hand-picked tutors. And music and the
arts and court etiquette . . . according to Rhyys' hand-
picked tutors.  And politics and economics of other
nodes..."
"According to Rhyys' hand-picked tutors." He finished,
and she laughed, though the sound had a bitter edge. "I
begin to understand. And when did you discover the dis-
crepancies?"
"The first time I opened my mouth to one of his culti-
vated rijhili friends. But I didn't care, not really. None of
us did. We hadn't come to Khoratum Tower to learn about
Venitum's casting methods or Shatumin imports or Ore-
num's lumber and paper output. We were there to dance."
And they allowed Rhyys to control those other, insig-
nificant aspects of their lives because in return, Rhyys al-
lowed them to dance.
. . . nothing stands between a dancer and the dance . . .
And what, Temorii, does Rhyys control now? he longed
to ask, but instead asked, "And Kashiri?"
"Kashiri, my dear Khyel, was a Rakshi dancer long be-
fore he ever mounted the rings."
"I thought the Rakshi dance was outlawed centuries
ago."
"Outlawed. And the dancers were hunted down like ani-
mals by their own neighbors, those who had once cheered
them to glory. But the dance would not die, Mikhyel dun-
Mheric. Rakshi's spirit cannot be destroyed."
"Are you . . ."
Her laughter filled the small niche. "Oh, no, my Khy,
don't worry about that. No, the spirit of Rakshi fills me,
but the old dance . . . no, I don't. I've never met one
who has. But their secrets . . . those came down to us
from Kashiri."
"That's why you considered it a given that you should
believe in Rakshi," he said, mostly to himself.
"You believe, or the dance is only . . . movement. But
Rakshi . . . Rakshi touches only a few."
"And Kashiri was one of those few?"
She nodded. "I saw him dance. I saw him die. And I
knew I had to dance the rings."
"Rakshi touched you that day, didn't he?" Mikhyel
asked gently and her eyes dropped.
She slumped back next to him, her eyes creeping back
to the view.
"I would sneak over the walleasier in those days than
it is today, and I didn't know about the tunnelsand watch
from the shadows. A young woman, about my age, found
me. I was afraid she would say something, bring the wrath
of Rhyys down on my head, but she was very kind, and
when she discovered I'd come into Khoratum just to watch,
asked me if I'd like to try it. We were much of a size, and
she had hair about" Temorii searched a strand of her
own hair for a spot near the longest end. "About that color,
which my ends were then, so once the helmet and harness
were on, the instructor didn't pay much attention."
She settled on her back nearpractically underneath
him and shut her eyes, a look of sheer ecstasy on her face.
And after a moment, her head began a slow, side-to-side
sway.
"It was just like in my dreams. I swooped and twirled
among the rings . . . well . . ." A soft chuckle. "Not quite.
If it hadn't been for the harness, I'd have died a thousand
times over that first time. The instructor, thinking I was the
young woman, believed I'd gone berserk. I found out later
that she hated the rings, and had seen me as one more
means of dodging practice. When I rather fearlessly risked
life and limb, the instructors were certain they'd pushed
her too far and too hard. But they soon figured out our
deception and invited me back. Eventually, they put me
into training for the real thing. I lived in the Tower, ate at
Rhyys' tableeverything. Just like a real student. That was
when Rhyys found out ..."
Mikhyel was barely listening. His heart was beating hard
again, and not from the climb. "What" He forced his
mind to logical processing. "What did Rhyys mean when he
said you were a distant relative? Is that why he hates you?"
"Hates me? I suppose he does. That was the story the
girl gave him. I don't know if it was true. I . . . didn't
really care."
She stretched again, and put her hands behind her head.
He looked out, down the hill, then closed his eyes, trying
to shut out all awareness of her. But closing his eyes didn't
lock out the scent of raspberries and cinnamon.
He bit his lip and wished to her Rakshi and any other
god that was near to take his mind off that body lying so
close to his.
A tug on his hair: her fingers working the braid loose,
spreading the strands. She seemed fascinated by it, had
claimed the nightly brushing as her own. He didn't argue,
taking it as his only real concession to his personal
obsession.
He pretended not to notice that every tug vibrated him
to his fingertips. Instead, he chewed the inside of his lip,
and stared down the hill at those rings that had claimed
Temorii's soul long before he ever met her.
"Poor Khy," she whispered softly, and smoothed his hair
back from his face before she squirmed out of the hidey-
hole to begin one of her routines, slowly, in deference to
a skull that must still be throbbing.
He followed her out, but had no inclination this morning
to do more than watch.
"What happened to her?" he asked, when she paused
for breath. "The girl whose place you took."
Temorii stared down at Khoratum, then said, with puz-
zlement in her voice:
"I don't know. I haven't seen her for at least two years.
Since I became"
She broke off abruptly and rolled up onto her hands,
drawing her legs about in an arc to extend them above her
head. Three times, she dipped down and pressed back up,
but on the fourth, her balance wavered, her right wrist
overflexed, and she tumbled down into a heap.
And she lay there, curled around her wrist, panting. And
cursing. And crying. Not, he suspected because of the wrist.
"Tern?" Mikhyel crouched beside her, and rested a hand
- on her shoulder.
Her head came up, and her expression was a confusion
of anger, and pain, and betrayal. "Why? Why did you lie
to me, Khy?"
"I didn't. I tried to explain, but you ran away."
"That's a locked and guarded underground passage that
takes us in. You can't get me in without anyone seeing."
"No? And how do you think I got into Khoratum in the
first place?"
"The public coach," her tear-heavy voice answered.
"Walked. Drove. How should I know?"
Easiest just to call Mother herself, and hope Mother
answered.
Mikhyel rested his forehead against Temorii's bowed
shoulder and called, as clearly and as imperatively as he
could:
{Mother?}
Temorii jumped as if stung. And he recalled their first
meeting, and last night, and all those other times she'd
seemed to hear. He gave her a light hug and murmured
reassurances, then called, more gently:
(Sweet Mother of Khoratum, if you can hear me, I need
you. I need you badly.)
Temorii pulled free, staring at him. Disbelieving.
"She put you into Khoratum? She called to you ?"
Mikhyel was speechless. They were accusations she threw
at him, not questions.
"She welcomed you? Why?" Temorii scrambled to her
feet and screamed: {Why, Mother? Damn you to the high-
est, most lightning-blasted hells, Mother, whyl] She paused,
eyes wide with anger. Then: (I know you can hear me,
Mother. Why? Why? Why? Why? Wh ]
{Oh, hush, brat. You don't need to shout.}
And Mother was there, even more exotic in contrast to
the rocks and the grasses. She stretched her arms toward the
sky, arms that grew abnormally long and tenuous, as if she
were reaching for the clouds, then she shrugged, and shook
out . . . hair. Long, shimmering hair. As she was otherwise
more humanlike than before. But that it was Mother, Mi-
khyel had no doubt.
"Ah, my children, it's been too . . . long . . ."
Anger. Betrayal. The air reeked with it, and that under-
neath sense was all raspberries and cinnamonTemorii.
"I came," Temorii hissed aloud. "I calledso, so often,
Mother, and you never came! You never even answered
me. Why?"
Mother shrugged. "I was sleeping."
"You were ignoring me."
"Ignoring? No, child. Sleeping." Mother frowned when
the anger flared brighter, and her head tipped as if in confu-
sion. Then, she shrugged and opened her arms. "I'm here
now, child."
"That's not good enough. Mother. Not this time! It's too
late! It's toodamn"
Temorii turned and ran.
Mikhyel started after her, but Mother was therejust
therebefore Temorii, with her arms wide.
Temorii staggered backward, improbably fast, impossibly
agile in that avoidance.
{Child,  the web was shriveled/broken/fractured.  I was
asleep. And deaf. For a very long time, child. Your Khy
helped me awaken.} And with a sudden relaxation, a twist
of her brow that in a human might indicate contrition, sor-
row: {Please, child. This is my first time to the surface
since . . . since the last time.}
Bitter, reluctant laughter. "Of course it is."
Mother biinked. "Please, child. I've . . . missed you."
"M-missed?" Temorii held a hand to her mouth, trying
to stem the incipient tears. "You don't even know what
that means."
"Oh, child, but I do. You've taught me the word's mean-
ing. Please. Come?"
With a sob, Temorii fell into that embrace, and the ley-
thium folds enveloped her like a shroud.
The embrace of the Mother she'd despaired of going
home to. Bits and pieces began to make some sense. Real-
ization that at once made Mikhyel's task easier, while mak-
ing him wonder just how much a pawn he'd been.
A pawn not in Rhyys' game, but Mother's.
He wasn't altogether certain he considered that an
improvement.
Mother gestured to him. He backed a step, but she was
there, and Temorii was, and Mother's sleeve swallowed
them both before he could so much as blink.
->._. When the sleeve dropped . . . or melted, or faded away,
any or all of which were possible, they were in Mother's
leythium cavern beneath Khoratum.
And as before, his clothes, and Temorii's, had somehow
failed to make the transition. He suspected humor.
Mikhyel  turned  away,  embarrassed,  and  Temorii
crouched on the floor, hiding herself. Mother clucked gently
and knelt beside her.
{Have you, then, grown so ashamed of your beauty,
child?)
{Please, Mother, not now . . .)
Mother placed her hands on Temorii's face, the way she
had on Mikhyel's, when she'd shared his memories, and
Mikhyel received a rapidly shifting montage of images:
Temorii's life, since last Mother had seen her, he would
guess. And remembering his own desire to keep certain of
his memories inviolate from Deymorin, he tried to shut
those images out, tried not to know what Temorii had
suffered.
Such secrets were hers to tell, when she chose. If she
chose.
Eventually, the images fluttered to a close, to images im-
possible to ignore. Images of himself, standing nude here
in Mother's cavern, his hair drifting in the air, almost as it
would in water.
{The hair, child.} Mother's hand stroked Temorii's rag-
ged, shaded locks. {Why?)
Temorii's answer was to bury her face in Mother's shoul-
der. Mother continued stroking the shaded hair, strokes
that took longer and longer to reach ends increasingly less
ragged. Mikhyel watched, unable to turn away, as that hair
grew to what it must have been before Temorii felt com-
pelled to cut it: long, shaded from the same sable brown at
the roots to nearly white on ends that would brush Temo-
rii's hips when she stood again.
And as the hair extended to cover her shoulders, hair-
fine tendrils of leythium flowed up her legs and intermin-
gled with one another so that when Mother raised Temorii
to her feet and stepped aside to view her handiwork, she
left Temorii draped in that luxurious hair and shimmering
folds of leythium lace, a heart-stoppingly beautiful sight
that made a man trying very hard to convince himself he
wasn't in love even more conscious of his now singular
state of undress.
Fortunately, Temorii, enthralled with her renewed hair,
hadn't yet noticed.
(Mother...}
Laughter rippled in his head and through the leythium
drapery above. Mother flung a casual gesture in his direc-
tion, and a heavy robe of deepest black covered him, neck
to toe, a robe of living fabric, that caressed his skin with
soothing warmth and velvet's deep cushioning.
"Thank you."
{I liked you better the other way.)
"In that case, I thank you doubly."
"Such a well-mannered child you are," she said aloud.
"I'm not a child. Mother."
"But of course you are. All my children are childs. How
can they possibly be anything else when I am so much older
and wiser?"
"Are you?" he asked, and realized Temorii was following
every word, a slow smile beginning to light her face at last.
(I'm} A sense of utterly unfathomable age entered him,
and Mikhyel staggered under the impact.
{You are, what, human? Twenty-and-bits sun-circuits old?
Child, I say.)
"Granted. But are you wiser?"
"Of course. Did you bring your Mother a chicken?"
"No. And you are trying to distract me. Was as it wise
to put Temorii through such misery? Is she better for it?"
"Khy, wait," Temorii protested at last, but Mother
asked him:
"Are youT'
"Mother, please'."
"That hardly matters," Mikhyel said firmly.
"No? Is Mikhyel-child's happiness not important?"
"No," Mikhyel said, and, "Yes," from Temorii.
Mother shook her head.
"Why do you divide your pattern?"
"I don't understand," Mikhyel said.
"You think by destroying one part of you, you can en-
hance another? I will never understand you silly humans."
"We're not parts of a whole. Mother," Mikhyel said.
"But of course you are. Parts of a pattern. Tell him,
child."
"Mother, please. It's too much . . . too soon."
-__Mother threw her arms in the air, and the ley fluttered
around her. "I give up on you. Mother came home all
alone. Weak. Dying. Mother left you to find your pattern,
your happiness. . . . And now you come back, pattern in
tow, yet no different than before. Still squawking Why,
why, why? Well, why have you not danced the rings, yet?
Why have you not helped these silly fools fix my web? Why
have you not mated a great deal with this hairy but sweet-
tasting individual?"
{Mother!)
(What's wrong? You like/love/lust/rut/identify/recognize/
want/need him don't you?)
{I still hope to dance the rings.)
(So dance them. Your pattern is set, child. You will dance/
love the rings. You might as well dance/love him, too. It's
all part of the pattern.}
Temorii set her hands on Mother's arm.
(Mother, of course I care for Khy. Deeply. More deeply
than is wise.)
"Bat's poop."
{No, Mother, it's not. What you're implying, that can't
be. I can't lie with him. It's a . . . a human failing, Mother,
but I am human. Too many have died. The dance is too
dangerous for one whose interests are compromised.)
(So the child grows too wise for its Mother. As belief goes,
so goes reality.)
{Mother, don't you see? I've changed. Loving means . . .
I can't dance with a child growing in my belly!)
(And can you dance without one?)
{You know I can.}'
(Has Rhyys, then, miraculously changed his color and
given you the rings?)
{Oh. That. No, but)
(Then you've tricked him!) Mother quite obviously ap-
proved of trickery.
(Possibly. Khy has arranged}
(Ah. A champion, child. And a clever one; Mother re-
members. And has he remembered? Does he do this out
of guilt?)
(No, Mother. He's a good man. A kind man. But he
offers, I think, to remedy injustice.)
fAh. Altruistic, then. And he'd do this for anyone. I'm
sure.}
Obviously, Temorii believed he couldn't hear them.
Mother knew differently. It was a cruel game she played
on Temorii.
Mikhyel sent into that stream: {Excuse me ...}
They both looked around at him.
"He hears us," Mother pointed out, as if amazed, and
Temorii looked away, blushing.
"I'm afraid so. Tern. I'm sorry. I tried not to."
"Mymymymymymy. Talented child isn't he?" And once
again. Mother was looking at him as if he were an object
for purchase. (Pretty too, if a bit hairy. And skinny . . .)
"Mother, behave!" Temorii hissed, and her eyes flashed
brilliant green in this strange leylit air.
Mother laughed again, delight that shimmered through
the ley and Mikhyel's own nerves.
{Aha, my Dancer returns. Come, child, and dance with
me. Tell me what it is you want of Mother . . .}
A veiling cloud descended about Mother and Temorii, a
shimmer both visual and mental. Mother's doing, Mikhyel
was certain, and a welcome respite. He truly did not relish
the constant invasion of private thoughts and conversations.
Tempting to stay here long enough to learn to do . . .
whatever it was Mother had just done. If only to be able
to deal with his brothers as normal men once again.
Normal. In that, of course, he deluded himself. He could
never be normal again . . . if he ever had been. But he
must have been. Those early years with Deymorin, when
their mother was alive, and Mheric was still sane. When
Outside had meant sunshine and swimming ponds, or snow
forts and freezing toes, and Deymorin had been a warm
body to thaw him out.
Early  days  thatperhapshad  provided  him  the
strength to remain sane in the following years. Early days
that had set the pattern for how he and Deymorin re-
sponded to each other as adults. Deymorin was older.
Deymorin had been Mikhyel's teacher, his protector. Shift-
ing  from  that  role  was  difficult  under  the  best  of
circumstances.
Theirs were not and never had been the best of
.  circumstances.
Mother and Temorii had wandered completely out of
~-,sight. He sincerely hoped they remembered him.
{Oh, don't worry, darling child. Mother will never forget
you...)
{A decidedly mixed benediction, Mother.}
Which brazen disrespect seemed to amuse heras she
had preferred Temorii's impertinence. And he recalled that
first meeting where fear had triggered one response that
nearly killed him and insolence had induced laughter.
Strange, strange being, whatever she was.
Mother and Temorii. It seemed so obvious, now he saw
-  them together, explained so much about Temorii's con-
trasting moods, her oddly mixed understanding of human
nature. Ifhe scanned the eerily exotic cavernthis had
raised her, and subsequently rejected her, if Mother had
nourished her mind as well as her body, had fed her the
way the creature beneath Rhomatum had offered to feed
Mikhyel...
And then, to lose it all. What must it have been like for
her? And why had it happened?
He settled on a rock formation beside a glowing pool,
and the formation shifted, conforming to his body.
Had Mother rejected Temorii the moment Temorii saw
the practice rings? Or when she'd gone to live in the Tower
as a fully acknowledged competitor?
Or had it been later? Their exchanges would indicate
Mother knew about the competition, and about Rhyys, and
Temorii's life in the Tower. And that Mother had fully
expected her to win.
Perhaps the devastation of the failed competition, per-
haps the fact she had failed . . .
Except, Temorii failed because the rings had gone down.
And the rings had gone down because Vandoshin rom-
Maurii had brought a dangerous machine into the Rhoma-
tum Valley and Anheliaa used the Rhomatum Rings to
blast it out of existence, depleting the Rhomatum Web in
the process.
But the machine hadn't been on a node. Hadn't even
been on a leyline. In order to complete the attack, Anheliaa
had needed a node at or near the machine.
And that node had been himself and his brothers. He'd
been in the Tower one instant, and falling from the sky into
his brothers' arms the next. And with him, the lightning had
arrived.
The lightning that had nearly destroyed the Khoratum
line.
They had escaped, but he had been on the edge of death.
And Mother had saved him.
With the help of a human who had appeared out of a
tunnel of light.
A human Mother had called Dancer.
Temorii. Whose dream had just been shattered.
And the disintegration of the Khoratum line had cut her
off from Mother, had condemned her to a life on the Khor-
atum streets.
Does he do this out of guilt?
He buried his face in his hands, pressing his palms into
his eyes, trying to cut out the exotic beauty, the colors, and
the past. But nothing could cut away from him his part in
Temorii's betrayal.
"Khy?"
That voice had the power to touch every nerve in his
body with exquisite anticipation. He lifted his head, biinked
at the pain of light and fine puffs of drifting air.
She was there beside him, in all her delicate beauty and
steely strength. All the joy, the fierce competitive nature,
the defiance, and the need.
"Why don't you hate me?" he whispered, and dismay
puckered her brow.
"I could never hate you, Khy, even if I wanted to. Why
would I want to?"
"If not for me, you'd have it all. If not for me, the rings
wouldn't have failed, the competition would have gone on,
you'd be Khoratum's radical dancer. Even if the rings had
gone down, if not for saving me, you'd have been in the
court with the others when they came to lead the remaining
contestants out. You'd have had your second chance with-
out question. You'd never have had to cut your hair. Never
have had to put up with the likes of that Giephaetum-scum,
never been cold or hungry. You'd never have lost . . ." He
swept his hand in a broad curve, taking in that amazing
beauty that surrounded them.
"Oh, Khy." She embraced him and cradled his head
against her solid middle. "My dear, dear friend. It's possi-
ble, even probable, that all you say is true. And perhaps I
did hate, a little, at first. When I was bitter and believed
Rakshi had deserted me and you were nothing but a rijhili.
But not now. Done is done. Rhyys was right in one sense:
~"~Rakshi controlled events that day, not you, or I, or even
Mother. I might have had the dance. I might have died.
Many things might have happened."
And through that touch, a warmth as perfect as child-
Deymorin on a winter's day surrounded him. A warmth
glowing with raspberries and cinnamonand a mysterious
hint of clove. And on the edge of that scent, a thought, a
thought so faint, he wasn't certain he was meant to hear:
(But I wouldn't have you.]
Chapter Eleven

Eighteen rings hung suspended in midair. One ring for each
active satellite node, each ring's axis aligned on the leyline
between its parent and Rhomatum. The axis of the outer-
most, Cardinal ring was perfectly perpendicular, aligned to
Rhomatum node itself.
The nineteenth ring, the Persitum Ring, lay inert on the
pattern-tiled floor, as it had since the day Anheliaa died.
Kiyrstine romGaretti had never really trusted the ley-
thium rings. In all her years with Garetti, she'd been into
Mauritum Tower only a handful of times, and then only at
Garetti's request. She preferred, overall, to simply have the
light happen, and hot water to come out of the tap on
command. Knowing that those amenities depended upon
rings spinning without visible means of support and at the
command of someone like Garettior Lidyewas rather
like knowing what went into your breakfast sausage.
Some things were best left mysteries.
But Lidye wanted to run a test, and Lidye's test required
all of them, so she claimed. And Mikhyel had told Nikki
that the Northern Crescent was threatening a unified shut-
down and that Mauritum might be instigating the trouble.
So, here she was, once again, in the middle of a place she'd
really rather do without.
Thanks ever-so, Deymio-luvvie, she thought, and eased
around the rings to settle on a padded bench set along one
of the glass walls. Sunlight entered through those glass
walls, and struck the slowly spinning rings to send bands
of light flashing about the room and its occupants. Nikki,
Lidye, Nethaalye, Mirym . . . and herself.
They settled on a variety of seats set randomly about the
chamber. Staking out territory, Kiyrstin thought rather
cynically.
"I have," Lidye began, "absolutely no idea if what we're
going to try will make any difference whatsoever, but it's
a fool who pitches Rakshi's rare gifts to the winds."
"Gifts?" Nethaalye asked, and Kiyrstin asked:
"What gifts?"
"Unexpected assets." Lidye's voice took on the singsong
quality of a tour guide, or a bored professor, or a religious
convert spouting rhetoric. "Most of life is patterns, chance
intersections of people and events which eventually come
to an ending determined by the pattern they've made."
"Sweet Maurii," Kiyrstin muttered. "Get on with it!
What do you want us to do""'
"Patience, Garetti's wife."
She smiled tightly. "Call me that again, Shatum, and you
can spin your own rings."
"Ladies . . . please!" Nikki's voice squeaked slightly, and
he looked scared.
"Yes, my darling," Lidye cooed, and Kiyrstin controlled
her reflexive gag. She wished she could trust Lidye. Cer-
tainly the Shatumin woman's recent actions gave her no
reason not to. But something about the woman made her
teeth ache from clenching. She could not deny the meeting
with the Southern Crescent representatives had gone well,
but the moment that was over, Lidye had returned to her
domineering ways.
Especially offensive was her patronizing manner with
Nikki.  But Nikki didn't complain,  and overall,  Nikki
seemed very happy.
It was not, to Kiyrstin's way of thinking, Nikki's greatest
selling point.
"As I was saying," Lidye continued. "Patterns. Events
linked to the greater world have placed Nethaalye and my-
self here.  Kiyrstine  romGaretti's  presence  is  related to
events beyond the web that placed the web in jeopardy and
so brought us to this point of action. Mirym, coming from
Khoratum, the complementary node of Kiyrstin's, is our
accidental, radical factor. Our true gift from Rakshi."
She smiled at Mirym; Mirym did not return the gesture.
Lidye's smile vanished as though it had never been.
"Thanks to Mirym's presence, we have all the major sat-
ellite nodes represented here today, as well as Rhomatum
itself."
This time, she smiled at Nikki; his shy duck of the head
could hardly be called a return smile.
"I'm from Mauritum," Kiyrstin dryly pointed out the ob-
vious, "not Persitum."
"Are you quite certain of that?"
"Quite."
"Curious. However, to get to Mauritum, you imist go
through Persitum. Perhaps that is your value."
"How nice it must be to have so mutable a theory."
"Not at all. You are not here because of talent. You are
here to provide me a focus by which to stabilize the western
quarter of the web."
"You sound very certain of yourself."
"I know what I'm doing."
"Do you? You just said you didn't know if it would
work."
"It was merely a figure of speech. I am certain of what
I know."
"We've got ten nodes threatening a unified shutdown.
Are we to assume that such an event has become common-
place and you are now an expert?"
"When you've no idea what you're talking about, Kiyr-
stine romGaretti, perhaps it is best not to speak."
"No idea what I'm talking about? / know Garetti. If
Mauritum is part of this Northern conspiracy, Mauritum is
spearheading it, not Khoratum. Garetti does not willingly
play second to anyone. That's what / know. Suddenly
you're so clever. Suddenly you've got ideas how to solve all
our problems. To whom am I talking? Lidye? or Garetti?"
"Ah. A challenge. And at such a time, Kirystine of Maur-
itum." Lidye's mouth twitched. "If I were inclined to take
offense, we're in my Tower. It's possible I could make you
very sorry."
"And you haven't come down from here since Nikki
talked to his brothers last night. You rather well had the
advantage. Besides, if you need these three to stabilize your
web for Garetti's takeover, you'd hardly be likely to es-
trange them by overplaying your hand now, now would
you?"
The painted mouth pressed into a hard line; Nikki, usu-
ally quick to leap to Lidye's defense, hadn't said anything.
He was, instead, intently watching both Lidye and herself.
"I am," Lidye said tightly, "Lidye romNikaenor, Ring-
master of Rhomatum."
"And is Lidye romNikaenor also Lidye dunTarim?"
"No."
"GorPasingarim? gorRhyys?  Garetti? or any other
damned egomaniac?"
"I take such a pledge to no one, man or woman, Kiyr-
stine romGaretti."
Kiyrstin folded her arms and glowered. It was a situation
without a clearcut solution, but damned if she'd simply trust
this woman. Not with the possibility of Garetti sitting on
the sidelines waiting to leap in.
Nikki cast Lidye an apologetic look and crossed the room
to kneel at Kiyrstin's side.
"Please, Kiyrstin, I think she's got a good plan, but it
can't work if we're angry with each other. Won't you just
listen to her plan? Just try it . . . once?"
He wheedled like a twelve-year-old, but he was scared,
of that there was no doubt, looking into those blue eyes.
She wondered what had passed between him and Lidye last
night, after he talked with Deymorin and Mikhyel, won-
dered just how deep the water he was trying to swim in,
and wished, somehow, that he could find it in him to be
more open with her. But their pattern had been set as well,
and trust of that nature would not come easily.
She forced a grin and flipped a wayward curl off his
forehead. "All right, fry. Just for you." She waved a hand
in the air. "Go ahead, spinner."
Lidye's brow tightened, but otherwise appeared impervi-
ous. Which restraint only made Kiyrstin distrust her that
much more. She didn't trust anyone who, like a. chameleon,
so easily shifted behavior and coloration to fit her needs.
Lidye began pacing slowly about them as she spoke.
"When dealing with the ley, one learns to look for patterns.
Not to recognize a pattern is foolish. We have Nikki, male.
From Rhomatum. And four females from the four greatest
points of the web. The creature below Rhomatum is, Mi-
khyel says, male. Mother is female, and refers to her 'sis-
ters,' also according to Mikhyel."
"I thought you were Rhomatum's Ringmaster," Kiyrstin
said. "Why won't you control Rhomatum?"
"I have discovered an . . . affinity between this body of
mine and Shatum, as there is one between Giephaetum and
Nethaalye, Mirym and Khoratum, and . . . well, suffice to
say, you and the others provide a focus for me to reach
through to the nodes. My body is the bridge to Shatum.
Nikki's" Lidye set her hands possessively on Nikki's
shoulders. "Nikki is my potent link into Rhomatum." She
leaned toward him and murmured, "Think of Rhomatum,
my darling. Think of him strong and virile. Keep that
Cardinal ring beating as if it were your own heart."
Nikki's eyes widened. And as Lidye spoke, that shim-
mering outer ring began to speed up.
"No, my love. Gently. Quietly. You are the source, the
strength, the character of the web . . ."
The ring faltered, Lidye's eyes widened in alarm.
"Let it go, Nikki. Let it go now!"
Nikki's eyes closed. He swayed. Kiyrstin jumped to her
feet and steadied him.
"What happened?" she asked, when his eyes fluttered
open.
"I  don't know!"  Lidye  answered, her voice  harsh,
unforgiving.
"I'm not good enough, Liddi," he whispered, and he was
shaking. "I t-told you last night it wouldn't work." Mor-
tally embarrassed.
Ashamed.
Kiyrstin squeezed his hand.
"Youyou said. I'm the strength, the character of the
web." His blue eyes flitted toward Lidye, then focused on
Kiyrstin. "Don't you see, Kiyrstin? If the web has to de-
pend on me, on my character . . . I'm not. I'm trying, but
I'm not:'
"Oh, for the"
Lidye broke off, and Nikki flinched away from the swirl
of her skirts. Then he just stared at the patterned tiles.
Kiyrstin didn't pretend to understand what signals passed
between Nikki and Lidye these days. More often than not,
Nikki seemed enormously happy. At others, like now, he
seemed . . . lost.
"Don't you see, Kiyrstin. I can't pretend I'm something
I'm not. Not when the fates of so many people are at stake.
Mikhyel's the one who should be here. The creature down
there likes him. But he can't." He scratched his head and
then shivered, a study in uncertainty. "Maybe I should con-
tact Deymorin. He's the strong one. And Khyel said he set
the rings once when they were boys."
"Maybe you should," Kiyrstin said abruptly, and Nikki
winced. "And then again, maybe not."
Nikki shook his head and stared at her, obviously con-
fused. His eyes wandered the room, going from one woman
to the other, and finally to Lidye, whose back was to him.
He dropped his head again. His hands clenched.
Kiyrstin took those hands and gripped hard enough to
 hurt. "Pay attention to me, damnit. It's no disgrace, what
you've said. It's no disgrace to have doubts. That's what
helps us to build character. You can't improve something
until you admit it has faults, now can you?"
He biinked up at her.
"If a reputable engineer looked at the plans for your
dam and said it would fail, eventually, at this point, or that
one, and you refused to listen to him and didn't rethink
those plans and get other opinions, and the dam failed
where he predicted, your character would be at fault,
wouldn't it?"
"Yes. But I wouldn't"
"Nikki, your brothers have tried to show you the poten-
tial weaknesses in your own structure. Not to destroy you,
but to help you fix them. Are you trying to fix them?"
"Yes!"
"You admit they are structural weaknesses, and not
just appearance."
"Yes!"
She smiled and squeezed his hands, but not to hurt this
time. She no longer needed to force his attention. "Mikhyel
told me a long time ago . . . or perhaps it was Deymorin
who told me first, that they feared they'd destroyed your
character. They carry a great deal of guilt on that score."
Nikki shook his head. "No! Whatever's wrong with me
isn't their fault. It's"
"If there is, Nikki, they'd be right. They raised you and
they were very young. They may have made mistakes. Per-
haps many mistakes. Perhaps irreparable mistakes. Did
they, Nikki? Are they right?"
He opened his mouth to deny it, but closed it without
saying anything. He chewed his lip, then said: "May I ask
you something before I answer?"
"Of course."
"Mikhyel says in some ways you see us better than we
see ourselves, because you don't have that inner sight, and
have had to watch people all your life, and have good com-
mon sense."
"I accept that as a compliment."
"I think that's how he meant it. So . . . can I ask you
what do you think? Are they right?"
She grinned. "I'll answer with a question."
"Like Mikhyel does."
She nodded. "I noticed. Why did the ring falter just
now?"
"Because I did."
"And why did you falter?"
"Because if everything was to depend on my character,
on my strength, and that was faulty, then everyone could
be hurt, or killed or"
"I submit, brother of Rhomatum's leading barrister, that
if your character was in question, you'd  never have  had
that doubt."
"So you don't think I'm a bad person?"
"Does what I think matter?"
He frowned. "May I ask a different question? Will you
forget that one?"
"You're trying my patience, Nik. What?"
"Can we be friends?"
"Absolutely."
He looked up at Lidye, who was watching, arms folded.
Impatient.
"I'm ready to try again, Liddi," he said.
8 8 d
This time, Nikki didn't falter. The ring held steady, beat-
ing in time with his heart. He was aware, vaguely, of Li-
dye's anger and impatience with him, but he was even more
aware  of  Nethaalye  and  Mirym's  confidence  and
admiration.
He thought perhaps that caring about their opinions was
a character flaw, and the thrum of the Cardinal faltered.
He called up Kiyrstin, then, and what she'd said about
Deymorin and Mikhyel, and the ring steadied.
Confidence. Absolute conviction. Those were the hall-
marks of ringmasters. Nikaenor dunMheric was no master,
but he had Talent of some sort, Talent to be used by a
master. And yet, he must still have conviction of his own.
He knew what they did was right. Hold that thought and
keep it steady, that's all he had to do.
And at first Nethaalye, then Mirym, in response to Li-
dye's instructions, concentrated on the Giephaetum and
Khoratum Rings, he could feel them, not as clearly as he
did his brothers, but he knew them. And he felt a bridge
strengthening the connections to those nodes. Giephaetum,
' always strong and stable, throbbed with life; Khoratum,
that large, but wobbling ring, began to beat steadily.
And as those two corners, east and north grew stable,
Nikki could almost see Lidye reach out to the Persitum
Ring. It wobbled from the floor.
"Think of Persitum!" Lidye hissed at Kiyrstin, and Kiyrs-
tin hissed back:
"I've never been there! How can I"
"Then think of Mauritum!"
And for a moment, the Persitum Ring rose, held steady
an inch off the floor.
Then it dropped.
"Never mind. It's too unstable. I can't endanger the oth-
ers. We'll do without."
Lidye divided her attention then between him and the
Shatum ring.
"Peel one another," she purred. "Feel your source. Draw
strength from it . . . and from each other. Strength, Nikki
my love. Hold steady." And it was as if her hands ca-
ressed him.
He swayed with the rhythm of the Cardinal, the steady
stroking of her voice. He thought of the creature below
and those roots of leythium that plunged into the heart of
the world itself, and imagined energy flowing up into him.
"Steady, my love . . ." It was a whisper in his head.
"That's it, hold steady. Hold strong . . ."
Suddenly
"Dammit!"
His attention faltered.
Pain. Fierce and blinding.
Someone screamed; Nikki thought it might have been
himself.
"Nikki! Nikki, wake up!"
"You incompetent fool\"
Hands were holding him upright. He was on the floor,
and it was Kiyrstin's hands supporting him, and Mirym's
holding his, and Nethaalye was there as well, kneeling be-
side him, asking was he all right.
Only Lidye was not. Lidye was on the far side of the
rings, ignoring him.
There were two rings on the floor.
"Shatum," Nethaalye whispered. And as they watched,
the ring rose, weaving carefully past the Cardinal and Khor-
atum, and steadied on its appropriate axis.
Nikki, light-headed, swayed against Kiyrstin, who pressed
his head comfortably against her shoulder and told him
to relax.
"Well, that was an abject failure!"
Lidye was not pleased.
"I'm sorry, Liddi"
"Don't call me that!"
He flinched; she swirled away, paced the diameter of the
room, then spun back and snarled.
"That, dear Nikki, was a test."
He flinched again. A test he'd failed.
"Where I come from, we call it a setup," Kiyrstin snarled
back at her.
He biinked and asked, past the pain in his head:
"Setup?"
Kiyrstin pressed a note into his hand. A note in silent
Mirym's handwriting:
Shatum dropped us. It felt like when Persitum went.
Planned?
And the note was snatched from his hand.
"Damned right, planned," Lidye hissed above him, and
the torn parts of the note fluttered into his lap. "And that
was nothing compared with the shock of the entire North-
ern Crescent forcing us out."
"And why weren't you holding that Southern quarter?"
Kiyrstin responded fiercely. "Was it because you were
spending so much energy mauling Nikki? Or because you
just couldn't be bothered?"
Nikki realized then his shirt was hanging free, and that
more than Lidye's voice had been active. He felt his face
grow hot, and the bile rose in his throat.
"I've . . . got to . . ." He pushed himself to his feet and
stumbled for the lift. But Lidye was before him.
"We'll try again. Now."
"Liddi"
"Now!"
"No!"
Nikki pushed past her, she grabbed his arm, swung him
around
The impact of her hand was worse than any blow he'd
ever taken from one of his brothers. He caught her wrist
before she could deal him a second.
-   Kiyrstin exclaimed aloud, but he shot her a stay-back
look and then faced Lidye directly. She scowled and fought
for possession of her wrist.
He tightened his holdno more than thatand she re-
laxed, for all her breathing grew faster, deeper.
"Will you call the lift, lady wife?" He kept his voice low
and even. "Or must I break my way out?"
He was immeasurably relieved when the clunk of gears
indicated the lift's engagement.
"The next time," he said quietly as he stepped onto the
platform, "Shatum will not fall."
9    9    aSi
(It was much more successful the next time.} Nikki's in-
ternal voice seemed oddly subdued. Quiet. Free of the com-
plex overtones of emotion Deymorin was accustomed to
receiving from Nikki.
{Are you all right, Nik?} That was Mikhyel. So, he'd no-
ticed the same thing.
{Tired, Khyel. Just . . . very tired. It was a wearing ses-
sion. A long session. Lidye and Kiyrstin . . .}
He was worried, Deymorin could tell, of saying some-
thing that would insult him, perhaps send him away.
{It's all right, Nikki.}  Deymorin reassured him.  {What
about Kiyrstin? What did she do?}
(Nothing we can't handle. But Lidye can't get a fix on
Persitum. She hoped Kiyrstin could reach through, could
connect her somehow to Mauritum, I . . . don't really know
what she means. But Kiyrstin ...}
{Kiyrstin's suspicious of her.}
Acknowledgment. And a feeling of failure.
{Not your fault, fry. Trust me. Can you possibly have
Kiyrstin there with you next time?}
{She is here, Deymio. Mirym, too. I . . . thought you
might want verification.}
{Not for that, Nikki,} Mikhyel sent, and Deymorin con-
curred: {Your word is enough. I just wanted to talk to}
And Kiyrstin was there, then, in all her sensual wonder,
and for a moment, the intimacy of her mind in his came
close to overwhelming him.
{Excuse me . . .} That was Mikhyel. Effective as a dip in
a cold mountain lake.
{Sorry brothers.) Deymorin said, then nearly lost control
again as Kiyrstin's husky voice, coming through Nikki, said:
{Hello, there. Rags.}
{Rings . . } Nikki, Mikhyel, or himself, he wasn't sure.
{Khyel!}
The cool lake again swirled around them.
(Thanks. Kiyrsti, can you hear me?}
Acknowledgment.
{Problem with you and Lidye?}
{Easy. I don't trust her. No matter how much I want to
help, I can't seem to overcome that. I'll try.}
{We can't ask for more.} That was Mikhyel. {Might be
our saving grace if she is Garetti's pawn.)
It  spoke  volumes  that  Nikki  didn't  object  to  that
suggestion.
{You can be proud of Nikki, Deymorin.} That was Kiyr-
stin again. {Very proud.}
Nothing more than that, and neither he nor Mikhyel
formed a specific thought in response. None seemed
needed. But the dark tension hovering beneath the surface
of Nikki's thoughts dissipated, along with the weary aches.

(Have we date and time yet, Miknyel?)
{Nothing certain.}
(I'm not moving from the line. Nikki, you stay put

as well.}
{I'll be here.}
A hint of roses and raspberries floated down Nikki's
thoughts, and a shy: {Hello, Ravenhair.}
The next moment, Mikhyel disappeared, and the link
faded into mist.
Chapter Twelve

"Khyel? Mikhyel diinMheric, where are you?"
The bedroom door slammed shut.
"I'm in"
Temorii's eager face appeared in the doorway.
"the bath. Temorii, for the love of Darius"
"Why should I care about Darius? She's done it, Khy!
The date's set! We get to test the rings tomorrow!"
"Temorii, sit down. Get"
"Each contestant will get as much time as they want on
the rings, with, or without music. And the contest will not
be controlled, it will be like the real dancing, with live
music and we get to control the rings."
"Temorii, will you sit"
"/ think it's because the controlling mechanism was ru-
ined in the collapse, but Rhyys won't ever admit that. And
guess who gets to go first?"
"Thyerri, sM"
Temorii flopped down onto the grooming chair beside
his bath, and pulled her knees up to her chin. She radiated
excitement, and seemed oblivious to the fact that he was
in the middle of his bath.
"Tern, do you mind?" he asked at last.
"Not at all." She waved a hand in the air, disturbingly
reminiscent of Mother's grand gestures. "Go right ahead."
He began to protest, thought better of it, and gestured
toward his back. "Raul?"
As if bathing with a young woman in the room were an
everyday occurrence, Raulind spread the oil and began to
scrub his back. But then, it wasn't Temorii in the room. It
was Thyerri dunMatrii. Cocky, eager . . . and utterly oblivi-
ous to Mikhyel dunMheric's admittedly negligible charms.
"She, who?" Mikhyel asked. "And what's she done?"
"Mother."
Naturally.
"They've been having trouble with the dance rings
ever since the Collapse, you knowand Mother said
yesterday..."
The rest of the sentence was lost to Mikhyel. Yesterday.
Yesterday, Temorii, beautiful, strong, elegant child of the
ley, had held him and thought the closest to a declaration
of love that had ever crossed his senses.
Granted, she'd said nothing. Granted, she probably even
regretted thinking it, but Mikhyel had heard, and he at least
couldn't set that moment aside easily.
This was the first time he'd seen her since then. Mother
had been behind her and Mother had transferred him back
to this room. Temorii had stayed with Mother.
And now, she burst in with news of the rings and Mother,
as if that . . . moment . . . wasn't.
"Temorii," he interrupted her, and she gave him an in-
dignant look, which he ignored. "Would you mind turning
away for a moment?"
She rolled her eyes and flopped around in the chair.
"Hurry up."
"Raul?"
A warm towel enfolded him as he stepped free of the
small sitting bath. As Raulind proceeded in his normal,
efficient manner, Temorii tapped her bare foot impatiently.
"Mikhyel dunMheric, I think you must really be as large
as all other rijhili. You just spend so much time in the
water, you've shrunk!"
"Don't call me that."
"Rijhili?" A wicked eye twinkled over her shoulder at
him. "Rijhili, rijhili, rijhili."
He frowned, and stalked into the bedroom, Raulind at
his heels.
"Khyel?" Her voice quivered. She was standing in the
doorway, leaning against the elaborately carved frame.
"Khy, I'm"
"Dammit, turn around!" Give him some privacy, at least.
Raulind's hand on his towel-covered shoulder advised
against temper, and he swallowed hard.
Temper was the least of his problems this morning.
He pulled his own clothing on, getting in Raulind's way
more than expediting the act, but needingneedingthat
sense of personal control. Of personally armoring himself
against her. When he had his coat safely fastened, he said,
"Please leave us, Raulind. I'll call when I'm ready for you."
"Very good, sir," Raulind said, but the squeeze he gave
Mikhyel's shoulder as he left counseled: be careful.
Mikhyel nodded. When Raulind was gone, Mikhyel
pulled the tie off his braid, yanked the strands free, and
began pulling a comb ruthlessly through it, welcoming the
minor discomfort.
"Can I help?" Temorii's hand touched his where it held
the comb.
He jerked away. Pulled a knot free of the comb and flung
it in the general direction of the dressing table.
"Khyel, please'. What's going on? What did I do?"
He wished he knew. He stared down at the comb, tried
to still the shaking hand that held it, and decided the hand
didn't belong to him, since it kept shaking. But when Tem-
orii's fingers touched the hand and extracted the comb, he
felt it like fire running from his hand to his entire body, so
perhaps it was his hand after all.
"It doesn't matter, Khyel," her gentle, Temorii voice
murmured. "Just sit down."
He shook his head.
"Please?"
It was undoubtedly a weakness in his character that he
couldn't resist her request, that if her hand guiding a comb
through his hair was all he could have, he'd take it.
But it didn't mean he had to watch her face in the mirror
while she did it.
"I love the feel of your hair," she murmured, as she had
every night out on the mountainside camp, and indeed her
fingers did more of the work than the comb.
Mikhyel said nothing. Talk of hair, talk of rings, talk of
the dance . . . it was all irrelevant anyway. If Temorii
wanted to dance, she had Mother.
"So she got the rings up." Funny how much easier it was
to keep emotion from your voice when dealing with the
Syndicate than when dealing with a hiller. "And the maze?
Will she transport you in? Or didn't you ever get that far
in the plans?"
"Of course she will. Is that why you're so testy?"
"I'm not testy."
"Of course not. You always glower and spit and order
Raulind out of the room."
He propped his elbow on the chair arm and rubbed his
forehead. "Tern, will you just leave me alone? You've got
your dance. You've got Mother. They've set the date . . -
What more do you want?"
"I want you to be happy for me!"
She flung the comb on the dresser and squatted beside
his chair to jerk his hand away from his face.
"Look at me, Khyel," she said, and when he turned his
head, letting the hair fall like a veil between them: "Look
at me, rijhili!"
He flung his head back, felt his mouth pull in a snarl he
wasn't conscious of ordering. But Temorii didn't flinch,
only raised her chin another notch.
"So, what's your problem?" she asked.
He raised a fist between them. Not meant for her. It was
himself he wished he could strike, blows such as his father
had once dealt, to knock sense into him. To make him
think. To remind him only Rhomatum mattered. Always
Rhomatum.
. . . and what of Mikhy el-child's happiness . . .
It didn't matter. Couldn't. But he couldn't get himself
past the wanting. And Temorii never would. With Mheric
gone, with Anheliaa, there was no one left to keep Mikhyel
dunMheric's mind from wandering off into frivolous
irresponsibility.
Hands surrounded his fist. Warm, strong . . . gentle.
"Khyel?"
And eyes, beautiful, worried . . . eyes that had stolen his
soul and left him this witless, self-centered idiot.
"Why, Temorii?" he whispered, so that he wouldn't
shout. "Why did Mother leave you?"
Confusion clouded her eyes, and she shook her head
ever-so-slightly.
"I . . . she said last night, she believed she'd made a
bad mistake."
"Mistake? Mother?"
"Her words, Khyel. Absolutely. I was . . . obsessed, she
says. Out of touch with my self. Becoming . . . not human."
"So she forced you into the worst possible human
hands."
Temorii shook her head. "No, Mikhyel dunMheric.
Mother left me in your hands. I chose to leave."
"Why?" Rings, he could have been with her . . . all this
time, he could have had
"Mother. The dance. Freedom. Mother has plans . . .
Mother always has plans, some more sound than others.
Some only she can begin to comprehend. But this one . . .
hoping to save my humanity, she wove me into the new
pattern..."
"Pattern?"
She shook her head. "I can't explain. Not here. There's
a cave below . . . I call it the world cave, where the patterns
in the ley reveal the patterns of the surface world. You and
your brothers caused a new pattern to form in the web."
"My brothers and 1. And you?"
Her head dipped. "I believe so. Mother is . . . vague on
that point." She stroked his fist until his fingers relaxed,
then raised his hand to brush the Rhomandi ring with her
lips.
His stomach twisted in a sickening knot, but he didn't,
couldn't pull his hand free.
"I'd . . . known you for monthsthrough the pattern.
And I followed the politics and gossip in Rhyys' court. I
knew when Anheliaa leythiated Deymorin, and I knew
when he came out, and when your Nikki attacked Anhel-
iaa's rings."
"I almost died then."
Temorii nodded. "Anheliaa was in shock and dying. You
were trying to pull her down, willing to die, to protect
your brother."
Mikhyel said nothing. It was a time he barely remem-
bered. He remembered Nikki challenging her, and Anhel-
iaa trying to force Nikki to comply with her plan. In an
amazing act of courage, Nikki had thrown Deymorin's cane
into the middle of the Rhomatum rings.
After that came a time of nightmares, a reliving of every-
thing evil that had been his life with Anheliaa. In shame
and hatred, he'd wanted to bring them both down . . . And
then, a flare of hope. Of light . . . on a scent of raspberries
and cinnamon . . . and a hint of clove.
"That was you?" he whispered, and she nodded, her
eyes damp.
"I couldn't let you die. Not that way."
So she let him live to destroy him with her indifference.
But he didn't say that. Knew that that had never been
her choice.
Any more than his feelings for her now were his choice.
"And the day of competition, you and Mother saved me
a second time."
"And you saved me, Khyel. That's what Mother was try-
ing to explain last night."
He frowned. "How?"
"Your physical healing was over, but your heart, your
soul, still wanted to die. Mother told Deymorin he could
change that. Deymorin . . . distrusted. Himself, most of all.
He was frightened of what he would find. Frightened of
what would drive you to death. Of the truth of the past.
But he faced that and more for love of you."
"You were there as well?" Embarrassment nearly over-
whelmed him. He wasn't proud of what Deymorin had wit-
nessed that day.
"Only as a guide. Only to make the pathways, and even
that proved unnecessary. I was to observe, or so I thought."
She laced her fingers in his. "Until that day, my life had
been Mother and the ley and the dance. What I was, be-
yond a dancer, meant nothing to me. I think . . . I think
that denial limited everything that I might become, Khy.
After Deymorin went searching for you . . . I wanted to be
like you. I wanted to have it in me to inspire such love, to
be capable of feeling so strongly. To find that entity, that
pattern, for which I would die to protect and nurture.
Thanks to you, I began to find the key to my own soul."
The concept shocked him. She provided a view of himself
that was less recognizable than the poster's unflattering
portrait.
"After . . . after you woke up, I thought I'd found all
Mother wanted. That I'd been included to find what it
meant to be part of something larger than myself. I left to
go back to you, who was the rest of me. But when I came to
Khoratum . . . she didn't answer. I thought I'd understood
incorrectly, and condemned myself to a life with nothing.
Without the dance. Without Mother. Without . . ."
You, he wished she'd say, but she did not, even if that
had been her intent. And because she did not, that moment
they'd shared, the thought that had haunted him ever since,
had to be rejected. Temorii denied it, therefore, Mikhyel
dunMheric must deny it as well.
He drew a deep breath.
Then rescued his hand and cupped her chin. "So?" He
forced a smile. "When did you say this competition is to
be?"
There were harder ways to appear an idle wastrel while
your men skulked about the shadows than watching the
dancers practice, particularly when one of those powerful,
lithe bodies belonged to someone you . . . cherished a
great deal.
Word of Mikhyel dunMheric's incompetence had indeed
preceded him, and Mikhyel didn't know whether to curse
Deymorin or bless him. The men assembled in Khoratum
would meet with him behind closed doors, accept his pa-
pers, listen to his explanations and plans, then ask where
Deymorin was, and how was Mikhyel's ringdancer doing,
and did he care to lay a wager on the outcome of the
competition.
He'd even met officially with Rhyys. He'd tried to ex-
plain his concerns for Khoratum, and especially the Khora-
tum line and how he had the Southern Crescent Nodes
ready to help repair it. And then he suggested what Rho-
matum might be willing to do for the young mountain node
in the coming years.
Rhyys had smoked his ocarshi and yawnedand asked
how his ringdancer was doing and did he care to lay a
wager.
That was when he decided on the idle wastrel tactic.
Ganfrion had been amused.
But his reputation had made Ganfrion's job easier, Gan-
frion insisted. Ganfrion had been able to confirm his suspi-
cions regarding the shutdown. Ganfrion had also discovered
evidence that the Giephaetumin ringmaster, loniia, had dis-
appeared following her refusal to cooperate with the plan.
Mikhyel hadn't enjoyed passing that information on to
Nikki to tell Nethaalye. But Nethaalye had said, with typi-
cal common sense, that loniia being dispossessed probably
meant her brother was in charge, and from past experience
she had no doubt that she could out-stubborn him, should
that become necessary, so it was all to the best, wasn't it?
The only question remaining was exactly when.
So it was that Mikhyel dunMheric, the golden-tongued
orator of Rhomatum, came to be sitting in the coaching
box, along with some thirty or more other men and women,
sponsors of the various dancers, while the nine contestants
warmed up, preparatory to their only precompetition time
on the dance rings.
The excitement that had vibrated Temorii's body an hour
ago had, to all outward appearances, disappeared. The
warmup routine he'd witnessed a hundred times was as
perfect and preciseat least to his untrained eyesas ever.
Certainly, it had the opposing sponsors craning their necks
and puckering their brows.
She was, without question, unique. Quiet. Disciplined.
Focused on her own movement, and, to all outward appear-
ances, utterly oblivious to the others, all of whom made
occasional flights of flashy tumbling moves across the
warmup sand.
Sand. A long side strip of it, running between sections
of the stadium seating, as the stadium floor itself was cov-
ered with a thick layer. On the far side of the sand, across
from the half-circle of seating, was the maze, and in the
center of the maze, the building into which Mother would
place Temorii on the morning of the competition.
Two days from now.
The arbiter called for the first practice to begin, and sud-
denly, breathing became difficult. When Temorii's slender
form climbed to the uppermost platform to receive the
safety harness, the effort not to call a halt to the proceeding
taxed his control to its limits.
The technology and upkeep of the dance rings was the
province of one of the Syndicate's most self-contained and
self-policing guilds. It was, the guild maintained, the job of
the people to be amazed, not to understand. That their
suspension was somehow linked to the ley was certain: for
all there were physical connections between the rings, and
the central support column, the dance rings would not oper-
ate outside a power umbrella.
Or when the umbrella went down, as it had during that
last competition. And Khoratum's power umbrella was still
vastly unpredictable.
All of which became irrelevant the instant that outermost
ring, tall as a fourth-story window, began a slow, majestic
sway. The one truth was: dancers died on the Khoratum
rings. And he didn't want Temorii to die. He most defi-
nitely did not want Temorii to die.
Temorii, however, obviously did not share his concerns
as she leaped from the launch tower in a tumbling dive
through the stationary rings to seize a handle on the pon-
derously swaying outer ring. If the rings were inclined to
malfunction, that fierce attack should have settled the issue.
And for the next quarter hour, Mikhyel wouldn't swear
to whether or not he breathed. As Temorii's lithe form
twisted, tapped and flew between complex and ever-shifting
patterns of flashing steel, objectivity eluded him. He found
himself in one moment enthralled, disbelieving that any
human, let alone one he knew so well, could possibly per-
form  such  feats,  and  in  the  next  controlling  an
embarrassingly physical response to the sheer beauty of her
form and motion, and wondering when his mind had begun
making such damnable associations.
Until he began to realize his reactions weren't arbitrary.
In one pass, a child skipped through the rings, making them
spin at random, and Mikhyel laughed. In the next pass, a
woman in love caressed the rings, riding one after another
up to the top, dropping through to catch the next rising
swing, and it was his body she embraced. Another pass,
and a warrior challenged the rings and his own skill and
power, or an elder calmly controlled the rings' actions, with
quiet taps from the outside ring.
It was during one of those cerebral respites that Mikhyel
became aware of those around him. Of their aweand
their jealous contempt. One said the hair that floated, then
whipped behind her was obviously a wig, and should be
disallowed. One tried to criticize her technique, another
challenged how could she tell when she'd never seen the
move, and someone else said half the dance was weaving
and unweaving the safety line, and if a dancer couldn't do
that, he'd never win.
Horrified, Mikhyel looked to that diving platform, the
launchpoint from which the safety line should run. And
then to Temorii, riding the outside ring, ready to launch
to another . . .
Her slender form utterly unfettered.
Fear consumed him. For all he'd heard her complain of
the confining straps, for all she'd argued they simply made
the dance more dangerous, he'd never quite convinced him-
self she was right. He'd seen dancers saved when they mis-
calculated a trajectory.
Temorii had said, flatly, they shouldn't have missed.
As if she never had.
Watching her now, perhaps she hadn't. Perhaps she sim-
ply didn't know what missing meant. But there was a
chance. There was always a chance. And as she flew from
one ring to another, then paused to ride one to the top, he
bit his lip on the urge to cry out to her to be careful. That
he loved her too dearly to watch her die.
And as she flexed, ready to leap, she seemed to falter.
Her eyes flickered to the booth where Mikhyel sat with
the coaches. She shook her head, ever-so-slightly, and
launched
off line.
Mikhyel cried out and surged to his feet, frozen in utter
horror as she tumbled through the rings, reaching out, try-
ing to orient her fall through rings sharp enough, spinning
fast enough, now, to decapitate her, should she misjudge
position.
The instant she struck the ground, Mikhyel was over the
edge of the booth, dropping to the lower tier and running
for the steps into the arena.
Others were there before him. He tried to thrust his way
through, but the physician ordered everyone back, and the
crowd carried Mikhyel back with them.
"Khy!" He heard Temorii scream, and called back, but
he wasn't certain she heard. She screamed again, this time
to someone else, to leave her alone, to get out of her way,
and Mikhyel rammed his way through to the front just in
time to see her disappear alone down a tunnel beneath the
stadium seating.
Mikhyel cursed at the surgeon, who cursed backsome-
thing about crazy has-beens who shouldn't be let near the
rings and she was lucky an arm was all she'd broken. He
ignored the surgeon, and ran after Temorii. By the time he
reached the tunnel, she'd disappeared.
8 8 8
"Physician Nodio claims dunMheric was crazed with fear
for the creature." Rhyys pulled deeply on the ocarshi pipe,
held the breath until he had to let it go, then inhaled again,
quickly, as if afraid some of the narcotic might escape him.
Thyerri looked away from the sight, hiding his nose
within the folds of the cloak's hood, trying to filter the
noxious smoke.
"He also claimed her arm was broken," Scarface said,
from his shadowed corner. "Well, Thyerri? Can Temorii
dance with less than two days' recuperation?"
Thyerri nodded within the hood, without looking up, and
he pulled the cloak tighter, fighting the chill that seemed
to come so easily these days.
"Obviously, then, the dear surgeon's powers of observa-
tion are lacking."
"I saw it myself!" Rhyys cried. "He's obsessed. And he
will remain obsessed until he has relieved himself of it
within the object of his fascination!"
"And you would know."
"All too well." Rhyys waved his hand through the air.
"It's the inaccessibility that holds his interest. Once that
impediment is passed, there's nothing to sustain the
excitement."
"You are disgusting," Scarface said, as if commenting on
the recent lack of rain. "Well, Thyerri, would you agree
with that? Will dunMheric, once he's had Temorii, lose all
interest? Will he depart Khoratum as if she never existed?
Able to continue life without her?"
Thyerri shrugged, still watching his feet. "It doesn't mat-
ter. To bed with him is to risk the dance. She won't do
that."
"You seem very certain."
"I am."
"She wants the rings, doesn't she? What if I were to say,
if she beds dunMheric, she'll win the contest?"
"And die in the winning."
"I think she'll choose the risk, don't you?"
It was  the  control over dunMheric  that  Scarface  had
wanted from the start. If the Rhomatumin truly loved Tem-
orii, she would become his weakness, if he did not, the
simple fact he'd bedded a Khoratumin dancer before the
competition would be an indiscretion a man who was trying
to unify the web would not want known. If she died in the
competition, it would simply increase the value of the
scandal.
"I think she will win whether you control the vote or
not," Thyerri said at last.
"Silly child, any vote that can be high-balanced one way
can as easily be high-balanced another. I promise you. Per-
haps that balance could favor . . . well, we wouldn't want
to make you self-conscious, now would we?"
"No!" Rhyys swayed upright. "I tell you, I'll not allow
you to make that promise. We don't need proof to arrest
dunMheric. The people hate him already. Rumor alone will
inspire them to murder. If Mauritum fails to control"
Rhyys reeled as if he'd been struck. When he swayed
back up, his mouth was bleeding. Thyerri, who had felt
that blow at a distance himself, knew precisely who was
responsible and looked back at his feet, which seemed the
safest spot in the room.
"I think, of course," Scarface said mildly, "that your ring-
master raves from the ocarshi. Such a sad affliction."
Thyerri met Scarface's gaze at last. "And I think, sir, that
if Temorii beds dunMheric, it will be because she wishes
to bed him, not for your threats, not for your promises.
She never asked for guarantees, only for a fair chance. I
suspect, that once the competition is over, if you stack your
vote against her, you might well cause an inquiry not even
Rhyys dunTarec can cover up."
"And I can say, murdering arsonist, that if Temorii is
still a virgin the morning of the competition, you will spend
the day of the competition in chains, and the morning after
will be your last."
Thyerri stood up, chin high, looking Scarface squarely in
the eye. "May I go now?'
Scarface laughed, and jerked his head toward the door.
The man-mountain was waiting in the shadows. Thyerri
knew who he was now, and no longer ran.
"Well?" The mountain's gravelly voice implied a cruelty
Thyerri knew better than to believe. Ganfrion had inter-
cepted him several times since that first meeting, and Thy-
erri knew his only concern was for dunMheric's well-being.
In that, they had a shared interest.
Thyerri melted into Ganfrion's corner and said, in a low
voice: "They are planning it for after the competition."
"Mauritum?"
"Garetti is definitely involved."
"The South?"
"I don't know."
"DunMheric?"
"I'm afraid for him."
"Why?"
"Arrest. Riots. They want him incarcerated. Perhaps
dead."
"And yourself?"
Thyerri shook his head. "I'm to compete."
"You don't sound very excited."
"I was a dancer, Ganfrion. I thought I could be one
again. Instead, I find myself fighting for a life I don't care
to live. Rhyys was bad for Khoratum, anyone of sense knew
that. But so were the rings bad. Khoratum itself was from
the start. All I cared about was the Dance. At least, that's
what I thought."
"But that's changed?"
"Thyerri nodded. "With this Mauritumin man in there"
"Your scarface? Still no name?"
Thyerri shook his head. "But with Mauritum lending him
credibility, Rhyys seems to be gaining the support of people
who should know better. I don't understand what's happen-
ing in the rest of the Syndicate. I don't know why strangers
are infesting Khoratum, but I want Rhyys out!" He paused,
staring into the night. "And I want dunMheric safe. If se-
curing those two ends means my death, I will consider my
life well-spent."
"DunMheric will have to be told."
"Enough to get him to leave."
"He deserves to know everything."
"Temorii will do whatever it takes to get him to leave."
"Before the competition?"
"Temorii would wish otherwise."
"Even after today's accident?"
"Temorii will discuss that with him tomorrow night."
"What's wrong with tonight?"
"Temorii needs time to think. And to rest. Away from
dunMheric."
"And will she tell him everything?"
Thyerri shrugged. "That's up to her. And dunMheric.
The competition is meaningless. Temorii will win. Rhyys
will see to that. It will keep Mikhyel there, keep him close,
and somehow, by the end of the competition, Mikhyel will
be in custody and by the next day, Rhyys said it wouldn't
matter whether he was guilty or not. 'They' would be ready
to blame anything on him. Murder was mentioned."
A curse, deep and heartfelt.
"One more thing," Thyerri said, his throat tight with
fear.
"Yes?"
"Scarface . . . he wears a ring . . . like Khyel's."
"The Rhomandi ring?"
Thyerri ducked his head.
"Scarface is not gorMikhyel . . . or any other Rho-
mandi's man."
"Anheliaa's?" Thyerri suggested hesitantly.
Another spate of cursing that consigned Anheliaa's soul
to frightening areas of the hereafter.
Then: "I'll see what I can find out."
"You'll tell him? You'll tell KdunMheric about the
ring and Scarface?"
"Yes, Rakshi-child, I'll tell him." For the first time, the
mountain's rasping voice was almost gentle. "And don't
worry. We'll get him out. Will you leave with us?"
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"I have to dance."
"For whafl"
"For the mountain. For Khoratum. For Bharlo. For
Sakhithe . . ." Thyerri shrugged. "And for others."
"For Thyerri?"
"Those things, those people . . . they are Thyerri."
Chapter Thirteer

The precompetition banquet was winding to a close. At
least, it was as far as Mikhyel dunMheric was concerned.
One more side-whiff of Rhyys' gods-be-damned lung pol-
lutant and he'd be too sick to make it to his room alone.
Besides, he wanted to get back. He hadn't seen Temorii
for almost two days. The word was she'd broken her arm
and wasn't going to compete. But no one had seen her
including Ganfrionand on Ganfrion's inability to- track
her, he was basing all his hope.
She was with Mother. She had to be. Mother wouldn't
let her be hurt. Not again.
And whenever he thought that, a feather-touch of reas-
surance convinced him Mother was aware of the thought,
and telling him all was well.
He hoped. That feather could equally well be Mikhyel
dunMheric's profoundly active imagination.
"Ah-h-h." Rhyys, seated at the center of the main table,
let out a sound that was either a sigh or a wheeze of defla-
tion. "Let us have the parade of dancers, eh?"
Mikhyel let out a sigh of his own. The parade first, then
a dissolution of formal tables. They'd begin to mill about,
and he'd be free to leave.
There were nine huge tables arranged in a horseshoe
shape around the enormous and elaborately decorated
room: one (theoretically) for each contestant. The tickets
for spaces at those tables were, he understood, quite
precious.
He would have given his away for dinner in his room
and word from Temorii.
He'd been placed at Rhyys' table, though fortunately not
immediately beside Rhyys himself, who preferred buxom
females about him, as he'd loudly announced at the begin-
ning of the evening, to the mortification of the two well-
bred women forced to sit beside him by their well-bred
husbands, who were currying favors with Rhyys.
Somehow, the subtle maneuverings Mikhyel had ob-
served and participated in all his life took on the look of
petty, here in Khoratum.
The musicians began a standard, unobtrusive ballroom
piece with a clear and regular tempo, and the parade of
contestants began.
The slender, elegant creatures who entered the room one
at a time in answer to their introduction, bore little resem-
blance to the athletes who had warmed up in the sand the
previous morning. Male and female, they were painted and
dressed, with their long hair crimped and braided in elabo-
rate styles, their slender, nearly sexless forms hidden be-
hind flounces and drapes, padding and corsets, or flowing
robes with padded shoulders.
But while they moved with uniform pride, each made
that pass in their own style; however their sponsor-provided
coaches had adorned them for the occasion, they knew what
they were there for, and uniformity was not a preferred
commodity in a Khoratumin radical dancer.
Each contestant made a slow circuit of the tables, ac-
knowledging the guests, making a special show at the table
of their own backers. The musicians catered to their lead,
choosing pieces to enhance that tour of the tables, creating
a background that was a constantly shifting medley of fa-
miliar ballroom pieces.
"Thyerri of Khoratum."
Mikhyel jerked. Startled. And took his eyes from the
competitor bowing before him to seek out the entrance of
the lad who had played so strange and fleeting a role in
his life.
Laughter began with those nearest the door, and spread
as more caught sight of the strange vision entering the
room. The figure bore little resemblance to the others. He
was dressed in leather, tanned to skin-hugging flexibility.
His cropped hair was held back from his face with a band
that trailed beads and feathers down his back. There were
beads and feathers also at his neck and on his leggings. His
face, like the other contestants, was painted, but his was a
mask of a different kind, composed of fine lace-patterns of
pale blues and greens and purples.
Like the ley itself.
And proud as Mother herself, Thyerri strode down the
hall, with the grace and power of an athlete, not the studied
glamour of the others. As with the others, the musicians
shifted their style to match his. But this time, it was no
ballroom piece. It was of a kind with those pieces he'd heard in
the Lower Khoratum taverns. Hiller music, with the drums
dominant, enhancing Thyerri's solidly placed strides.
That drum, and Thyerri's own determination, the obvious
self-confidence that matched the most self-confident of the
previous contestants, silenced the laughter.
These rijhili had no idea what they were seeing.
Mikhyel felt his lips twitch, remembering his meetings
with Thyerri, and his firsthand introduction to the deroga-
tory term. And seeing Thyerri this way, no longer won-
dered at his initial confusion between the hiller-lad and
Temorii. In many ways, Thyerri did remind him of Temorii,
ways that went well beyond the physical similarities all the
dancers shared.
And it went beyond the strangely-shaded hair, even be-
yond the similar high cheek bones and finely-sculpted chin,
features that he saw for the first time without the cloak's
hood.
It was their bearing, a posture that said somehow. I'm
different. Good or bad, you can never be what I am. Never
have done what I have done. And he wondered, remember-
ing that brief sense of contact, whether that bearing came
from Mother. Whether Thyerri was another of Mother's
children and, if so, what might have dropped him from
her favor.
More than ever, he regretted that lost opportunity the
first night to get to know the street-lad better. And now it
was too late. Now Thyerri's soul belonged to Rhyys.
Thyerri had no table of backers. He'd not been one of
the nine on the field yesterday morning. Rhyys must have
granted him some sort of special dispensation, possibly as
recently as last night. One had to wonder what piece of
privacy Thyerri might have sold to get Rhyys to allow him
to compete.
... nothing stands between a Dancer and a chance to
dance...
As Thyerri crossed in front of Rhyys' table, that haughty
glance slid past them all to seek out one of the servants
standing patiently behind Mikhyel. And Thyerri's eyes lit,
his face broke into a smile, and he swept a bow so deep
the feathers flopped forward and brushed his sandal-bared
toe. The feathers flipped back, and the audacious fellow
blew the servant girl a kiss, then whirled and strutted away,
to unison applause of appreciation.
Rhyys turned with a snarl toward the object of Thyem's
interest. She cowered and dodged his back-handed sweep,
nearly dropping the wine bottle she held.
Mikhyel's upraised palm intercepted Rhyys' heavily jew-
eled hand in the middle of its wild swing. Rhyys glared at
him; Mikhyel said mildly, "Your guests enjoyed the perfor-
mance, Rhyys. Make more of it, and you give it a signifi-
cance it otherwise lacks."
Rhyys cast the servant a disdainful glance, then threw
himself back into place and signaled for the next contestant
to enter. Mikhyel smiled back at the servant, but she was
staring at Rhyys, wide-eyed and very frightened.
She had what was becoming a familiar look to Mikhyel.
Short-cropped hair, though her black mane had the flat
look of dye, and the slender elegance of a dancer, though
she was markedly older than Temorii or any of the contes-
tants. Perhaps Thyerri's older sister. Perhaps, he thought of
the difficulty of telling age with the hillers, even his mother.
He drained then lifted his wineglass, and when the young
woman bent forward to fill the goblet, he murmured, "Fol-
low me out?"
Her nod, if it was a nod at all, was a single dip of the
head that brushed her hair against his cheek.
Thinking he'd done all he could to ensure her immediate
safety, he turned back for the final handful of contestants.
"Temorii dunKhoramali."
Only years of life with Anheliaa prevented him dropping
his wineglass. He set the glass down, and placed his hands
beneath the table where they could shake in private.
Temorii, child of the Khoramali. As audacious, in her
own way, as Thyerri had been. She wore a gown similar to
the one Mother had given her in the cave, and there was
no doubt Mother had provided this one as well.
Spider-fine leythium lace gave the illusion of transpar-
ency, yet revealed nothing, the illusion of all color that was
no color, but a walking shadow of a rainbow.
Grown lace, not manufactured. Grown around a manikin
form over the course of years and under painstakingly con-
trolled conditions; such gowns were available in highly spe-
cialized markets, but he'd never seen one that approached
what she wore. Considering what just the bodice would
cost, he could only imagine what rumors were generating
even now behind the silence within the room.
Temorii's upper body was, like so many of the dancers,
lean and hard, but rather than hide that unusual character-
istic she gloried in it. The gown proclaimed to the world
that the one who wore it was different. Special. And proud
of the difference.
At least, that's what it said to him.
Below her narrow hips, the skirt flared into heavy folds
that flowed behind her in a short train rippling with sparks
of color. Her shaded hair was a shimmering veil down her
back, shot, like her skirt, with sparks of color. Near her
head, where it was deep, almost black, sable, she wore a
coronet of leythium crystal.
Her face was bare of any makeup. But her flawless skin,
benefit, no doubt of growing up bathing in leythium pools,
dark lashes and large, obliquely-set eyes needed no
enhancement.
At least, not to his eyes.
The musicians were first to shake off the spell she cast.
Following the flautist's lead this time, they began a rippling,
flowing, nearly formless melody that sounded more like the
wind in the trees and a mountain stream than a song.
And that sound seemed to ripple up her spine and as if
she had no will of her own, she began to dip and swirl in
response to the rise and fall of notes. She made her circuit,
just as all those before her had made the circuit, but she
made it as the dancer she was to her core. Fortunately, the
alert flautist recognized the spell Temorii was under and
brought the music to a cascading climax in front of
Rhyys' table.
She whirled to a stop, but before Mikhyel, not Rhyys as
had all the others. Whether by her design or accident, he
didn't know. But she didn't bow. Not to him, not to Rhyys.
Her long, deep breaths made the leythium sparkle on her
breast and in the hair that had swirled around to the front
of her shoulder.
She dipped her head to Rhyys. To himself, she gave a
look that twisted his heart.
Then the music began again, and she was gone.
The servant said her name was Sakhithe, and that she
was a friend of Thyerri's once, but that Rhyys had laid
claim to her, and she feared for Mikhyel if he tried to
help her.
Mikhyel laughed, reminded her that slavery was illegal
throughout the web and handed her over to Raulind, and
asked Raulind to have Paulis see to the details in the
morning.
There were times he truly enjoyed having a completely
reliable staff.
Inside his room, Ganfrion was waiting for him.
"You've got to leave. Now. Tonight."
Before he'd even taken off his coat. Reliable was one
thing. Interferingthat was another.
He tore the pin from his hair and began pulling the braid
loose, anxious for the bath that would eliminate the stench
of ocarshi from its strands. After tonight, there was no
doubt left in his mind that whatever value Rhyys had once
had to Anheliaa and the web, that value had gone up in
greasy yellow smoke long ago.
He tossed the pin on the dressing table, then turned to
face Ganfrion.
"No," he said flatly.
"Dammit, dunMheric, you're getting bubbles in the
brain again!"
Mikhyel paced his room, trying to think how to explain
to Ganfrion, enough to ease his concerns without getting
into the issue of Mother. Without proof, Ganfrion would
simply take it as more evidence of his growing irrationality.
"I can't desert Temorii," he said at last.
"She's not even here. For all you know"
"She was at the parade. You're getting sloppy, Gan."
"I was busy elsewhere."
"You didn't see her tonight. The marked hostility they
have for her. Because of me. If she loses"
"She won't."
"She's good, Gan. But nothing is that certain."
"If the vote is rigged, it's certain."
"Rigged?"
"Thyerri says"
Mikhyel swung around to face Ganfrion. "Thyerri? What
did  you  do?  Have  lunch  with  him  and  discuss  my
business?"
"Yes. Khyel, listen to"
Mikhyel raised a hand; Ganfrion's mouth closed in a tight
bar. Without a word, Mikhyel gestured to a chair. Ganfrion
sat. Mikhyel poured two glasses of wine, handed one to
Gan and swallowed half the other. He refilled it and sat
down.
"All right, Gan, what did Thyerri have to say?"
"He came straight to me after his meeting last night."
"And you're only now coming to me?"
"I wanted to verify his story. And I met him again this
afternoon. He found me."
"I see. Go on."
"He didn't even pretend that I wouldn't know what he
was talking about."
"He knows you've been following."
"And knows who I'm with."
"All right. And?"
"He says Temorii is marked to win."
"Why?"
"To keep you here. Control you. Perhaps use you as a
diversion if their plans go awry and panic breaks out."
"We know when?"
"Tomorrow, after the competition. Sometime."
"When exactlyT'
"I don't damn well know! If I did. I'd tell you!"
"All right," Mikhyel said. "All right. Of course you
would. Mauritum?"
"Definitely involved. There's a man, Thyerri says he's
gorRhyys, but that Rhyys is his puppet, not the other way
around. A scar-faced man out of Mauritum. He's the one
to watch."
"You've got nothing more on him?"
"Keeps his nose real clean. Suds. No one mentions him."
"Except Thyerri."
"Except Thyerri."
"You trust him?"
"Thyerri?" Ganfrion paused and frowned down into his
glass. "In this case, yes. Absolutely. Khyel, Thyerri says the
Mauritumin has a Rhomandi ring." Ganfrion nodded
toward Mikhyel's hand. "Like yours."
"That's impossible."
"Anheliaa's man Brolucci?"
Mikhyel shook his head. "He must be mistaken."
"Just . . . shit. Suds, keep an eye out for him? If it is
true"
"I'll keep it in mind, Gan. I promise you." He stared
down into his wine, swirled the deep red liquid. "And Tem-
orii? What about your . . . reservations?"
"Irrelevant. Inconclusive."
"And the ringmasters? Demonstration? Or takeover?"
Ganfrion sipped his wine. "By what I know, it's to be
a brief demonstration. A shutdown to frighten Lidye. By
what I suspect . . . / think they plan to take over
Rhomatum."
Mikhyel nodded. It no more than coincided with his
own thoughts.
"Dammit, Khyel, say something. If Thyerri heard right,
sometime after that damned competition tomorrow, all hell
is going to break loose. For all I know, they plan to blame
it all on you, and turn you over to the raving masses as a
diversion while hell breaks loose. You've got to leave."
"When we know the time, I'll leave."
"Dammit, you're a Rhomandi! You've got to get back
to Rhomatum. Warn the other nodes, prepare Rhomatum
Tower."
"Prepare, how?"
"Hell if I know. That's ringspinning, but any fool can see
that half of an already crippled system shutting down isn't
going to help it run better! If Garetti wants it, he's going
to have it!"
"Your arguments are slipping, Gan. What can be done
has been done and will be done, whether I'm here or in
Rhomatum."
"How the hell do you know?"
"I have my ways, Ganfrion. You're not my only source,
you know."
"I know I'm your best one."
Mikhyel chuckled, enjoying for once having useful infor-
mation Ganfrion lacked. "I assume you've sent messengers
to my brothers."
"Of course. But"
"Did you do a good job on my signature?"
"Of course. But" Ganfrion broke off. Frowning. But
Mikhyel only chuckled. He could see where Ganfrion's
methods, while expedient, must have gotten him into a
great deal of trouble over the years. Fortunately for Gan-
frion, the Rhomandi brothers had ways of backing up the
information sent via other methods.
"Then we've done all we can," Mikhyel said at last. "I
certainly won't get to Rhomatum faster than a single
horseman."
Ganfrion's stare accused, tried and judged him wanting
in common sense; but oddly, his voice held a trace of sym-
pathy when he asked: "You've got a bad case, haven't
you. Suds?"
The ghostly humor deserted him. "I care deeply for
someone whose skill I respect and admire, if that's what
you mean."
"You know what I mean. Why don't you just get it over
with? You know the feelings are mutual. You'd both feel
better. Maybe straighten out your thinking."
He couldn't argue with that. The cold truth was, his de-
sire for Temorii did cloud his thinking. Still: "I can't even
consider it. It would be as good as a death sentence for
her."
"And living without you won't be?"
"Not if she has her dance."
"Perhaps having you would be an adequate substitute."
"Hardly. And I'd never ask her to make the choice."
"Never ask? Or never give?"
"You cut too fine a line for me."
"Leave now. Tonight. Take your dancer with youby
force, if you must. The poor child hasn't a chance anyway."
"Of course she has."
"Your dancer will win, that's a given. Your dancer will
be the Khoratum radical. But for how long, once you're
gone or in prison . . . or dead? The outcome is rigged!
They're counting on you sticking around for the ceremonies
and celebrations. If you don't, Temorii is doomed."
"I'd never leave, if I believed that to be the case."
"Well, wake up. Suds. Because that's the way it is."
"And there are facts yet to come into evidence. Crypt-
bait. Temorii will be safe."
"You're blind, Rhomandi."
"And you don't understand as much as you think you
do!"
A hesitant knock on the door interrupted them.
"Come!" Mikhyel barked, and the door inched open re-
vealing pale eyes and long shaded hair.
"Is it safe?" Temorii whispered, eyes wide with theatri-
cal fear.
Mikhyel laughed, and held out a hand. "Come, child.
The ogre is in his cage."
She sighed dramatically, and slipped the rest of her inside
the room, the mass of skirt sweeping in behind as if it had
a mind of its own.
For all he knew, it did.
She was carrying a small pile of clothing that she placed
in a chair near the door.
Ganfrion scowled and spun on his heel to leave. He
paused beside her. They exchanged a long look that made
Mikhyel wonder what new conspiracy Ganfrion was brew-
ing against him.
"See if you can talk sense into him," Ganfrion growled,
and slammed out the door.
Mikhyel waited until he was certain Ganfrion was gone,
and he was himself in control of his emotions. There was
so much he couldn't tell the man. From Mother's ability to
transport Temorii and himself free of any danger, to the
debt he owed the young woman herself. He simply could
not be the one to rob her once again of her chance to
prove her talent to the world.
And to herself.
More than that, he wanted to be at that competition. For
his own sake. Rhyys would use rumor whether he attended
or not. At this point his personal fate was the primary risk
and he had every right
"Khy?" Temorii's voice drew him free of his thoughts.
He held out hands which she took without hesitation. Or
pain. He examined both her arms, finding on the left a thin
red mark, but no more.
"Mother?" he asked; and she nodded, confirming the sus-
picions her sudden disappearance had roused. "And tomor-
row? You'll be well enough to dance?"
Her head lowered, the mass of hair falling forward to
hide her face. But she nodded again.
"I was so worried, when you didn't come back last night.
What happened?"
"I went to Mother."
"And does bone take so much longer to heal than skin
or hair?"
She shook her head. "It . . . wasn't my arm. It was why
my arm happened."
"Dancing without the safety lines will do that," he said,
gently chastising, but choked on the words when her head
came up, and her expression said he didn't know what he
was talking about. "What, then?"
"You, Khy. You happened."
"What did I do? I wanted to yell, but I didn't. I was
scared out of my mind, once I realized"
{And when did you realize, Khy?j
A thought. Clear and sweet as in Mother's cave, carrying
the tartness of raspberries and the warm mystery of
cinnamon.
"Rings," he whispered. "You heard me?"
She nodded.
"How much do you get?"
"Before Mother transferred us to the cave, only occa-
sional drifts, hardly more than impressions of impressions.
I should have known you from the very beginning."
"From the time in the woods. After Boreton?"
She nodded.
Mikhyel murmured. "I sensed it, too."
"Did you? I wondered. It cut off so quickly. But I'd
changed. Or you had. I know my - . . hearing has been
diminished along with the web. Perhaps we both just . . .
needed our privacy. Now . . - at times, it's impossible to
stuat you out."
It was like his conversations with Deymorin reenacted.
As his ability to hear and sense his brothers was to Nikki's
and Deymorin's, so Temorii's was to his.
"Like Deymorin and Nikki," she confirmed softly.
"You know about them?"
She nodded. But of course she would.
And as with Deymorin and himself, during a moment of
crisis, his uncertainty at the key moment had caused her
to falter.
"Oh, sweet mother of the ley," he whispered. "Tern, I'm
sorry. I'm so sorry."
She shrugged. "Mostly, I can block you out"
"How?" he asked eagerly.
"I can't teach you, Khy. Not in one short night."
One night. So she was part of the conspiracy to spirit
him out of Khoratum.
"Then I'll stay here. As long as it takes for me to learn."
She shook her head. "Then I'll leave. Perhaps Mother
will take me back . . . now."
"Why? In your own Rakshi's name, the whole point of
this was to get you the Dance."
"It's too dangerous for you to stay here, Khyel."
And then he realized, and was ashamed not to have
thought of it sooner.
"Of course. I must leave before the competition. I'm a
danger to you. It's worse than my trying to shut Deymorin
out. You can't afford to have your attention distracted in
that manner. Tern, I am sorry. I . . ."
He lifted a hand, let it drop before it touched her, and
feeling suddenly very old, he headed for the door to send
for Ganfrion, to tell him to make the arrangements.
But Temorii swirled into his path.
"I didn't mean that. I can handle it. You simply startled
me, because you'd been so happy, so pleased with the
dance until then. Your . . . appreciation simply made it
better than I'd ever imagined. So when you . . . changed,
I wasn't ready. I'm ready now. I've only one chance to
compete, and I . . . I want you to be there."
She pressed her injured hand against her stomach, rub-
bing it with the other. He captured both hands again.
"Then what is it?"
"You must leave, Mikhyel, right after my competition.
And if my number comes up too late"
"It will be last. You know it will be the last number
called.  It's  certain  to  be  rigged  for  Rhyys' maximum
entertainment."
"And . . . and to make certain you're still there. You
must leave before I dance, then, Khyel. You must."
Her logical functions were vacillating as wildly as his own
tonight. Nerves. Pressure. They were both walking a nar-
row ledge.
He smiled and shook his head. "Immediately after.
You've said you want me there. You've said it won't endan-
ger you. Idammit, Tern, I want to see this through! I want
to see you dance.  Gan can damn well get me out
afterward!"
"It . . . it won't be easy. I think Rhyys plans to have you
arrested right after."
"I can always get out the same way you'll get in."
She smiled faintly. "That's true, isn't it? She's back . . ."
The smile disappeared. "Unless the web disintegrates com-
pletely. Khy, no, it won't work. You must go. They'll
arrest you. Ruin you, one way or the other. And if she
can't get you out"
"What do they plan to arrest me for?" he asked, inter-
rupting her.
She biinked, then looked away. "S-seducing a radical
competitor."
It was the same nonsense that had buzzed about the
room after she'd left. Comments on the dress only a Rho-
mandi could afford, the tiara, the flaunting of tradition, and
that she wouldn't get away with it if she weren't warming
his bed.
He turned away from her, and paced the room, feeling
caged already. "This is ridiculous." And, dammit, unfair.
"When I think of how often I've wanted to do precisely
what they" He bit his lip and sent a despairing glance
across to the shadows where her pale eyes echoed his di-
lemma. "Tern, I'm sorry. I never meant"
Her eyes vanished, whatever feelings she might be having
hidden behind long-lashed lids. She moved to the chair,
and silently held out the pile she'd brought with her.
"What are those?"
"Hill clothes. From the Belisii Valley. They are . . .
Mother says they are like what my parents wore. I . . . I'd
like you toto wear them tomorrow."
"I'd be proud to."
"M-more than that. If you leave with your men, they'll
follow you." Her eyes came up, hard and sure. "They mean
to have you, Khy, make no doubt of it. There's a Belisii
trade caravan camped outside Khoratum. They're leaving
during the competition tomorrow. I've arranged for you to
accompany them."
"I don't"
"You'll be safe. Far safer than ever you've been here.
They'll have a head start, but Ganfrion can get you to
them. They're poor folk who've pooled their assets and
their products hoping to find a market in Rhomatum. I . . .
told them you'd help, in exchange for safe passage."
"I won't go unless you go with me." The declaration
escaped before he realized he'd thought it. "If I'm in dan-
ger, so are you. Ganfrion says you're playing Rhyys' game,
that you and Thyerri have been all along. Well, I don't
believe you are now, and if you've double-crossed Rhyys to
this extent, it's possible not even Mother could save you."
"She'll protect me."
"She's been just a bit unreliable! It's one thing for me.
Time will not exactly be of the essence. But if the rings go
down, if the web collapses again, while you're dancing
who's to say what you'll be facing?"
"Now who's being unfair? Trying to frighten me into
making your life simpler, dunMheric? I'll not be manipu-
latednot by Rhyys, not by Mother, and certainly not by
you. You want to diefine. Wait until tomorrow night, go
leisurely to your carriage, and see how long you last in
Rhyys' tender care. But don't expect me to give up what
I've finally gotten. The dance is mine, to win or lose. No
matter what Rhyys says, I will know. The rings will whisper
the truth to me. Rakshi will. And if I am meant to die, let
it be on my rings, not on some foreign city street."
"You can dance Rhomatum's Rings!" The thought was
said before he realized its ramifications. "Rings! Of course!
Temorii, that's it! Come with me. Tern, they'll love you.
They've never seen anything like"
"Shut up!" She sank to her knees, her hands clenched
on the clothing. "Gods, you're stupid sometimes! I can't
dance just any rings."
She was shaking with anger and fear and frustrationall
of it his doing. She was going to dance tomorrow, one way
or another, and in this state, it would surely mean her
death.
They were both talking nonsense. They'd made one plan
and never seen beyond it. If she could have been talked
into leaving, the time to convince her was long past.
"I'm sorry. Tern. I'm truly, truly sorry." He crossed to
her side, waited until she, very reluctantly, met his gaze.
He cupped her chin in one hand, brushed the shaded hair
back with the other.
"I should have known. I'm still learning. Gan . . . Gan-
frion says they'll kill you, win or lose, after they have me.
Or if they lose me. After the dance, your dance, will you
come with me? You'll have your answer. You'll know . . ."
She was shaking her head slowly. "I . . . I can't live
anywhere else, Khy. Khoratum . . . Mother . . . I'm"
He laid a finger on her lips. "All right, I'll go with your
caravan. Without" Despite his determination, his voice
broke. "you. My brothers and I will deal with this little
problem. I'll live, but I don't promise to be happy. These
days with you . . . Ringfire, I've tried so hard not to feel . . .
what I'm feeling. You caught me by surprise, my brave,
beautiful dancer."
She jumped within his hold, and her startled gaze
searched his face rather frantically.
"Are you all right?"
"Why did you call me that?" she whispered past
trembling lips.
"It's what your name means, isn't it? It's what Mother
called you. Ifs-it's what you are." His control broke and
he pulled her fiercely up and into his arms. "Sometimes I
hate the rings and everything about them." She hissed like
an angry snake, but before she could pull away, he tight-
ened his hold and whispered: "But without the dance, you
wouldn't be you, and I might never would have known you."
"Maybe you'd be happier if you hadn't. You told
Mother"
"Never." He leaned away to see her face. "I love you,
Tern. And that's something I never thought I'd be able to
say to any womanno man, other than my brothers."
"You do mean that, don't you Khy?"
"You can doubt it?"
"And yet you feared for me on the rings."
"That's contradictory?"
"Mother says if you love a dancer, you never fear for
them while they are on the rings. If you love a dancer, you
know that the rings won't hurt them, and if they die on the
rings, they die happy, and if you love them, you won't be
frightened for them, because that might make the dancer
frightened."
"I was startled. You didn't warn me you were going to
perform without the harness."
"Dancers don't perform, Khy."
"I stand corrected. But I didn't know, Tern. There's so
much I don't know."
"We can none of us know everything, Khy."
They remained motionless for no little time. Then Mi-
khyel released her reluctantly and picked up the costume.
"When will you join Mother?"
"When I leave here. The competitors are led in at first
light. She'll need to leythiate me in before they get there."
"Leythiate. Is that what you call it?"
"It's how I interpret Mother's thought."
"I see," he said, though none of it meant anything.
Words, noises, anything to take his mind off her.
He spread the shirt over his arm, admiring the intricate
cut and pulled work on the neck and sleeves. Black, with
an iridescent leythium-dipped thread, on black. "I've seen
Mirym do this. I'd swear it's even the same pattern."
"Mirym?"
"Anheliaa's servant. You'd like her, I think." He didn't
mention she carried his child, but a caught breath told him
Temorii had picked that image from him. "Tern, I"
"I th-think, probably, I would," she whispered, and he
murmured back:
"She's always stitching something."
"A valuable accomplishment for a mother."
"For a mother, yes," Mikhyel said. Words. Just words.
But he thought then of that final interview with Mirym, of
her disinclination to be his wife.
"But the child was conceived in love?" Temorii' whisper
demanded assurance.
"Yes, in that love is compassion for specific individuals."
"And it will be raised in love?"
"Yes." Without qualification. Of that, he was certain.
Mirym would not allow it to be otherwise. He would not.
"That's good, Khy. I'm glad you have a child. And you
will be a good father, I think."
"Rings, I hope so. I certainly intend to try." He
smoothed the patterned sleeve, and said, because he
thought she deserved to know he wasn't ashamed of the
fact: "I wish it were yours."
Her hand covered his, and that internal sense entreated
him to meet her eyes. He was relieved to find them dry.
Utterly at peace.
{Put them on, Khy, please. I want to see you in them,
and this might well be my only opportunity.}
Hating the sense of urgency, worse, of conclusion, he
removed his coat. She went and stood beside the window,
looking out, while he changed. Careful of his modesty for
once, as he had always been of hers.
Drawstring pants, wide-sleeved, voluminous tunic, open
down the front, those were simple. Unfortunately, regard-
less how he wrapped it, the simple strip cummerbund in-
sisted on falling off at his first deep breath. He cursed
softly,  and  a soft chuckle  happened  behind  him,  arms
wrapped around his waist to pull the strip of cloth free.
"Turn around."
He did, quickly, unthinking. The tunic fell open. The
smile on her face faded as her eyes traveled slowly down-
ward, and the cummerbund fell, unnoticed, to the floor.
One trembling hand reached tentatively, brushed his bare
chest. His whole body tingled, and he grasped her wrist
firmly to stop any further exploration.
"Tern, please. I'm not some curiosity you can"
"Mother says the traditions are foolish."
He closed his eyes as her callused fingertips made an-
other circuit around his hardening nipple.
"Mother says, loving should only improve the dance, if
the lover truly understands and loves the dance as I do."
"And you call me unfair!" He swallowed hard. "Dammit,
Tern, your needs have kept me from touching you for what
seems ten lifetimes, and nowwhen I'm leaving, when I'll
likely never see you again"
"Does the when matter? Does the how many times?"
Another slow circuit. "I'll not have my life dictated. Mother
says I should. Rhyys says I should. But I don't do this for
Rhyys. I don't do it for Mother. I do it for me."
"And what about me, Dancer?"
She smiled. And that smile cut to his heart like no blow
Mheric had ever deal him.
"I don't find this the least humorous. Neither do I care
to participate in youract of independence."
"Is that what you think this is?" And her voice caught.
Her wrist jerked from his hold. But she didn't run away.
Her arms circled him, under the shirt, and her head pressed
his shoulder, burrowing past the collar. Without asking his
preference, his arms enfolded her. And her gown, like the
robe Mother had materialized around him in the cavern,
caressed his skin like living flesh.
"Perhaps you are right," she whispered. "Perhaps it is
independence I seek, but not from Mother, not from Rhyys.
Not even, my sweet Khy, from you. Do you think you alone
have felt the need rising within you? Mother made me part
of your pattern long ago. I don't believe she intended this,
but it has happened. I've tried to resist it, to ignore it, but
to dance in this condition isunthinkable. And there's only
one cure I know."
Her hands began a tingling journey across his bare skin,
her lips and tongue following the course her fingers charted,
tasting him. He staggered a wobble-kneed step backward,
setting his shoulders against the door. He buried his hands
in her luxuriant hair, unable at that moment, to think of
anything but the wonder of her touch on his body.
Sensations that, until now, had been reserved for dreams.
And dreams were all he had to guide him, when it came
to touching a woman. Dreams and a seventeenth birthday
with a prostitute and that tangled vision of his night with
Mirym.
Beyond that handful of dreams, his experiences were the
stuff of nightmares. The last thing he wanted was to con-
taminate this moment with some nightmare-driven mistake,
and that fear of frightening her, of hurting her, ofin any
wayruining this moment for her, held him helpless in a
cloud of uncertainty, as her callused fingers brushed his
shoulders and down his arms, sliding the tunic free.
The tunic, like the cummerbund before it, fell to the
floor. Unkind, he thought in a dizzy haze, to the hard-
working seamstress who had created such
Her mouth on his chest eliminated all thoughts of that
seamstress.
"I used to lie beside you in the meadow, watching while
you slept," she whispered, and her shoulder lifted as with
a deep breath, then slowly relaxed. "And sometimes I'd
wake up with my head pillowed on you, and all I could
think was how good you smelled, and when you held me,
and my lips brushed your skin, how good you tasted."
Her hand crept past the simple placket-fly of the loose
pants, and touched him, gently, sweetly, a touch not too
light, not painfully tight. Not shy, nor inhibited, though she
lacked a prostitute's obvious expertise.
His mind reeling, he frantically sought some healthy par-
adigm, some guideline for what he should and shouldn't
do, and as he fought to keep his knees from buckling, his
body remembered another fight for balance. An under-
ground passage, and shadows, and a red-haired temptress.
And an overwhelming passion for life and . . . Deymorin
and Kiyrstin . . . the day they'd entered the City.
Temorii's mouth tried to follow where her hand had led,
and while his dreams reeled in images and possibilities, his
mind thought of where and under what conditions this in-
nocent must have witnessed such tactics. Or perhaps, she
simply picked the images of Kiyrstin and Deymorin out of
his mind.
Either way, it wasn't what he wanted. Not now. If they
were to have only one time together, there would be noth-
ing one-sided about the experience. He'd be an active par-
ticipant  and  those  actions  would  be  his  alone.  Not
Deymorin's, not Nikk's.
He grasped her shoulders to raise her to her feet, cupped
her chin and kissed her, long and deeply, as he had in
his most cherished dreams, and deciding, just perhaps, his
instincts might be sound, he allowed his hands to seek her
slender body beneath her simple gown's heavy folds.
He paused. Perplexed. Her mouth reached for his.
"Wait." He held up his hands, palms out, between them.
"Just . . . wait."
Blinking his eyes clear of lust-induced fog, he examined
the dress more closely. She giggled and gasped and swayed
into his curiously searching hands, making his task that
much more difficult.
Finally, laughter welled and spilled out.
{Mother!) he shouted in helpless frustration.
Temorii jumped. "What's wrong?"
"The damned thing has no fastening!" he got out, past
the laughter. "Oh, my darling, we've a choice: ripping this
beauty to shreds, which considering it's probably pure ley-
thium, I doubt we could do anyway, or"
"Doesn't bother me," she said, and swayed toward him.
"But I"
Her breath shuddered into his mouth, she pressed hard
against him, the full length of her body until he was pressed
full  against  the  wall.  Her  hands  lost  the  wonder,  and
pressed deep into muscle. A bit rough. A bit desperate.
He gasped a complaint; she wrapped her arms around
him and clung there, shuddering.
"Sweet, sweet, sweet Mother," she sobbed into his neck,
"I'm sorry, Khy, I1 didn't know . . . I want . . . you."
Her arms tightened spasmodically, relaxed in a flare of de-
liberate denial. "Please?"
There was no sense denying his own desire, but . . .
"Tern," his voice was a hoarse whisper. "Rings, are you
surer'
"Oh, Khy." Her voice caught on a laugh. "How can
you wonder?"
And like fingers in his head, she began to separate her
own sensations from his, eliminating a duality of thought
and desire and feelings he'd had no idea was there.
And without it, he felt . . . naked. Exposed and lonely
in a way he'd never imagined.
"Please, Tern . . ." His voice, what little there was, shook
uncontrollably. And a sob tightened his throat.
"Please, Tern, what?" She mocked him, but gently.
"Come back to me?"
"Oh, yes" And when she returned to his mind, it was
with a depth of passion and need that left him dizzy. She
drew him to the bed, or he drew her, and they lay down
together. And together, they pulled the heavy leythium
folds up between them.
But she alone guided him to a softness that had nothing
to do with clothing.
All the while, he kept his eyes on her beloved face, wait-
ing for her to change her mind, hoping desperately to be
able to give her that option.
Fortunately, the request never came, and there was no
denying that internal verification of her wishes and her
needs. Releasing all hope of rational control, he pressed
into the softnessand very nearly lost all inclination to
touch anyone, ever again.
Any remaining doubts he harbored regarding her experi-
ence vanished in that instant. No question now, even for
his limited experience, that it was her first time, less that
his entry hurt her; it wasn't painless for him. And the sense
of surprise/fear/pain/curiosity that accompanied her scent
could not be fabricated.
But when he would have drawn backsome vague,
years-gone warning of Deymio'sshe muttered an objec-
tion, and withdrew her mind from his, with an abruptness
that left him gasping, even as the pain disappeared. Then
she twined her legs over his back, and thrust up and around
him, while smothering a wordless cry in his shoulder.
For several breathless moments, she clung there, quiv-
ering against him and around him, while those old warnings
,of Deymorin's ran through his head, along with the mem-
ory of her pain, and he knew, no matter how much his
body wanted it, that it would not be at all kind to
(Oh, Khy. You think too much . . .}
And again she infiltrated his mind and body. The pain,
that was still there, but minor, and other sensations that
approached pain, in areas of his body that he . . . didn't
have. Like, and yet unlike his own.
And within those areas he didn't have, the presence that
pressed and thrilled and pained those nerve endings began
to change in character. He no longer felt quite so . . . full.
{You're thinking again.}
And she began to move and sway, like the rings them-
selves, and never had he been more aware of her lithe
power as she drew him into the dance with her. And the
sense of being filled returned, the pressure increased as
Temorii drove them both to a mind-shattering climax.
They collapsed, shuddering, still locked together. When
he would have withdrawn, she curled her top leg tighter,
holding him steady, and whispered, "Not yet, Khy. Please,
just a moment more."
And as that moment stretched into a lifetime, she neither
moved nor spoke, she seemed not even to breathe, and he
found himself imprinting the feel/sight/taste/smell of her on
his memory, knowing he'd never forget how he felt at that
instant, never again smell raspberries or cinnamon the
same way.
Raspberries, cinnamon, and the slightest hint of clove. A
mystical blend that would forever be part of him.
Perhaps, that was her intention.
Then, with a tiny sigh, she slid free.
And all he could think of was . . . never again.
Chapter Fourteen

Mikhyel drifted slowly toward consciousness on the dawn
tide. To escape the gentle, but persistent, glow from the
window, he buried his nose into Temorii's soft hair.
Except . . . Temorii should be with Mother by now, possi-
bly already deep within the heart of the maze. And upon
a startled opening of his eyes, he discovered a Tern-shaped
pillow within his arms: Mother's doing, indeed.
Morning. The competition. This evening, he'd leave
Khoratum. Forever. Mikhyel groaned and buried his face
deep in the Tem-pillow, cursing fate in one breath, praising
it in the following.
He had found what poets called the perfect love.
Found it, attained it, and in true poetic style, must leave
it forever. The one perfect moment. The sweet agony of
self-sacrifice.
The poets must all be eunuches.
Tugging the bellpull to notify Raulind his master had
come to whatever sense remained his to achieve, Mikhyel
hauled himself up and out of bed. As he saw to morning
needs, he discovered blood.
Cursing them both for fools, he hurried back to the bed-
room, and a sheet that, while not covered in blood, cer-
tainly betrayed evidence to make a man horrified at what
he'd done on the eve of so important an event.
"Oh, Tern," he murmured, and wished her well. And a
stream of satisfied sentience wove through his mind, reas-
surance that Temorii had awakened without pain, without
concern . . . and an annoying case of self-doubt nothing
could change.
(Because of what happened?} he sent back up that
stream, and as his question reached the source, he had an
image of Mother, bored, soaking her feet in a leythium
pool.
{Of course. And no.}
Mikhyel laughed. Mother: at her frustratingly ambigu-
ous best.
{Then at what? Dearest Mother, can I help her?}
{At her own ability. Couldn't do the simplest handstand
when she awoke.}
(Nerves,  Mother.  Normal,  eminently  human  nerves.
They'll make her dance even better.}
{Is that a promise?)
{Is anything a certainty?)
{Yes, but not those things we choose. Perhaps I should
watch.}
{I think Tern would like that. Mother.}
{I'll see if I find the energy.  Go hop  in the bath, child:
your friend called the maids and they're just outside his
door.}
The angle on the rings was different, here in the ring-
master's box, where the intent was to be seen as much as
to see the dance. But it also afforded one of the best sta-
dium views of the maze that comprised the other half of
the stadium crescent. The stadium seating had been cut out
of the hillside, the stone-walled maze built up out of the
downhill side, angled and leveled for optimum viewing
from the stands.
The coaching box was closer to the rings, lower, almost
to ground leveland contained better company.
Rhyys had insisted Mikhyel join him in his box. He'd
wanted to show the increasingly anti-Rhomatum citizens of
Khoratum that their beloved ringmaster and the ruling fam-
ily of Rhomatum were the best of friends, and that Khora-
tum could sleep soundly, knowing their interests were
covered.
In other words, Rhyys wanted to lie.
The only other individual to join them in the booth for
breakfast was a man Rhyys introduced as dunGarshin, an
importer from beyond the storm-rim. But unless Khoratum
Tower housed two hideously scarred men, this dunGarshin
was young Thyerri's ocarshi-smoking Mauritumin.
He said little, ate and drank sparingly, but his eyes never
left Mikhyel. His hands, scarred and twisted, bore many
rings, but none of them remotely resembling the Rhomandi
ring Mikhyel wore.
He'd dismiss the notion out of hand, but if this dunGar-
shin knew what that ring was, he'd be unlikely to flaunt it
in Mikhyel's presence today.
During the mostly silent breakfast, the stands filled stead-
ily, seemingly everyone from the city and the surrounding
hills intent on viewing the spectacle. For some, Nikki's
notes had explained, it was a religious event: Rakshi's selec-
tion of a worldly representative; for others, it was blood
sport, eager anticipation of the inevitable wounds, regular
maimings and occasional deaths; and for some, it was sheer
love of beauty.
For Mikhyel dunMheric, it was nerve-wracking.
He didn't know, couldn't, unless Mother or Temorii
chose to inform him, whether the plan was proceeding:
whether Temorii was waiting in that simple building at
the center of the stone maze, whether Ganfrion had man-
aged to prepare his men to move out during the cere-
mony, whether his staff would successfully exit the Tower
through those passages Temorii had shown them, or
whether they would all find themselves arrested by the
end of the day.
It was tempting to grow impatient, when regular check-
ins were possible. But Temorii was justifiably silent, prepar-
ing for the greatest moment of her life. Mother . . . Mother
was probably enjoying his incipient panic.
Music filled the air constantly. Down on the white sand,
color festivities were already in progress. Student dancers
of all ages performed complex choreographed routines,
trained animal acts, a magician or two . . . Deymorin and
Nikki would have loved it.
As if choreographed, their breakfast's conclusion and the
opening ceremony coincided. By the time the announcer
introduced Rhyys, the table had been cleared and removed,
an ocarshi brazier erected between Rhyys and dunGarshin,
and tea arrived for the others who were ushered into the
box.
Dignitaries of the Northern Crescent, all. Some of whom
Mikhyel had known were here and visited in the past week,
others whom he recognized by name only.
Including Nethaalye's father.
Rhyys rose and delivered a disjointed and self-aggrandiz-
ing statement to the audience. It was a terrifying ordeal.
This could not be the same man Anheliaa selected fifteen
years ago. Anheliaa, though mad, had never intended to
sacrifice Khoratum. Ocarshi and a surfeit of power had de-
stroyed whatever Anehiiaa had known.
And opened the way for the scar-faced man's ilk. If it
hadn't been Mauritum, it would have been some other lurk-
ing hawk. Khoratum and Rhyys had been their weak link
for years.
He only hoped they didn't pay dearly for that oversight
today.
Rhyys' monologue seemed destined to absorb the entire
morning, but he ended abruptly, and with utter incoher-
ence, when a tiny buzzer sounded within the box. He
turned, then, to the booth's interior, and introduced, one
at a time those seated there.
As if he were pointing to trophies in a case. Polite to
outrageous applause greeted each man as he stood, until
Rhyys came, finally and at last, to Mikhyel.
He stood to utter silence.
Stunned, he sank back down. Nikki's rumors, his own
sheets this morning, and the maids. He cursed again his
own stupidity within a web that needed no more division,
a situation that required no more volatility. And yet, hypo-
crite that he was, he found it impossible to regret the events
of the previous night.
The organized performances began. More of the student
dancers. More music. More . . . everything. All around him,
the leaders of the Northern Crescent talked and laughed
and shared rumors.
Many of those rumors centered openly around the Rho-
mandi sitting within easy earshot. They knew. They all
knew. They believed he was doomed and used this opportu-
nity to taunt him.
Stupid, petty, and so human. But his mind took him into
the future. A future that assumed he and his brothers won
everything they hoped, when he would have to face these
same individuals across a courtroom and determine their
guilt or innocence in a game so much larger than individual
pride, and he wondered just how much objectivity he would
be able to maintain.
He wondered if any of the men and women sitting here
had ever considered the possibility of failure.
If he failed, if he was wrong to trust Mother, or if any
of a number of variables went against him, he could die.
But he wouldn't have run. He wouldn't have deserted Tem-
orii and he wouldn't have run from a petty tyrant.
Strange, to have so important a decision boil down to
something as simple as personal pride.
And suddenly, it was time. The sand was cleared and
dragged a final time. A hush fell over the stadium. On his
platform on the stand beside the rings, the arbiter pulled a
red-and-gold banner from the container and raised it on
the staff.
The number thirty-three billowed out and a roar went
up from the crowd.
Chosen for luck by the contestants, plucked at random,
these numbers meant no more than identification. Within
the central courtyard, that number would be announced,
and a contestant's perilous journey to the rings would
begin.
Each guest in Rhyys' box had been presented elegant,
engraved, gold-and-silver viewing glasses. As the music
began, Mikhyel trained his on that distant building, to
which the contestants had supposedly been led that
morning.
The plain doorway sprang into sharper view, and a slim,
lithe figure in sparkling red and gold emerged. Five steps
forward, to a stone turning. A wooden gate to either side:
only one opened. On its far side, a blade swept in an arc
at waist level. The audience could see, the contestant could
not. The audience had been given a key to the maze, the
contestant had not.
The gate swung open, the blade swept toward the contes-
tant. He dropped, flat to the ground, sprang up the moment
the blade passed overhead, and dashed for the far end
Where only solid stone awaited.
Retreat, then, another clash with the blade, and a second
attempt at the locked gate, which this time opened
smoothly.
But time had been lost on the clock that spun atop the
arbiter's tower, ticking off the minutes. Energy had been
wasted. The contestant's confidence had been shaken. All
of these things, Temorii had told him, could affect the
final outcome.
The rest of the maze contained similar tests of endurance
and wit. No two tricks were the same, though some were
variations on themes. Seemingly solid stone shifted beneath
a dancer's feet here, there it was a mirror-made illusion.
Blades, falling stones, false avenues . . . all designed to test
and exhaust and delay the contestant.
Time was important, but so, Temorii had said, was the
style in which one extricated oneself from the dilemmas.
No one expected to go freely through, although some could
expect easier times than others, as not all took the same
route and not all the traps worked every time.
The red-and-gold #33 entered the stadium at last, pant-
ing, and staggering . . . and the music began. In an obvious
attempt to regain dignity and strength, the contestant fol-
lowed an undulating path across the sand. By the time he
reached the tower ladder, he was able, with some grace, to
writhe his way to the top, never losing the intricate rhythms
of the accompaniment.
Granted he had no baseline from which to judge, but to
Mikhyel, the young man looked very impressive. And his
performance on the rings, though perhaps not as inspired
as Temorii's practice session, certainly gained the approval
of the audience.
When he was finished, the sand was dragged and the next
contestant's number announced.
And so it was, with contestant after contestant, each
seeming better than the preceding, until you realized it was
the uniformity of skill that made the one currently compet-
ing appear the best. There were no bad runs, as Temorii
insisted he call them, not even mediocre ones. They were
all one step short of awesome.
And it was that step, he began to think, that must set
the true Rakshi dancers apart.
After each run, the sand was dragged to pristine
beauty. The best runs left recognizable patterns in the
sand . . . yet one more challenge, one more consideration
for the dancer.
And after each run, the successful contestant was pre-
sented a golden robe and led with ceremony to a ground-
level viewing box to watch their competitors.
Another minor torment Rhyys thrust upon them. Tem-
orii had said more than once that she hated watching other
dancers on her rings. Temorii was, he thought, very
possessive.
Six runs complete. Five more to go. The number 00
painted on a rag fluttered out from the pole, and a figure
in leather and beads, with shoulder-length, shaded hair
stepped from the central courtyard.
Thyerii. And as audacious as he'd been last night. Mi-
khyel felt a smile tug at his mouth, and settled back in his
chair to enjoy the show.
The street-lad's maze time, while not the fastest, com-
pared with the best, and his trip was the most entertaining
by far, as he darted and twisted and laughed his way past
all obstacles. He seemed indefatigable, entering the sta-
dium at a run and bolting for the rings, scorning the fancy
dance across the sand, obviously with a single goal in
mind. Leaving only gaps where he leaped the largest
rings as they swept past him, his tracks made a direct
line to the tower.
His trip up the tedder was one large, swaying arc after
another, and at the top, he grabbed the safety lines from
the attendant and lunged outward for the rings, fastening
them himself as he fell.
The audience went wild.
His performance on the rings proved equally thrilling and
energetic, and Mikhyel assumed he'd seen Temorii's com-
petition, when, suddenly, a poorly calculated twist, a too-
fast spinning ring, and the line was severed. The young
man's body swung crazily through the rings, and he landed
in a heap in the sand.
Silence, then, utter and complete, as a red stain spread
slowly from beneath him.
Silence, while the surgeon's crew lifted the slight body
onto a stretcher and took it from the stadium, and the
grounds crew spread new sand to hide the stain.
When Mikhyel came to his senses, he discovered he was
on his feet, at the front of the box, straining for a final
glimpse of the young man he'd once mistaken for Temorii.
As suddenly as the vital, passionate young hiller had en-
tered his life, he was gone.
In shock, he returned to his seat. As he eased into the
deep-cushioned seat, his gaze registered Rhyys, and slipped
past, appalled and disgusted. Rhyys was smiling, oblivious
to the value of the life that had been lost. Or perhaps, he
knew exactly what had been lost, and reveled in it.
And Mikhyel wondered whether Raulind and Sakhithe
had come, as they'd considered doing, and tried not to
imagine what Sakhithe was thinking and feeling now, if
she had.
The next number appeared on the tower; Mikhyel
couldn't read it, couldn't hear the announcement for the
buzzing in his ears. And then, he did know what Sakhithe
was feeling:
If you love a dancer, you know that the rings won't hurt
them, and if they die on the rings they die happy. . . .
And he hoped Sakhithe was here, and had seen Thyerii's
dance to Rakshi.
The current contestant, oblivious to the fate of the pre-
ceding one, had a pleasant, clean run through the maze,
and what had become a fairly standard routine among the
rings. And the next was equally innocuous. And Mikhyel
wondered if the runs were truly that banal, or if he'd simply
lost all enthusiasm for what he watched.
"Excuse me, sir . . ." A servant appeared at his side,
with a teapot that wafted a familiar, stomach-settling scent
into the air: Raulind had seen Thyerri's dance. And Rau-
lind, with Raulind's unerring sense of his master's needs,
had sent him exactly what he needed to make it through
the rest of the competition.
He offered a silent blessing on Raulind's absent head,
and accepted the cup and saucer the servant extended.
A thick napkin beneath made holding the cup awkward.
He sipped the level down, then endeavored to extricate the
napkin with some grace.
Between its folds was an envelope.
Mikhyel swallowed hard.
Number twenty-seven, in white on black, fluttered out
from the pole.
Temorii's number. His choice, at her request. His age.
As of tomorrow morning.
The door of the courtyard did not open.
Mikhyel drained the cup of tea, and slipped the envelope
into his pocket as he set the cup aside.
The number was called a second time.
A messenger arrived in the booth and whispered in
Rhyys' ear. Rhyys smiled, slowly, cruelly.
And a third droning announcement.
"It appears, dunMheric," Rhyys said, "that there is no
one left in"
The door opened. A black figure emerged, and the
crowd roared.
Time lost. Mother and her grand gestures. Still, Mikhyel
easily returned Rhyys' smile. In triplicate.
Temorii tried one gate, the locked one, tried the other,
cracked it . . . and waited. The blade swung, she grinned,
a smile that required no viewing glass to see, and took a
leaping dive over the locked gate; her shaded hair, pulled
up into a tail, whipped behind her head. She rolled on the
far side, then skipped and tumbled the length of the pas-
sage to the next turn.
A foolish risk: there could have been a different sort of
deathtrap on the far side of the locked gate, but it was a
flamboyant action that sent the crowd to its feet. If Temorii
could see or hear them, she gave no indication. She seemed
to have no fear, constantly second-guessing the designers
of the maze, sometimes winning the gamble, sometimes los-
ing the gamble, but always winning the game with a show
of strength, dexterity, and fast thinking.
But she took her time, using breath-catching lulls to
stealthily move along, making a show of great suspicion
and overcaution: an illusion she'd shatter the moment
her breathing eased. Her actions proclaimed to all and
sundry: I only get one chance to do this, and I'm going
to enjoy it.
And that thrill spread to those watching.
This was the imp that ordered servants about, then
flopped to the floor at his side to catch bits of ham in
its mouth. This was the rakehell-in-training who challenged
Ganfrion, the crazed fool who tripped lightly along moun-
tain cliffs. This was the essence of life on the edge and the
engagingly insane who lived there.
A second message slowly came clear, at least to him.
Somehow, Temorii knew what had happened to Thyerri.
Twice, three times, her response to the maze exactly du-
plicated that of Thyerri's fatal run. By the third time, he
could almost hear her telling them: remember the run,
remember the challenge. Remember the skill and joy
with which he faced that challengeand this one, and
thisand won.
And with that realization, the last of Mikhyel's reserva-
tions vanished. He sat on the edge of his seat, running that
maze with her, jumping, dodging, twisting and spinning,
laughing when she laughed, gasping when she gasped. He
felt it all. Whether that sharing was deliberate, and only
between the two of them, or a by-product of her skill that
everyone in the audience shared, he neither knew nor
really cared.
No one watched the clock, no one cared, except the mu-
sicians, who began playing the moment she reached the
entrance to the arena.
She paused in the shadow of that opening, then darted
back into the maze, as if to stay there and play. A cry of
protest erupted from the crowd, and within moments, uni-
son clapping urged her, in time with the music, to come
out to them.
The second time she appeared, the daring imp who had
laughed her way through the maze had vanished, and in
her place was the living embodiment of the music that filled
the stadium. The slender, black figure undulated, spun and
flitted her way about the white sand. Her iridescent sash
came free to float in trailing spirals around her.
Like the radical streamer in the Tower.
Her hair was loose now, and it shimmered, itself almost
iridescent in the sunlight.
Ley-touched, he'd heard some people call such an effect,
and he wondered if they knew how accurate a description
that was.
By the time she reached the stadium seats, her tracks in
the groomed sand had left a pattern: a stylized web sur-
rounded by concentric rings. Mikhyel swallowed hard, and
wondered if anyone else in the stadium recognized the
Rhomandi crest; a chuckle from the area of the ocarshi
brazier assured him that at least one other someone had.
And as Temorii passed beneath them, they could all see
the trim at her throat and wrists that echoed the leythium-
touched cut-work of Mikhyel dunMheric's garment.
Subtlety, he decided, was not his Temorii's long suit.
Laughter reached him, indicating his thoughts were not
alone, but Temorii's twisting path spun her away, as the
music shifted to a rhythmic staccato, and in a final tumbling
run, she struck the bottom, ground-sweeping ring and rode
it  nearly to  the  top  where  she launched herself toward
the tower.
Her loft was high, much too high, but before anyone had
time to react, she'd grabbed the central pole of the tower
and spun her way downward to land lightly on the platform.
The music spun to a close with her.
Surrounded by silence, she stood quietly while the atten-
dant affixed the lines to the light harness that was part of
every costume.
Refusing, again, to be hurried.
And then, instead of leaping immediately out among the
rings, she took a wrap of the safety line in her hand, and
lowered herself slowly from the platform, one foot looped
in a length of the line. A light shove carried the swinging
boom that supported the line outward.
Then, she began to sway. The music began as a nearly
inaudible hum, and rose slowly, matching her pendulum
motion's growing intensity and exploded into sound as her
ever-increasing arc finally intersected the rings.
From that point, any hope for her competition ended.
To that point, all she'd done might have been show, might,
the envious would say, have been to delay her getting on
the rings, to baffle the audience with early flash so that the
true purpose of the competition was forgotten.
She performed what he'd come to think of as the stan-
dard moves, showing competence equal to all who had
come before, but it was in her variations that her true art-
istry came to life, and by the time she slipped the harness
free and rode the outermost ring down, cradled like a
childor a loverin its curve, she was the radical dancer
of Khoratum.
Even after the music's final notes faded, the crowd re-
mained silent. Temorii, free of the ring's support,
staggered . . . and collapsed into the sand at the exact spot
where Thyerri had fallen. Mikhyel ached for her, longed to
be able to pick her up and carry her out. But he couldn't.
No one could. He couldn't even reach out with that internal
sense to lend her strength; she'd reject it if he tried.
Survival: the final test. The dancer had to walk out of
the arena on her own strength.
And as the silence dragged on, one of the other contes-
tants stood slowly and began clapping in rhythm, announc-
ing to all his concession. Temorii pushed herself up to
her knees.
One &t a time, the other contestants rose to join the first,
clapping in unison. Temorii lifted a hand covered with red-
stained sand, and touched the sand to her lips.
The crowd picked up the dancers' rhythm, and with their
approval, raised Temorii to her feet, and carried her out of
the stadium.
He'd waited too long, or perhaps simply been outmaneu-
vered. When Rhyys invited him to take part in the award
ceremony, he knew there was no option.
Foolishly, perhaps, he wasn't truly worried. Let Rhyys
arrest them: Mother would get them out. And even though
he knew that to count on such a fickle resource was irre-
sponsible in the extreme, something had to explain the ea-
gerness with which  he  followed  Rhyys  out  of the
ringmaster's box.
Perhaps his ill-advised confidence had nothing to do with
Mother and everything to do with the wild imp who had
stolen his heart and taken over his better sense, his excite-
ment now a backlash of the confidence that had sent Tem-
orii flying from one part of the maze to the next.
Confidence that, in the end, she could cope with what-
ever Rakshi threw at her. Confidence that he could. Confi-
dence that this was where he was meant to be.
In the time it took for them to walk down the steps and
through the tunnels beneath the stadium and into the
arena, an elaborately decorated podium had been wheeled
out onto the sand. Standing atop that podium, while the
officials droned on about voting rules, historical precedent
and ties, Mikhyel found himself hard pressed not to search
the area for Temorii.
But the dancers had all been taken away, the official said.
They'd be brought up on the podium, one at a time, in the
order they'd danced, and the applause of the masses would
determine the winner.
The official vote began. One at a time, the contestants
came up to stand beside the official pollster, who duly
noted the relative volume of the rhythmic applause each
incited by adjusting the order of the numbers on the
tower.
The ordering seemed rather arbitrary to Mikhyel, and he
wondered if that was always the case, and if so, protests
must be frequent. But there were no protests today.
The number 00 was called. And a somber man stepped
forward to say that the spirit of contestant #00 had joined
Rakshi that day, and that the body of contestant #00 would
be immersed in three days. There was silence, then deafen-
ing applause, acknowledgment of the greatness of the spirit
that had touched them that day.
But the name Thyerri was never mentioned. It did seem
a rather inhuman approach to loss.
Two more numbers, two more shifts of the numbers on
the tower . . .
The final number was lost in the screams of the crowd. In
places along the perimeter, guards were forced to physically
restrain members of the audience. Temorii, coming up the
back stairs as had all the others, hesitated. She appeared
stunned, even frightened of the reaction she'd engendered.
Mikhyel, standing at the rear of the podium, edged over
and held out a handand a thoughtto steady her. She
took the hand, and her fears and startlement at the audi-
ence's actions came through in a breath-stealing rush.
There was elation at seeing him, but fear as well, and a
dismayed: {You should be gone!} reached him.
And yet, she clung to his hand as if it were the dancer's
safety line, as he led her to the center of the stage, where
her new subjects could adore her.
{I'm not a queen/king/royal!} came down the line of
thought to him, and he answered:
{Tell them that. Relax, my darling dancer, enjoy it. Rak-
shi knows you've earned it.}
A chuckle, nervous but real, shook her shoulders. A hand
pressed his shoulder, and cold metal touched his hand. A
coronet. Another round of silent laughter passed between
them: queen, indeed.
He glanced up, discovered the hand on his shoulder was
not, as he'd expected, Rhyys', but dunGarshin's. Rhyys
stood well down the podium, sulky, angryand yet not
interfering, for all he'd obviously expected to be at center
stage for this moment.
And on dunGarshin's hand, the one resting on his shoul-
der, was the Rhomandi ring. Beyond that ring, the twisted
mouth pulled in what might be termed a smile. Mikhyel
knew, then, that whatever trap they planned had already
sprung and their prey simply hadn't yet felt the bite of cold
steel into his flesh.
Dismay, horror, and {All my fault} came down his hold
on Temorii's hand.
{Never,} he returned. {I knew the risk, and would do it
all again.}
(I felt you with me. Especially when I began to tire.}
{Is that why I'm so exhausted?}
But he knew it wasn't true. That she hadn't drawn when
he willingly would have given. She'd needed to do it on
her own . . .
{Not entirely. Did you enjoy the run, my lazy Khy?}
With a completely unforced grin, he released her hand
to face her. Taking the coronet into both hands, he lifted
it above her head.
The crowd roared.
He settled it on her shaded hair.
A second approving wave of sound surged to engulf
them, and surged again. A sound that failed to compete
with the pounding in his ears: his bart and hers, beating
in synchrony.
Only this morning, they'd shunned him, condemning him
for rumors. Now, the facts disproved the rumors, or so the
mob believed, and he was acceptable. What they'd wit-
nessed, their mutable logic declared, couldn't be tainted.
So damned fickle. So blindly judgmental. So unmitigat-
ediy cruel.
And as his fingertips brushed the sable hair at her tem-
ples and her own breathing quickened, he thought of those
stained sheets and the charges soon to be leveled officially
against him. Charges Rhyys was certain to use to destroy
Temorii as well.
And he wondered would this crowd, who so quickly em-
braced and forgot, forget again as quickly in order to de-
stroy? Would they, whose lives were so narrowly defined
and self-consumed, who condemned him so freely for seek-
ing that which they all took for granted in their lives, de-
stroy her at a madman's whim?
He thought of that mindless, practicing mob who had
attacked her the day they met, and knew his answer.
And he thought of the lover he'd never have, and her
daring trip through the maze, a trip they'd shared, and the
caress of the swinging rings and the caress of her callused
fingertips.
And he thought of Nikki attacking him for kissing
Mirym, and of Deymorin, whose infatuation with Kiyrstin
would surround him the rest of his life . . .
A life destined for solitude, even if he survived the up-
coming hours. Without his brothers, whose thoughts drove
him mad, without Temorii, whose laughter and fears and
determination had restored his humanity, far more than
anything he'd done for her.
And he thought of Mother, whose aid was whimsical and
on her own schedule. And he thought of the impending
shutdown and the suspicion and of Kirish'lan angry in the
south  and  Mauritum and  Garetti,  and all the web-
spanning politics...
And damning them all, he kissed her.
Silence.
When he would have released her, she wrapped her arms
around his neck and kissed him back. And in the under-
neath sense, it was last night all over again, and her trip
through the maze and the rings, and the mountains, and
his salvation from the brink of death, and hers from the
brink of despair.
A low hiss, spotted throughout the stands, and growing.
Anger from her subjects. Anger toward the one destroying
the dancer they'd adopted. He heard it, she did, and knew
their moment ended. With a final mental caress they
stepped apart.
Rhyys called, in outraged tones, for his arrest. Leather
gauntleted hands seized his arms, and pulled him away
from Temorii, who, in response to his mental request,
stepped quietly toward the back. The guards, finding passiv-
ity where they obviously expected resistance, seemed con-
fused,  uncertain,  but  Rhyys,  grandly  sweeping  to  his
coveted center stage, and in a gesture meant for the upper
tiers, drew back his heavily beringed hand and struck Mik-
hyel across the face.
The crowd roared their approval of a scene increasingly
reminiscent of some melodramatic play, which abhorrent
realization made Mikhyel doubly grateful for the guards
holding him. He'd hate to give the crowd the satisfaction
of seeing him sprawled at Rhyys' feet.
"Remove him!" Rhyys bellowed, and Temorii started
forward; Mikhyel begged her back, wishing her silent and
quiet. For now, she was innocence defiled. In time, Khora-
tum would embrace her as their radical.
(Not after this!) Her thought followed him down the
steps. And: {I don't want them. Not any more.}
Wry laughter filled him. Rather late to decide that.
{Just dance again for them, Temorii. They'll be entranced
all over.)
{How can I? I didn't dance for them in the first place.}
The guards were escorting him into the tunnel beneath
the stands, he paused at last, unable to resist a final glance,
never minding it simply added to the crowd's sense of
melodrama.
{For me, then? Please, Tern, I want to feel you dancing
inside me again.}
And he wanted her to stop thinking about him, to think
about saving herself. The various officials were leaving the
podium, pointedly ignoring her, ready to leave her to the
citizens she'd so completely betrayed.
Excitement flowed from her, a sense of possibility
And in one smooth action, she whirled and leaped for the
ring poised quietly beside the podium. Her weight started it
moving. A guard moved to stop her, but she leaped for the
next ring, and the next, and the next.
Once they were spinning to her satisfaction, she began
to dance, to a music everyone watching had to hear within
them. It was a challenge she made; daring those unbeliev-
ers to consider her gift compromised. Daring them to
expect more of anyone than she had been willing and
able to give.
Mikhyel ached for her, knowing to his own joints how
tired she was, and he wished her the strength to convince
them. He sent, along that invisible line between them, all
the help she'd refused before. And he felt her willing ab-
sorption of it now, draining him, making his head spin as
with a sudden loss of blood.
And he sent her more, flinging it down that line:
Strength, confidence . . . love.
It was love her dance offered to every individual watch-
ing. Love of self, of life, of beauty, of others; it was last
night, and all the nights before, the bitter-sweet of self-
restraint, the ecstasy of fulfillment, the fear of loss, the joy
of having had.
Mikhyel couldn't move. Tears burned his eyes and he
couldn't so much as lift a hand to wipe them clear. She'd
burn herself out, convincing them. She meant to die on the
rings, rather than at the hands of the audience, or Rhyys'
planted assassins.
And she meant them to know, before she died, exactly
what they'd lost.
"For the love of my sacred mother's womb. Suds, .do you
expect the poor kid to keep it going forever? Wake the
fuck up!"
Ganfrion. Jerking on his elbow, drawing his stumbling
feet past guards lying motionless on the ground, pulling
him down the dark tunnel. He was numb, near mindless
with exhaustion and impending loss.
"Tern?"
"Is saving your ass. Shut up and say thank you, and
move!"
"Wait!" He jerked free, swaying, and closed his eyes.
{Mother!} He made the call a demand. Mother was the
only one who could save Temorii. And he reached deep
into those caverns and screamed for acknowledgment. For
aid that, dammitall, he and Temorii had earned.
Nothing. Cold, dark, uncaring silence.
{Mother! Damn you!}
Still, it was  silent.  And  he  knew, beyond  doubt, he'd
destroyed them all. He'd gambled senselessly with his own
life and Temorii's.
Ganfrion was pulling him, blindly, down the tunnel. He
jerked free again, and staggered back toward the stadium.
Temorii had never stopped dancing. She was weakening.
A near miss that made the enthralled audience gasp as one.
Again, he poured himself out to her. Everything he had,
while screaming for Mother's help, for Mother to leythiate
her Dancer to safety.
His vision faded. Hearing did. His only senses were
those he shared with her as she soared from one ring
to the next, so exhausted, her only thought was for the
next jump.
And then, suddenly, painfully, his own body returned to
him. He was in the tunnel, with Ganfrion's broad shoulder
biting into his stomach and Ganfrion's sword hilt bouncing
in front of his nose.
He gasped. Ganfrion swung him down and panted, "Run,
damn you!"
At the far end of the tunnel, a figure was waiting.
"Thyerri?" Mikhyel whispered, disbelieving. "Alive?"
And mocking laughter, unmistakable. "What do rijhili
know? Come. Come!"
"But" Even Ganfrion, for once, sounded stunned. He
glanced back down the tunnel, and then to the cloaked
figure, who gestured them again to hurry, shook his head
as if to clear it, and hauled on Mikhyel's elbow, moving
him in the young man's wake, down alleyways and between
buildings, a circuitous route heading generally downhill.
A bell pealed. Others, all about the city, picked up the
alarm.
"They're after us now, Rhomandi. Thyerri-lad, look
sharp!"
And Thyerri, at the far side of a building, raised an ac-
knowledging arm, but didn't look back, and a moment
later, waved them forward again.
Their luck ran out just short of the gate. A handful of
guards spotted them down an alley and began closing. Cau-
tiously, as if expecting more than the three of them.
"Give up, Rhomandi," one called. "It's over. The danc-
er's dead."
His heart stopped . . .
Ganfrion drew his sword.
"Get him out of here, boy."
. . . and started.
"Ganfrion..."
"Of all the times in your life, Rhomandi, don't be a
fool now."
Without taking his eyes from the approaching guards,
Ganfrion transferred his sword to his left hand, reached
back with the right. Mikhyel clasped it reflexively, speech-
less, even while he knew this was, ultimately, Ganfrion's
job.
"You're a good man, Rhomandi. If I've got to die for
someone. I'm glad Rakshi chose you."
But he didn't want it to be Ganfrion's job. He didn't
want good people dying to save him.
"Gan"
"Just don't waste it."
Waste it. Ganfrion had committed himself to the Rho-
mandi cause . . . to Mikhyel's cause, without reservation.
Was dying, never knowing . . .
"Dammitall! Get him out of here, boy! Get him to his
brother!"
Ganfrion pushed him away, into Thyerri's arms. Mikhyel
jerked free and pulled the Rhomandi ring free of his mid-
dle finger.
"Ganfrion!"
Angry dark eyes glared at him over a broad shoulder.
Mikhyel tossed the ring, a flash of silver and gold in the
band of sunlight between them.
Ganfrion's quick reflexes intercepted it.
"Damn you, Rhomandi." His deep whisper was more
vibration than tone.
"Get out if you can, my friend," Mikhyel said, and by
that ring, made that statement Ganfrion's primary directive.
Then he followed Thyerri's impatient pull at last. Around
one corner, and a secondinto a blind alley.
Thyerri jerked him to a halt.
"The game is over, dunMheric," Thyerri said. "The pat-
tern is set."
Riddles. When a man was dying.
"Are you mad?" Mikhyel tried to push past, but an iron-
fingered hand caught his arm and thrust him against the
nearest building. "Not necessary, pretty Khy."
"Damn you" He tried to pull free, to get back to Gan-
frion, where the sounds of metal clashing evidenced the
fury of the encounter.
Stone-hard arms clamped him tight.
"Ganfrion!"  Mikhyel  shouted;  and  Thyerri  hissed,
"Don't fight me, child."
Child?
He stopped struggling and stared into that hood-shadow.
"Don't worry about him, Khy. He's not the one they
want."
"Who are you?"
"Someone who loves you, Mikhyel-child." And within
the hood-shadow, light glinted. A faint green glow. And
hands clasped his face, freezing him to the marrow as lips
closed on his. Lethargy filled him through that kiss, the
immobility that had gripped him in his room so many long
weeks ago.
Anheliaa, his mind made the connection, and remote
panic threatened, though in truth, he knew better.
{Anheliaa! Hardly. Farewell, sweet Khy.}
And as Mother's spring green essence consumed him
{Tell your brothers: the demonstration is scheduled for
midnight tonight. . . .)
He opened his eyes inches from Deymorin's startled face.
Chapter Fifteen

Midnight. A time for ghosts and goblins, for Tamshi tales
and falling stars, for love-making and . . .
. . . Certainly not for political grandstanding.
"If Rhyys wanted to make a point," Nikki said, his ten-
sion finding outlet in irritation, "why didn't he do it during
the day when he could cause meaningful chaos?"
"Obviously," Kiyrstin said dryly, "Rhyys' point is not to
cause maximum chaos, but to frighten whoever he expects
to be in charge of Rhomatum and the Southern Crescent.
He means to startle and frighten, not destroy. He still
needs Rhomatum."
They waited in the Tower: himself, Lidye, Kiyrstin, Ne-
thaalye, and Mirym. For what, no one truly knew. Lidye
had said, after that test, that she could feel the nodes
through Nethaalye and Mirym, but wasn't certain what she
felt through Kiyrstin.
They'd know soon enough, he supposed.
His brothers had contacted him just hours ago. Mikhyel,
according to Deymorin, had appeared on Deymorin's lap
in the middle of his supper. Mother's doing, Mikhyel had
said, and refused to answer questions, and his mind was
darker and more closed than ever to Nikki's tentative
probeto which Mikhyel had snarled at him to mind his
own fucking business.
Which nearly convinced him all over again that some-
where, someonelikely Motherhad slipped a changeling
in on them.
But Deymorin had caught that real fear and insisted oth-
erwise, and said they should believe when Mikhyel said the
Northern Crescent would shut down at midnight tonight,
and prepare accordingly, and to be ready, in case Garetti
made a grab at Rhomatum itself.
They'd warned the Southern Crescent days ago about the
impending demonstration via carefully worded messages,
couriered directly to the node ringmasters. After his contact
with his brothers, they'd sent the simple: Midnight tonight
via the message encoders on the Tower's communication
level.
If only the clocks had been similarly affected.  If the
clocks of the web hadn't continued to synchronize with
Rhomatum's Cardinal ring, this coordinated demonstration
wouldn't be possible. They'd be in bed instead of
"It's time," Lidye said.
Nikki's heart skipped a beat. He looked from one woman
to the next, each exuding calm confidence, and suddenly
realized himself for very young and very foolish.
"I can't . . ." he whispered.
"You must," Lidye answered. Coldly.
"You did it before, Nikki," Kiyrstin said and held out
an imperative hand. "And this time, Deymorin and Mi-
khyel will be there to help. You won't be alone."
He stood up, took her hand, and felt strength and confi-
dence flood him.
Lidye said, "Controlling Rhomatum, Nikaenor Rho-
mandi dunMheric, means being more stubborn than gran-
ite"
"Call on Deymorin for that," Kiyrstin muttered.
Lidye frowned. "And you must be clever"
"That's Mikhyel," he said.
He didn't think she liked that answer any better than
Kiyrstin's.
"Then . . ." He blushed, ashamed he should have to ask.
"Then what is my part?"
Kiyrstin chuckled. "Keeping your brothers from murder-
ing each other."
He chuckled, too, and felt his gut relax. "They're past
that."
"Never."
He laughed aloud, and reached out for Deymorin . . .
But Deymorin wasn't there.
8 8 8
"Mikhyel, for the love of Darius, it's time! What is it?"
Mikhyel held out the paper, silent inside and out.
Rhomatum's faltered. Pasingarim's lost faith. Shatum to
back NC.
Shamrii
"Shamrii? Who the hell is Shamrii?"
"Shamrii dunKharec. Shatum. One of the secretaries I
dealt with. This was delivered to me at the competition. I
couldn't look at it there, and I'd forgotten about it. She's
trying to help."
"You trust her?"
"Better than assuming otherwise. If there's even a possi-
bility the Southern Crescent intends to back the Northern,
we haven't a chance. We're in trouble, Deymorin."
"Nothing to do but see it through, brother."
Deymorin held out his hand.
8    *gt    8
{Nikki!}
"He's here!" Nikki cried, and relief flooded him along
with his brothers' imperative warning. "Pasingarim's lost
faith? What's that mean?"
"Because  you  lost  Shatum,"  Lidye  said  coldly.
"Dammit!"
She paced the floor of the ringchamber, fists clenching,
then froze.
"Never mind. We'll just have to stop him as well." She
held out her hand. "Nikaenor?"
He took her hand.
At first, it seemed almost ridiculously simple. As his at-
tention flowed, one point of the compass to the next, the
image on the central viewing orb within the spinning
rings shifted.
Through Lidye, he saw Shatum, strong and pure, seem-
ingly all cooperation. Perhaps Pasingarim had changed his
mind.
{Don't count on it,} Mikhyel's voice whispered.
Through Nethaalye, Nikki saw her brother in the Gie-
phaetum Tower, second Ringmaster of Giephaetum. He
was staring at his clock, waiting for the exact moment.
Through Kiyrstin's touch, he had only a sense of direc-
tion, and her own wish for it to be otherwise, could see
Mauritum's Ringchamber, but only, he somehow knew, as
she visualized it.
From Mirym's Khoratum side, there was nothing.
And as that north-south axis stabilized, Shatum to Gie-
phaetum, he felt Lidye reach through him to Kiyrstin, seek-
ing Mauritum, trying to force Persitum back on line.
And he felt Kiyrstin's distrust, a solid wall against Lidye.
Lidye screamed, in sheer frustration.
{Kiyrsti?}
Deymorin, in his head. And Kiyrstin jumped, would have
jerked free but for Nikki's reflexes.
"Deymio?" she breathed.
{Take my hand, Kiyrsti-love. And trust me.}
"Asking a lot. Rags." Her voice was shaking.
{Yes. So?)
She laughed, and reached through him directly to Dey-
morin. He could feel their hands clasping right inside him,
and the power that flowed, Deymorin to Kiyrstin. Confi-
dence. Arrogance. Trust.
And the Persitum Ring began to rise. Somehow, without
disrupting the others, it began to spin.
Lidye laughed.
This time, it was Mauritum's Ringchamber on the view-
ing sphere, not Kiyrstin's memory, and Garetti himself, or
so Kiyrstin's thought acknowledged the hard-faced, gray-
bearded man.
Garetti appeared startled. Unlike the other Towers, he
seemed aware of their intrusion. Seemed to look straight
at them, though Nikki realized then it was at the rings
he stared.
In a hiss audible within the Rhomatum Ringchamber,
Garetti said: "Kiyrstine!"
Kiyrstin laughed. "Hi, Gari. Wanna wrestle?"
At once, Garetti reached into the Rhomatum Web. The
image turned black, and that oily presence spun outward
into Giephaetum and Shatum. An answering reflux. But
Lidye was waiting. Anger flared back at Shatum. Anger
pure and focused and undeniable, and Shatum's line
cleared . . . only to have a second oily wave seep in from
Mauritum.
On the Giephaetum line, a battle of a different sort
raged. Brother against sister, and a battle against hubris.
Nethaalye attacked her brother with images of his own be-
havior, colored with those details of personal inadequacies
only siblings could know. And as he wavered, he listened
more to her than to Garetti, and the line to Giephaetum,
like the line to Shatum ran clear more often than stained.
And still in the West, Kiyrstin and Deymorin fought to
block Garetti. Strength against dogged strength, sending
wave after wave of oil back at Mauritum.
From Khoratum, there was nothing. And in the end, that
lack made the difference. Without the unity of the web, the
circuit was incomplete. Without the fourth compass point's
assault, the smaller nodes, whose attacks had been mosqui-
toes to the Mauritumin, Giephaetumin, and Shatumin
hawks, dropped out.
Eventually, Nethaalye's brother and Pasingarim relented,
dropping out of contention, and the Giephaetum and Sha-
tum rings held steady. Through those rings, Lidye and Rho-
matum controlled the nodes.
The attacks from the West ended. The oil cleared, and
Garetti appeared again on the viewing sphere.
"So," he said to Kiyrstin. "It's true. You've joined the
offspring of the Heretic."
"Better than the alternatives," she replied.
"Are you certain?" Garetti's dark eyes narrowed. An
eager look crossed his face, and his hand reached out to
them. "Join me, Kiyrstine! Join me now, and we'll have
them all."
There was a long, long pause. Nikki felt Lidye battering
at his mind, trying to reach Kiyrstin, but he knew, some-
how, if he let Lidye in, Kiyrstin would be lost. Whether to
Garetti's lure, or simply to anger and distrust.
{Kiyrstin?} Deymorin's voice, in his head, and Garetti
didn't react. Perhaps Garetti didn't hear. Nikki strove to
keep that part of him private, wanting it for his brother
and Kiyrstin alone.
And on a mental breath from Kiyrstin: {Trust me. Rags?}
{With my life . . .}
A wavering. A mental hand reaching. "Gari . . ."
Triumph flared in Mauritum. Garetti reached. Kiyrstin
clasped. And
"Now, Lidye!" Kiyrstin shouted, and Nikki opened him-
self for Lidye to flow through him and through Kiyrstin to
Persitum and beyond.
Garetti was gone. The Persitum Ring held steady . . .
and responded to Lidye's command.
But the Khoratum Ring was nearly at a standstill within
the Rhomatum Ringchamber.
"Mirym?" Nikki asked, and her eyes flickered toward
him.
"Give us the Tower, girl," Lidye demanded, and Mirym
shrugged. "You said you'd been there. Give us the image!"
Lidye hissed, and anger such as he'd never felt surged
through him, and Nikki fought it back, forced Lidye under
control, refused the second surge of anger she directed
toward him.
{Tend to Shatum!} he yelled at Lidye, and she flinched.
Surprise, anger.
He ignored her.
{Mirym?} He sent to her, a plea for reason. But received
no response.
An image, then, through Mikhyel, who had seen the
Khoratum Tower during a tour, and Lidye's sigh permeated
the Tower and the link. The now-familiar bridge formed
between Rhomatum and Khoratum, and Lidye's voice de-
manded: Now!
A surge of energy, pure and powerful, through the nodes
they controlled, burst through to Khoratum Tower itself.
And imaged on the central sphere were two men, combin-
ing their efforts to force contact with the other satellites.
One, Nikki recognized as Rhyys dunTarec. The other
"Van," Kiyrstin gasped. "Sweet Maurii, Vandoshin's
alive!"
The hideously scarred face tipped toward them, and a
deep, seductive chuckle resounded through the rings.
"Hello, Kiyrsti-love. So it's your doing. Shut us out, have
you? Garetti?"
"Gone," Kiyrstin replied. "For the love of Maurii, Van,
give up! It's over."
"Well, we shall see . . ."
The face of the man next to VandoshinRhyys, Mi-
khyel's mind supplied, for all Nikki couldn't recognize
himcontorted in pain just before a scarred hand swept
between them, and the image shattered.
And the ring stopped.
Mirym whimpered; he could only imagine the tremen-
dous strain on her. She had somehow kept Khoratum out,
and by that effort, consciously or not, enabled their success.
But now
"Make the damn thing spin, Nikaenor!" Lidye hissed,
and he wondered how he was supposed to do that. "Reach
down, fool. The strength is in the ley. Make him spin it!"
Him? And Nikki thought, then, of the creature who had
spoken to Mikhyel. He closed his eyes and called, furiously,
desperately, but there was no answer. And he called again,
thinking himself down into the depths, into the leythium
caverns where the creature dwelled. Deeper. Deeper.
{Deymorin?} he called as his strength faltered, and
Deymorin was there, steady as the granite Kiyrstin had lik-
ened him to, adding his voice to the demand. Still the crea-
ture ignored them.
And finally, Mikhyel slid in, though Deymorin objected,
saying they could do it, that the creature would suck Mi-
khyel down and keep him.
And Mikhyel snarled: {Let him try.)
And plunged down Nikki's extended awareness into the
depths below the Tower.
~ ~ 8
The creature awaited him on a leythium throne.
"You heard, didn't you?" Mikhyel demanded.
It smiled.
"Why didn't you answer?"
{Why didn't you return sooner?)
"I haven't returned now."
And he hadn't. For all his senses told him he was below
Rhomatum, Mikhyel's mind knew he was still with Dey-
morin. He had put himself here, this time. He and Nikki
and Deymorin, and he didn't want to be here physically.
And he sensed that that determination, coupled with the
fierce anger that brought him here in the first place kept
the Rhomatum creature from pulling him there physically.
{Not completely. Your brother won't let you go. By
yourself. . . no you aren't strong enough.)
"No?"
The smile widened.
{Any time you care to try, child. Any time.)
"Not now," he said aloud, through the body that wasn't
real. "You've a battle taking place overhead, you realize
that."
"Yes-s-s. Rather amusing, isn't it? Children, trying to
break free." The creature . . . yawned. And stretched. As
if those creature comforts truly affected it.
"But they do, child. Now, about my children . . ."
"Your children are dying. Would you have that? Would
you lose them altogether?"
"Children do that. They grow. They strive for indepen-
dence. They're gone."
"We're not talking independence. We're talking gone
forever. Would you have them destroyed?"
"If they destroy themselves, they have grown unwise, and
I am well rid of them."
"They are not unwise. It's the humans controlling them
who are stupid."
"Oh, well, that's different then, isn't it?"
The creature reached out and cupped his chin. "Do you
want this, bud of Darius?"
"Yes!"
{Then best you leave now. Farewell, child.}
~ 8 9
Mikhyel raced up through him and back to Deymorin.
On his heels, power, such as Nikki couldn't begin to com-
prehend, surged through the rings. And iridescent lightning
arced through the night sky toward Khoratum.
Somewhere between, it exploded in midair, a multi-
colored fireball.
And Mikhyel and Deymorin disappeared.
{Deymio!} he shouted into the silence, and {Mikhyel!)
And as the fireball faded and another surge of power
rumbled the Tower itself
{Here, Nik. Had to make sure of our heads. That was
right}
Another arc. A second fireball. And he wasn't certain
whose eyes he was seeing with.
{above us. Everyone there all right?}
{So far, but}
This time, with the lightning came an audible roar of
pure anger, the explosion, though miles away, shattered one
of the priceless windows of the Towerblowing it outward.
And still the Khoratum Ring would not move. Nikki felt
the creature's efforts flowing through him to Mirym, trying
to force it to move, yet, it would not.
Mirym dropped to her knees, searching the floor blindly,
then scrambled to her feet and thrust her hand among the
spinning rings. A lightning-fast jab.
The Khoratum Ring shattered. And fell. Dust, nothing
more.
Mirym collapsed.
And the lightning ended.
~ 8 ~
When Mikhyel's head cleared they were no longer alone.
And what had been a perfectly black cave, out of light-
ning's reach, glowed with a faint purple light emanating
from the figure sitting cross-legged across from them.
"That," the Rhomatum creature said, tapping his fang
with a long claw, "was no human, bud of Darius."
{Nikki!} Mikhyel called, and received dazed awareness
in return.
"Oh, he's all right. You've disturbed my rest, child. Now,
are you going to explain why?"
Deymorin stirred, pushed himself upright, clutching his
head.
"You should be commanding the rings, you know," the
creature said to Deymorin, who biinked, closed his eyes
and tried again.
"Oh, you're sane enough. And, no, I don't mean at all
to be ruled by such as you. / am not, I assure you, your
silly rings." The creature stretched, and grinned. "A body
feels . . . good again. Different . . . or perhaps memory
faded. Now, who in the name of the essence that budded
me was I just arguing with?"
{Who do you think?) The address was not a name, just
an image of something drinking disgusting fluids that no
self-respecting entity would touch.
"Naturally," the creature moaned aloud, then: {Get in
here, you ill-mannered brat!}
Mother arrived in a magnificent cloud of leythium
lace . . . that settled over the Rhomatum creature like a
shroud. A single claw caught and dragged the delicate lace
down, one deliberate stroke at a time.
"Sorry," Mother said, when his fanged jaws appeared,
and she settled herself comfortably on folds that stiffened
beneath her like a chair. Or a throne.
fLazy.} Rhomatum's mind muttered.
/Smart.} Mother responded, f You're just jealous because
you didn't think of it first, and now I've got the height
advantage.)
"What is it you want, brat? I'm hungry."
"You're always hungry. Freedom."
"Out of the question. You're not old enough."
"Age has nothing to do with it! Who just fought you to
a standstill, you old fart?"
"Such language your humans have taught you."
"And such insipid prudery have yours instilled in you.
Conservatism does not become you, Father."
"Father." He propped his jowl again in his hand. "I sup-
pose I am. How curious, putting such things into human
concept. You're still an ill-mannered brat."
"But I'm strong. I'm clever. And I'm bored. I want no
more to do with my dull, ridiculous sisters. They do nothing
except drain my essence when I most want it, and all so
they can grow their buds. Well, I'm not interested in their
damned buds."
"So you set out to destroy them."
"Not at all. The humans did that. I just want free of
them."
"And me."
"Can't have one without the other."
"All a matter of perception, bud. You're not as clever
as you think. I believe I'll refuse."
"I'll fight again."
"Ah, but will you win?"
"My rings are free."
"You cheated."
"I placed allies in your Tower."
"As I said, you cheated."
"I told you I was clever."
"The human girl is good."
"Of course."
"And clever."
"Like her Mother."
"And Rakshi helped you."
"Rakshi always favors Mother."
Rhomatum frowned and tapped his fang again.
"So, you want your freedom. The normal method didn't
work. You've still got to form a bud between us. I don't
care to go to the effort required to make one. So, clever,
cheating brat, what do you intend?"
"I'm so glad you asked." Mother smiled: fNikki, darling,
come to your Mother.}
{Will you stop at nothing?}
"I want free!" {Come, Nikki.)
"Mother, dammit, no"' Mikhyel, sprang up and grabbed
her shoulders. She snarled and swiped, a swing strong
enough to crush him, with claws sharp enough to gut him.
If the blow had landed. Instead, she held him with that
bone-fingered grip.
{Khyel, you're mad.} That was Deymorin, which only
confirmed his own suspicions.
{Cast-iron balls, though,} Rhomatum answered, which
made a madman wonder why a leythium creature would
use such an expression.
And Mikhyel began to laugh.
"Well, daughter?" Rhomatum interrupted. "Will you kill
him? Or explain?"
Mother released Mikhyel and petted him and said she
was sorry, which of course she was.
"Mother," he said. "Why? What do you need with
Nikki?"
But Mother was distracted, now, with making certain she
hadn't hurt him.
{Well, daughter?)
Rhomatum's internal roar sent Mikhyel to his knees;
Mother hissed at Rhomatum and patted Mikhyel and
brushed his hair back, taking the pounding in his head
with it.
"Still don't see it, do you? You saw what happened when
Anheliaa went after Maurii's silly toy. These three will pro-
vide a focus for us. A seed. A bud. Have us a baby, we
will."
"Will that satisfy you?"
Mother shrugged, sending her veils fluttering. {For now.)
Another fang-tapping consideration.
{Tell me, are your rings still spinning?)
{Not at the moment.)
{How pleasant for you. Go, then, child. But do be care-
ful. They are a delicate species.)
Mother spun about in a swirl of lace.
"Don't worry, my wonderful, my darling papa. I won't
let anything happen to them. They are my special children."
[Whatever}
The two strangely elegant creatures evanesced and then
vanished altogether. And from the light-blinded darkness in
their wake: "Deymorin? Khyel? Brothers, are you there?"
~ ~ 9
It began with streams of pure color arcing from Rhoma-
tum and Khoratum, to meet and shatter above their camp,
and rain in tiny droplets to the ground. Those who sought
to catch them discovered hands full of nothingness, but if
Mikhyel shut his eyes and turned his face to the sky, they
became pinpoint pricks of total sensationsight, taste,
smell as well as touch . . . even his ears rang with sweet,
delicate music.
It continued with great fireballs, exploding above them,
filling the air with indefinable energy. And it ended with
veils of glittering color that appeared destined to proceed
well into the night, if not for days to come, as a new node
was born.
Mauritum had made their play. They'd pulled the North-
ern Crescent into their game. They'd wanted proof of who
was in charge in Rhomatum; they'd gotten a display of
power to put Boreton to shame.
He hoped it satisfied them all for a while.
Whatever value he and his brothers served the leythium
creatures, they had little to actually do. They watched the
display in silence for a time. Then Deymorin asked Nikki
about Kiyrstin, who was fine, and Mirym, who was also
fine, but would, he was certain, be under arrest by the time
they returned.
Mikhyel wanted to object to that, but it was only pru-
dent. Kiyrstin wouldn't let Lidye do anything stupid. And
Mirym . . . / did what I had to . . . for the safety of my
node. My source...
It had all been there, if only he'd had eyes to see.
So much had been there, for anyone to see.
Exhausted, Mikhyel sought a bedroll apart from every-
one, even his brothers, and stretched out under the light of
the budding node, strangely unafraid, though he'd never
slept under the open sky before.
Nikki and Deymorin, thankfully, sensed his mood and
left him to  his  thoughtsafter he promised  to explain
everything in the morning.
Morning. It was morning now. Well after midnight.
His twenty-seventh birthday. Or perhaps it wasn't. .Could
it be tomorrow, if he hadn't yet been to bed?
Just this morning, he'd awakened to an armful of pillow.
Just this morning, he'd had breakfast with a man who, if
there was any justice in the universe, was dead now. This
morning, Ganfrion had been alive.
So had he.
Now he wasn't altogether sure.
Temorii, Ganfrion . . . likely Thyerri was dead, as well,
since Mother had taken his shape there in Khoratum.
They'd all died helping him escape, or just because they'd
known him. Trusted him. Mother had saved him so easily.
Why couldn't she have saved them as well?
Because they couldn't do this? Couldn't sit in the open
with their brothers while demigods used them for target
practice? Couldn't sit beneath a sky flaming with blues and
greens and purples, so that Mother could be free?
He groaned, knowing sleep was destined to elude him,
and pulled himself up to sit with his shoulder to a moss-
covered boulder. Someday, as the new node formed deep
within the earthperhaps as early as tomorrow morning
that moss would die, and nothing would grow in its place
but roses.
And no one could tell him why.
He'd stay awake, in case the moss died tonight. So some-
one would note its passing.
He wished he could cry: the tension-relieving tears which
had come so easily a few weeks ago had been burned from
him again. At the time, he'd thought he would be well rid
of them. Now, like so much else, he wasn't certain the
convenience was worth the price.
He couldn't blame Mother. Couldn't ask human compas-
sion from any creature so utterly inhuman. Mother played
at human actions and human emotions and human reason,
but all she'd really wanted was a far more basic drive. Free-
dom. Recognition as an adult.
Never mind she reminded him of Nikki at times. Perhaps
he'd tell her that. Someday.
He couldn't blame Mother. He had trusted too much in
Mother to save them. He'd been stupid. Set himself as a
target. And in trusting Mother, had killed everything that
made him alive.
At least Temorii had died on her beloved rings. At least
she'd died happy.
Perhaps one day, he'd believe that.
But neither could he dwell on his personal loss. There'd
be much to repair, in the wake of tonight's events. He'd
return to Khoratum, if Mother would let him, in her newly
achieved independence. He'd have to make the effort. Of
them all, she was most likely to answer his call, and there
was a whole city up there to account for.
And two bodies, possibly three, who deserved proper
immersions.
"Rhomandi?" a low voice called, and he ignored it. Some
of the men had begun passing spirits around, toasting the
strange and wonderful spectacle.
He wanted none of it.
And that same voice, lower still, turning away. "Dammit,
Suds. You'd better be asleep."
And a flash of silver flickered from the shadow's left
hand: a ring lodged halfway down the smallest finger.
"Gan . . ." Mikhyel's voice caught. He tried again. "Gan-
frion? Is that"
"There you are." Ganfrion's large body eclipsed a fair
portion of the sky.
Mikhyel scrambled to his feet to grasp the monster hand
and found himself jerked into a smothering embrace, then
shoved back.
"That brother of yours said I'd find you somewhere over
here. Said you damnwell weren't asleep and that he wished
you would get that way fast, though how he knew that"
"Never mind. How did you get . . . ?" But he knew better
than to ask that question. There was only one way Ganfrion
could have gotten this far from Khoratum, this fast, and
the exhaustion in his voice told a story of its own. Mikhyel
clasped the big hand again and said, "Never mind that ei-
ther. You can explain in the morning. Go get some sleep.
Get drunk, if you like. Rakshi knows, you've earned it."
But Ganfrion retained his grip on his hand. "Just one
more thing. Suds."
"Gan, please. I'm very tired."
"I think you can handle this."
"All right. I"
"Owe me? Damn right you do. Heard tell, it was your
birthday. Brought you a present."
"Look, Crypt-bait, I don't want"
Cold metal slipped over their clasped hands to encircle
Mikhyel's wrist, a feel and weight burned forever into his
memory. He caught it with his other hand, as Ganfrion
released him at last.
And the hot tears filled his eyes, reminding him why he
was glad they'd left him. He controlled them fiercely, only
to fight them once again when he raised the cold silver to
his lips.
He'd find out tomorrow how the radical dancer's coronet
had come to be in Ganfrion's hands. Find out what news
he had of Khoratumand of Temorii's body. For tonight
what was left of ithe wanted, finally, to sleep.
He pressed Ganfrion's upper arm and turned away.
"For the love of my mother's blessed womb. Suds,
wake up'."
And past the exhaustion lurked laughter and frustration.
Mikhyel turned, glared at the shadow-guard. "What el"
And suddenly, the shadow budded. And a scent of rasp-
berries and cinnamon . . . with a hint of clove, filled his
head.
{Hello, Khy.}