Ring of Lightning
by
Jane S. Fancher


Excerpt from Darius' History of Rhomatum
Reconsidered, by Berul dunSegri, written and published in
the year 284 after the Founding and found in the private
library of Nikaenor Rhomandi dunMheric, 18th
Princeps of Rhomatum.
. . . It is frankly naive to accept any written history as abso-
lute fact, as all events are filtered at least once through the
eyes of the participants and again through the eyes of the
recorder. Even if the recorder and participant are one and
the same, written history remains a record twice removed
from fact, as one must always interpret one's experiences in
retrospect, and one is never quite the same before or after
the interpretation, much less the events themselves.
With regard to the history of Rhomatum, this limitation is
particularly evident in the decades surrounding the Founda-
tion. We have a paucity of documentary evidence regarding
thepresumablydecades of events and thoughts that led
to the Darian Exodus from the ancient city of Mauritum
and the founding of our own fair city. This dearth of knowl-
edge may be partly attributed to the inevitable attrition of
sources over three centuries and the likelihood that the most
interesting sources remain in Mauritum, inaccessible to this
conscientious scholar. Yet these are not the only reasons for
our ignorance, nor are they the greatest. Darius Rhomandi
himself, our city's founder, must be judged the architect of
our ignorance.
By his own decrees, in the thirty-third year after the
Founding, Darius severed his creation from the city which
had created him. With a single stroke of his pen, our
Founder proclaimed his own recounting of the Founding
and his own memories of Mauritum, which he'd set forth in
lus three-volume History of Rhomatum were all the past
Rhomatum needed for the future. All other substantial evi-
dence of Mauritum was henceforth banned in Rhomatum.
Books were burntnot just the tomes of interpretive his-
tory Rhomatum's first settlers transported into Rhomatum
along with their other baggage, but letters, private diaries,
and all the other intimate documents of people in their own
time, without which the conscientious historian is reduced
to evidence scarce removed from rumormongering, hearsay,
and gossip.
Having excised their Mauritumin past from Rhomatum's
collective consciousness, our Founder then signed the second
decree of the Reformation, thereby sealing his city's fate of
isolationist ignorance.
I speak, of course, of the establishment of the Darian cal-
endar which, within the limits of nature (since not even Da-
rius could adjust the speed with which we circle the sun),
divided the year into nine equal months of four equal weeks
of nine days. To those seven (and sometimes eight) embar-
rassingly inescapable intercalary days, he assigned the sole
state-sanctioned holiday, the now notorious Transition Day
Festival.
In his ongoing attempts to salvage our collective con-
sciousness from the "insidious effects of unconscious aggran-
dizement," Darius declared those months and days be
named not for forgotten kings, like Mauritum's fourteen un-
equal months; nor ancient gods like the eight days of Mauri-
tum's week; but numbered, simply and rationally, beginning
with the day Darius himself set the rings of Rhomatum
into motion.
Today is the third day of the second week of the seventh
month of the 283rd year after the Founding. But what day
is it in  Mauritum?  I  do not know.  No one in Rhomatum
doeslest he admit illegal commerce with our ancestral city.
Oh, Darius! The good you did for your children and your
children's children when you set the clocks and calendars of
Rhomatum running on their own time was a curse upon
historiansas well you knew it would be! From the lands
beyond our own ley-determined borders we have a plenitude
of tales, nothing more. No kernels of dates or documents
which a conscientious historian might plant and nurture into
a hedge linking the here and now of Rhomatum to the there
and then of Mauritum.
Yet I, Berul dunSegri, shall try to piece together some
understanding ofMauritum's ancient pastand by painstak-
ing extraction, some notion of how the Rhomatum I know
and love came to be.
. . . [We] know Mauritum's ring legacy goes back a thou-
sand years and more, and Rhomatum's a mere three hun-
dred. This simple fact would indicate that we did indeed
originate, physically, culturally,  and technologically, from
Mauritum. While this might seem obvious, one must remem-
ber that Darius controls our knowledge, and so our ability
to logically extrapolate from a given set of information. Real-
izing where our beliefs originate helps us to examine their
inherent reliability.
. . . [The island off Maurislan in general, and the city of
Mauritum in particular, was, by all available evidence, the
birthplace of the leythium ring disciplines around which
Rhomatum society is structured. While we've no reason to
presume the leylines and nodes which provide the basis for
those disciplines are unique to our small corner of the conti-
nent, elsewhere in the civilized world, people appear to have
either ignored, rejected, or never discovered the advantages
of ley energy.
Elsewhere, people live much as the hill-folk and the
between-ley farmers, in towns and villages and individual
homesteads, dependent upon candles for light and fire for
heat. Even where great and powerful leadership results in
cities to rival Rhomatum in both size and population, those
citizens still conduct their lives under the most primitive of
conditions, where the very necessities of life create filth and
stench unimaginable to a citizen of Rhomatum.
These have a long and complex history of petty kingdoms
and empires with which Darius, in his Histories, was nota-
bly unconcerned.
The conscientious scholar can't but wonder whether this
lack of interest on the part of Rhomatum's founder in the
World Beyond the Web (a tendency which to this day, Rho-
matum herself displays in her extra-web dealings) indicates
(1) an idiosyncrasy endemic to any node city, (2) an isola-
tionist tendency  inherited from  Rhomatum's sociotechno-
logic progenitor,  or  (3) a simple echo of Rhomatum's
founder's own limited interests and biases. . . .
. . . insofar as history can be described as 'fact, ' insofar as
we have a multiplicity of accounts to substantiate those
'facts,' we have ample reason to believe the following to
be 'true':
1) In the spring of the thirty-ninth year of Matrindi's reign
in Mauritum, Darius Rhomandi, of no proven patronage,
led 257 adult males, 199 adult females and an unrecorded
number of minor children out of the city of Mauritum and
across the Amaidi Channel to the mainland valley where
they founded the city of Rhomatum.
2) That Darius was ultimately responsible for capping and
controlling the Rhomatum leynode also appears undisputed,
as is the case with Darius' claim to Maurii priesthood,
though he was apparently a very minor priest, most likely
of the metal-working order, considering the endless detail
with which he describes the casting of the Rhomatum rings.
3) According to hill-folk tradition, a tradition substanti-
ated by the ruins scattered throughout the valley and foot-
hills,  the  Dorian  refugees  were  by  no  means  the  first
inhabitants of the valley. However, none of the physical evi-
dence supports the current, highly popularized theory that
Darius led an army into the valley and destroyed the Tamsh-
irin of local folklore: the patterns of destruction still extant
on the ruined castles and altars, while not indicative of natu-
ral weathering and decay, have more in common with ley-
invoked lightning storms than with any human engine of
war. Nor is there evidence in the remaining architecture to
suggest other than human origin.
Indeed, in this, considering the deserted sites, rubbled vic-
tims of Rhomatum's shunted lighting storms, now extant on
the Rhomatum Web's own borders, we can trust Darius'
account that the valley beyond Persitum Node had become
a maelstrom following Mauritum's capping of Persitum. A
constant pounding of lightning would seem, at least to this
humble scholar, sufficient inducement for Rhomatum Val-
ley's former inhabitants to have taken their leave. . . .
... Of Mauritum itself, we have little solid evidence to
support or defy Darius' unquestionably biased account; the
reports of mutual trade interests, however, substantiate his
contentions of massive overpopulation within the island
cities, as well as the enormous sociopolitical power he attri-
butes to the Maurii priesthood.
Granted these two 'facts,' Darius' demand that the main-
land satellite nodes swear fealty to Rhomatum alone or be
cut out of the web was destined to create antipathy between
Darius' Rhomatum and ancient Mauritum.
According to Darius, there were actual armed assaults on
Rhomatum in those early days; however, considering Mauri-
tum's limited martial resourcesby that time the world be-
yond considered them invincible, and they hadn't mounted
an wmy in generationsand considering also the fact that
by the time such assaults could have taken place Darius'
original small band had grown to thousands, Darius' color-
ful depiction of Maurii soldiers breaching the outer walls of
Rhomatum and threatening the Tower itself might well be
all color and little substance.
A created cultural paranoia, if you will.
Then again, the accounts might be word for word, event
by event, accurate. One simply cannot know. . . .
. . . and lacking a contemporary outside perspective, recon-
ciliation of [Darius'] acts with his espoused goals and beliefs
is virtually impossible.
What appears indisputable to this scholar is that two great
powers have been poised in equilibrium for three centuries:
one structured ostensibly around the will of great and power-
ful gods, the other (also ostensibly) around human free will.
That the god Maurii lusts after additional followers is a
virtual givensuch is the way of gods. What Darius in-
tended, what goals Darius has passed on to his descendants,
is far less certain to those of us who live outside the Tower.
For three hundred years, these two powerful, isolate enti-
ties have stood side by side, looking carefully past one an-
other,  their peaceful coexistence  based upon their  own
invincibility upon their own soil. If, however, each of these
aloof giants in fact desires the other's power, when that bal-
ance shifts, as some day it must, they will be forced to look
upon one another in truth, without a god'sany god's,
Maurii's or Darius'intervention. ...
Prelude

High in the atmosphere above Mount Khoratum, moisture-
laden froth boils higher, deeper. Denied escape, caught be-
tween the freezing air above and the shifting energies below,
particles roil in ever-increasing ferocity, swirling on fierce,
invisible currents, twisting, rubbing, chafing . . .
Deep within the heart of Mount Khoratum, in a leythium-
draped chamber deeper than the deepest human mines,
Mother laughed, revelling in the flow of pure energy that
slithered tingling tendrils across her skin, and for a time, it
was sensuality alone that dictated her moves, that drove
her to keep that brewing storm contained.
It is an ancient, elemental ritual, this periodic convergence
of power, frustration, and obstinacy; a ritual compelled by
laws as primordial as the earth herself toward its inevitable
resolution:
Lightning arced between clouds.
"Oo-oo-oo ..." Mother shivered in victorious ecstasy.
"Yes!"
On the mountain's surface, midway between leythium
cave and lightning cloud, in the Tower overlooking the
human-built city called Khoratum, in a chamber where the
seven leythium-coated rings of Khoratum spun solemnly
about their common centerthe Khoratum free radical
echoed that sky-born bolt with a quivering deflection of its
own sinuous path.
It was a tiny shift, a disturbance only the most observant
would note: the radical (an amorphous streamer of pure
leythium that skipped and danced freely among its more
rigid cousins) was prone to random motion. A tiny distur-
bance, but significant. A power fluxtiny, but significant
that only a most Talented human ringmaster could correct
. . . without consumer awareness.
Visible to no one within that notably empty room, bane-
ful energy sizzled along the radical, arced from radical
streamer to the outermost Cardinal Ring. The Cardinal
shuddered, its heartbeat-regular rhythm faltered, and the
energy mote leapt inward, disrupting the painstakingly
aligned orbits of Khoratum Tower's rings one by one.
On the innermost, it paused as if savoring its triumph,
then penetrated the central sphere itself. "The scintillating
orb flared, a momentary localized nova extending well be-
yond the Cardinal's radius, then faded to lightless black.
The rings faltered and tumbled to the tiled floor.
Lights within the embryonic city blossoming ripplewise
from the Tower's baseflickered and died.
Sirens sounded. Briefly.
Unchecked, the mote fled the Tower and skipped trium-
phantly along city streets vacant on this fearsome afternoon
and midnight-dark between stormy skies and mountain
shadows. It slithered sullenly past wattle and daub huts
aglow with light, oil lamps impervious to the mote's pres-
ence, then flowed like spring rain runoff along the leyline,
down the mountain pass toward the fertile Rhomatum
Valley.
It was a route marked with dead and dying trees, the
unnatural byproduct of Khoratum's recent capping. Before
the humans, the ley had created but small disruptions to
the natural surface growth; the narrow lines of sterility
marking its underground structure had been part of the
natural scheme, rivers and streams.
But the humans capped the nodes, concentrated the en-
ergy flows, and spread the pathway, making of the natural
ley a wound, a perversion. And to that perversion, the hu-
mans added gravel and paving stone: a road for their travel-
ing convenience.
On that leyroad came a cargo hauler bound for Khora-
tum, foolish and greedy driver to be out on a leyroad on
such a day, daring the elements to interfere with his
schedule.
Like some giggling, formless gremlin, the spark infiltrated
the hauler's heater-core and brushed the tiny leythium web
contained there with an ephemeral kiss. The web shriveled;
the heater died. Deprived of buoyancy, the hauler's tower-
ing balloon wilted, throwing the cargo bed's full weight
onto woefully inadequate wagon axles. The draft horses
stopped dead in their tracks, and the lead gelding cast an
accusntory glance over his broad shoulder toward the silk-
draped, disgruntled driver.
The sparking mote, heedless now of the havoc in its
wake, scampered through the Khoramali foothills, ignoring
equally the thriving watchtowers of the current human pop-
ulace and the ruined altars of the previous inhabitants. It
bounded relentlessly toward the valley's southernmost
reach, toward another ley-rich node, another ringchamber,
another tower-dominated city.
Mount Rhomatum: eroded with timeas Mount Khora-
tum was not.
Rhomatum Node: where nine major leylines converged
to Khoratum's six.
Rhomatum City: a web of carefully plotted ringroads and
radial spokes: leyroad connections to other nodes, other
citiesof which Khoratum was youngest.
But far from least.
Rhomatum: home of Ringmaster Anheliaa dunMoren,
architect and instigator of the profane Khoratum Tower.
Gaining momentum and gleeful purpose with each pass-
ing instant, the spark traversed its barren path, a gravelled
slash between lush, cultivated fields, and streaked through
the outer-city livestock market, unnoticed by any save cat-
tle and chickens.
Almost sentient in its excitement, the lightning-born ca-
lamity reached for the City's outermost wall, the human-
made buffer against human flotsam seeking Rhomatum's
energy-rich harbor.
It gained the innermost stone . . .
And died.
Unnoticed.
Unappreciated.
(Sigh.)
Ignored.
And, as yet another leythium strand quivered in sympa-
thetic resonance to the firestorm raging above. Mother kin-
dled another . . . event.
5ECTIOtt
OME
The impending deluge erupted just as Deymorin Rhomandi
dunMheric raced beneath the palisade gate that marked the
Rhomatum umbrella's outermost perimeter. A single stride
within, Deymorin's horse, wise to the idiosyncrasies of the
City and disdaining anything so plebeian as a signal from
his rider, shd to a plunging, bucking halt, spraying sand and
gravel over the gate attendants scattering from his path.
Deymorin himself, wise to the idiosyncrasies of his horse
(having raised him from a fractious colt), lifted a careless
hand to stop the single, brave (but ill-advised) soul who
rushed forward to help control Ringer's extravagant dis-
play. Having failed to unseat his rider, the horse froze, four
feet square, then shook from toe to tail, as if the handful
of drops that had pelted them at the last had drenched him
to the skin.
"Silly creature," Deymorin murmured fondly, and leaned
forward to slap the sweat-darkened neck. When he straight-
ened, it was as if every vertebra snapped and grated before
settling into place. He gave his aching shoulders a backward
stretch, signalled his thanks to the alert gatekeep, who'd
had the gate open and waiting by the time he reached it,
and sent Ringer on toward the stables with a gentle pres-
sure of leg and rein.
Outside the palisade the air was roihng grey and deluge;
here, at the power umbrella's outermost edge, where only
the smallest, simplest and purest leythium crystal would
glow, the glimmer of sun through broken clouds cast the
occasional shadow; shadows whose midafternoon length re-
minded him of his woefully belated arrival.
Easy enough to find excuses, if excuses he desired. Ex-
cuses Nikki would understand: the weanling cull running a
month late, the overall high quality of the foals making the
choice of which to keep and which to sell nearly impossible:
a fact that would please him, once he'd had time to con-
sider; and there was desperately needed hay that lay curing
in the fields about to be storm-flooded, and a prize brood-
mare in danger of aborting what might well be her last
foal...
Time-critical problems, all of them. Small wonder Tonio's
gentle reminder early this morning had caught him un-
awares and at his stud farm, Darhaven, rather than in
Rhomatum.
Small wonder, but unforgivable: older brothers had . . .
obligations.
And the morning of the eighteenth day of the first month
of the year 317 should have found Deymorin Rhomandi
dunMheric, brother of Nikaenor Rhomandi dunMheric, if
not in Rhomatum itself, at least at the valley estate, Ar-
mayel. When a man's family owned multiple seats, a man
really ought to make use of them.
Darhaven was in the foothills, two sensible days' ride
from Rhomatum; Armayel, an easy morning's jaunt. Nikki
would have understood his sleeping over at Armayel to
minimize his time in the City; Nikki would never have for-
given him missing tonight's festivities altogether.
Well, he hadn't spent the night at Armayel, but he wasn't
going to miss the party either, though he might well fall
asleep in the middle of dinner. It had required his best and
bravesthe ran a grateful hand down the sweating arch of
mane and muscleto get him here at even this truant hour.
He tightened his legs and Ringer surged willingly into a
jogtrot, the fastest pace the law allowed within the palisade.
The horse was tired, as Deymorin himself was, but eager
for the warmth and comfort awaiting him in the stables.
If only, Deymorin thought as he ducked to miss the low
beam at the barn's back entrance, Ringer's rider felt a simi-
lar anticipation toward his own . . . stable.
A nickering duet greeted him as he eased numb feet to
the packed and raked ground outside the tackroom, and
fluttering nostrils on two near-identical black-nosed heads
with identical white stars appeared over neighboring stall
doors. He dropped Ringer's reins and palmed a handful of
dried apple treats from the pouch hanging just within the
tackroom door, a move that raised an expectant rustle be-
hind him.
"Don't even think it," he said, without turning.
With a dejected whoof, that sense of horse at his shoulder
disappeared. Ignoring the big bay gelding, he limped across
the aisle to the greys' stalls, speaking softly to them,
scratching the snip on Storm's nose, the tiny scar on Ash-
ley'sthe only notable difference between themhis eyes
reflexively noting their condition.
They were undoubtedly the best matched team ever bred
at Darhaven, by himself or any of his ancestors.
Theoretically, the greys belonged at Armayel, but some-
how they rarely stayed there for long. Not that he minded:
better here where they'd be exercised and loved than wait-
ing around for his infrequent needs. Personally, he pre-
ferred to rideas had Nikki. Once. Before the boy found
it impossible to ride two horses at the same time.
He scratched an expectant chin with one hand, with the
other patted a neck solid beneath a silken black mane . . .
and recalled a scrawny, blond-headed kid and two scraw-
nier foals, and himself and Gerhard bastardizing their bet-
ter sense for a pair of pleading blue eyes.
And Nikki had been right, in his blind-child-luck way.
The twins had lived, and flourished, to become a matched
team any horseman would cherishas the scrawny, blond-
headed kid had grown into a man anyone would be proud
to call brother.
Well, most of the time.
He did look forward to seeing Nikki. His youngest broth-
er's visits to Darhaven occurred far too infrequently these
days, and when Nikki was there, he seemed distracted,
more interested in the library than the horses. Deymorin
suspected their mutual brother Mikhyel's hand in both that
dereliction and that distraction, as in much else that tran-
spiredor didn'tin the boy's life.
Dear, pious, priggish Mikhyel. Sometimes he thought
he'd be perfectly content if he never saw his other brother
again, but if enduring the middle Rhomandi brother's pres-
ence was the price he must pay for time with the youngest,
he'd pay that and willingly to be with the boy tonight.
Boy. Not any longer. Nikki was seventeen now, and le-
gally a manor would be, soon enough, after the an-
nouncements had been posted, the oaths taken and the
Citizen contract signed.
Gods will Nikki's would be a less . . . eventful . . . passage
into adulthood than Mikhyel's had been. He'd lost a
brother that nightten years ago next springthough not
to death. Death would have been easier, cleaner. Instead,
he'd been left with a hard-faced, ambulatory shell that bore
only a superficial resemblance to the brother he'd grown
up with.
He'd lost one brother that night; he wasn't about to lose
a second tonight.
He ran a final, loving hand down each dark grey jowl,
gave Storm's overactive black lip a gentle tug, and returned
to Ringer, hands harboring one final treat behind his back.
They were gathering an audience, he and the big horse;
grooms versed enough in his ways not to interfere before
his signal, and familiar enough with those ways to stand
where they could enjoy the show.
"Well?" he asked.
A black-rimmed ear twitched. The bloodred head with
its  narrow  blaze  drooped  low,  the  long  forelock  falling
across half-lidded eyes: a picture of equine exhaustion re-
quiring only shuddering sides and quivering knees to com-
plete. Unfortunately for Ringer, his sides moved in long,
even breaths, and his legs were as sound as they'd been
that morning.
"I'm not impressed, you know."
The large head raised to rest its chin heavily . . . pitifully
. . . on his shoulder.
Laughter escaped despite tight-clamped lips, and Ringer,
with a smug toss of his head, shoved Deymorin's chest with
his nose, demanding his reward, which Deymorin willingly
provided.
Handing the intrepid gelding over at last to the team of
chuckling grooms, he freed his silver-handled cane and pis-
tol from the saddle and headed through the stable toward
the market and the inner wall, pausing only to check the
pistol at the armory.
A man never forgot that twice. If he somehow got past
the guard with it, chances were it would shoot off some-
thing important, without warning and before nightfall.
Ley and gunpowder, like ley and lightning, did not mix.
The Oreno market closed around him, banners and
booths combining to obscure the stable. Once one of sev-
eral private facilities situated well outside the city wall
among productive farmlands, where there had been space
in plenty for paddocks and arenas, the Rhomandi stable
was the final vestige of that original agrarian use of this
land.
Nearly ten years ago, his own dear aunt Anheliaa had
realized her greatest ambition and capped Khoratum
Node, making her the first Rhomatumin ringmaster ever to
have the full power of the Rhomatum Web available to
her. The most immediate and inescapable effect of control-
ling that last of Rhomatum's satellite nodes was the exten-
sion of the Rhomatum City power umbrellaby as much
as five miles in some directions.
The City had immediately constructed a new perimeter
wall, a physical demarcation of that new municipal bound-
ary, and the property valuesthanks to overzealous specu-
latorsbetween the old wall and the new had flared out of
control, taking property taxes with them. Ten years after
the fact, prices had settled, the taxes had, but much of the
land between the old wall and the new still lay fallow, no
longer fit to grow anything but roses, the previous owners,
mostly farmers and horse breeders, driven out, those over-
zealous speculators considering themselves fortunate when
they managed to break even.
Deymorm himself had eventually given in to Mikhyel's
pressure and sold his own training facilities (twenty pad-
docks, two outdoor arenas, and one mirrored, indoor arena,
as well as two of his three barns) to some faceless Oreno
Syndic, whose favor Mikhyel had been courting for some
internode economic alliance. His only consolation when he
passed the vacant paddocks was that the new owner, who
had purchased the facility when the market was at its peak,
had yet to resell the land and lacked the capital to develop
it himself.
And Mikhyel's deal had fallen through.
None of which mattered significantly to Deymorin these
days. He had moved his in-training stock (and himself) per-
manently to Darhaven, and overall, he preferred the
change. But he'd keep this small barn (if only to spite his
miserly sibling at each tax assessment of the Family estate)
until that miserly sibling managed to push through some
law that made the barn illegaland even then, he might
choose to challenge that yet to be written law, just to see
whether that miserly siblingwho was also the family
barristerwould dare prosecute his own brother, who also
happened to be the Princeps of Rhomatum.
That would keep the gossips busy for at least a
month. . . . And Mikhyel hated scandal.
Outside the palisade, in the new country edge, no civilian
stables had grown up to replace the old. Professionals, such
as the long-haulers or the internode passenger coaches, had
already built their own private stables, convenient to the
leylines between node cities, but well beyond the reach of
city  taxation.  Around  those  stables,  communities  had
grown: inns, farriers, everything needed for the stock, the
drivers and those who cared for them. Most Outsiders
forced to visit the city now put themselves and their horses
up at these small villages, then took the commercial float-
ercoaches into the city itself.
"The casualty of the Khoratum expansion that was likely
to prove the most costly of all had been the dissolution of
the military training grounds, facilities that had once drawn
recruits from all over the web. Stables full of well-bred
horses, gymnasiums and practice fields, shooting ranges
everything needed to train young men to defend their fami-
lies and homeshad been reduced over the years to a sin-
gle gymnasium, a fencing salle, and a handful of ill-trained
equine slugs Mikhyel and his City Council cronies allotted
the city to keep the Guard in practice.
In practice.' Only Mikhyel could conceive so inane a
concept. Men didn't stay in practice for war, they kept
preparedwhich meant more than a twice yearly jog about
a covered arena and crossing epees in a salle.
But Rhomatum didn't require such readiness any
longerjust ask his dear brother. The Rhomatum Web was
civilized, her satellites content with the status quo, her
traditional adversary, Mauritum, was ready to sign trade
agreements . . . any day now . . . for the last twenty-five
years and more.
Anheliaa had capped Khoratum, and suddenly Rhoma-
tum was invincible . . . at least, that was how the city-bound
members of the 36th Council of the City of Rhomatum
apparently viewed the situation.
As those sagacious leaders viewed the situation, no con-
quering warrior could take Rhomatum without destroying
that which made her the most valuable: her precious leythium-
hamessing rings. Ringmasters weren't interchangeable.
Common knowledge held that training a master required
years of orientation and personal supervision by the sitting
master. Without a ringmaster, the rings themselves would
falter in their paths and the power that ran the city would
cease to flow; and since only Anheliaa dunMoren could
train the next Rhomatum ringmaster, Rhomatum was, so
Council believed, completely safe.
Which reasoning presupposed that that faceless conquer-
ing warrior wanted the rings. At the moment, the Kirish'lan
Empire that controlled the majority of the lands along the
Rhomatum Web perimeter was apparently quite content
without ringpower. Content or uninterested. Fortunately
for Rhomatum, they seemed equally uninterested in the
Rhomatum Valley.
That hadn't always been the case, and likely would not
be again at some unknowable future date.
What those Rhomatum leaders failed to realize (or
refused to acknowledge) was that the land surrounding
Rhomatum was immensely vulnerable, not only to some
theoretical invasion, but to the very real and increasingly
unpredictable whims of nature. Without her associated
farmland, Rhomatum would starve within a year, despite
her much-vaunted reserves.
But Rhomatum councillors didn't think of that. Rhoma-
tum citizens as a whole had forgotten where bread and milk
and cheese came from, thanks to ancestors who had moved
into an extremely fertile valley that had been blessed, with
the  capping of Rhomatum,  with  unnaturally reliable
weather patterns, where those who would be farmers could
ply their trade with maximum output for minimum effort.
A society grown content, that was Rhomatum.
Deymorin had personally replaced those neglected mar-
tial facilities, basing the new facility at Parawin, yet another
of that multiplicity of Rhomandi estates. He'd made them
available to any who requested. Sometimes those who came
paid for the privilege; frequently they could not. For the
sake of the future of the valley, he and other like-minded
landowners throughout the entire web absorbed the ex-
pense, never bothering to ask Rhomatum for subsidy.
He'd tried that once, five years ago, and discovered the
hard way just how blind stupid a majority rule could be
when the majority was ignorant and refused education.
After that eye-opening debacle, when something had
needed doing, he'd done it himself.
And Mikhyel wondered why his elder brother's pockets
were always empty. When it came to Outside matters, Mi-
khyel was as blind-stupid as the rest of the Council.
Outside, Inside, the Darkness Between the Lines .. . as
if any of those parts existed apart from the whole.  The
Web was the Web: Rhomatum, her eighteen satellite
nodesfrom the oldest, Persitum, to the youngest, Khora-
tumand all the lands between. The perimeter of the web
was a well-defined zone of frequent storms and generally
unpleasant living conditions.
Insiders lived under a node city's power umbrella, Out-
siders did not. Pockets of Outsiders had settled along the
leylines themselves that ran between those nodes, narrow
strips where the ley energy dimly manifestedenough for
running a limited number of floater balloon heaters and
making lights glow dimlybut the encroaching Darkness
had proven too unnerving for the average Insider citizen's
delicate sensibilities to endure for more than the night or
two needed to travel between nodes.
Encroaching Darkness. In the average Insider's mind
and more ominously, in the minds of the Rhomatum Coun-
cil and the House of Syndicsno sane person would will-
ingly dwell in those uncivilized segments of the web. But
people did. Outsiders, who produced useful things . . . like
food . . . and who required governing.
So were boundaries established, jurisdictions surrounding
each node over which the included node city held authority.
Some cities treated that responsibility with great respect.
Others took their cue from the node of nodes, Rhomatum,
and left the Outside to fend for itself, interfering only when
taxes weren't paid  or produce  didn't  appear is, the
marketplace.
An attitude which, at least in Rhomatum, was proving
dangerously shortsighted.
In recent years, according to the oldest farmers, the once
reliable weather patterns that had for three hundred years
blessed the Rhomatum Valley with outstandingly predict-
able growing seasons had undergone dramatic changes, cre-
ating drought in some areas, flooding in others. He hadn't
the personal perspective to know how rapidly those condi-
tions were changing, or in exactly what fashion, but after
five years of tracking gross groundwater and water-flow
conditions throughout the valley, he knew they could no
longer rely totally upon nature for watering crops and
drainage.
The Outside landowners knew what needed doing, and
were ready to commit men and equipment to dig the drain-
age ditches and build up the low spots, but to accomplish
the overall plan they' needed dispensation to build the
ditches across seven leylines. And they needed funding
or at least, tax reliefuntil they had recovered from the
effects of lost crops, reduction of available useful land, and
the problems of housing flood-displaced sharecroppers.
They'd left that up to him. After all, he was the Princeps.
Council couldn't deny him anything, could they?
Nice to have the confidence of one's peers. . . . Outside.
If he and Mikhyel had any sense, he supposed they'd
follow the example of other founding Families and split
the household amicably into City and Outside septs, with
separate caucus representatives for each sept. It wouldn't
affect the overall city-biased power balance within the
Council, but it might ease tensions within their own
household.
Unfortunately, while those other Families had, over the
eight generations since the Founding, grown sufficiently nu-
merous to fill every available nook under the power um-
brella and beyond, Darius Rhomandi's get had proven
woefully unfertile; the Rhomandi rarely had more than a
handful of adult carriers of the name alive at any point
in time.
House Rhomandi: the largest estate in the Rhomatum
Syndicate, heir to the singular honor Princeps of Rhoma-
tum, traditional controller of the Rhomatum rings, and
there were just the four of them left: Mikhyel, Nikki, him-
self . . . and Aunt Anheliaa, of course. One couldn't forget
their paternal grandsire's sister ... however much one
might care to.
He supposed some would say Mheric Rhomandi dunFaren's
three sons all living to adulthood should, in itself, be cause
for some sort of celebration.
Of course, one must also suppose, others might just as
soon the entire name simply die out altogether and let the
syndicate-and the ringsrevert to the people, as Darius
had intended.
There was, as in most such dichotomous situations, a
relatively simple answer: the Syndicate could vote to elimi-
nate the Princeps as quickly and easily as they'd instituted
the position. But they wouldn'tnot as long as the Rho-
mandi Family controlled the Rhomatum rings.
The Oreno marketplace crowded in around him, mer-
chant and casual acquaintance alike vying for his attention,
all wanting to know where he'd been, how he'd been and
with whom, the usual friendly distractions one encountered
in the market, but today he settled for a wave or a shouted,
good-natured jibe, and hurried on, though his riding boots
slipped and slid over the cobblestones, jarring already ach-
ing joints, and the uneven surface caught and held the
cane's tip when, leaning too heavily, he depended too much
on its support for balance.
An open-faced hand-cab stopped directly in front of him.
"Give 'ee a lift, zur?"
A man would laugh, who wasn't exhausted, whose leg
wasn't throbbing like a broken tooth. The cabby hadn't
given him much of a choice, pulling up where he had. It
was accept his offer, or push through a smithy's display.
"Oreno Gate," he said, and eased back into the two-
wheeled cart, disgusted when he had to set the cane on the
floorboard and use both hands to draw his off-leg in after
him. But the bad right leg was a reality of his life, an old
injury, and he had to admit, as the cabby set off at a goodly
pace for the gate, it was a relief to let his back and hips
sink into the soft leather cushions and let other legs do
the work.
At the inner gate, a backup at the turnstile threatened
further delay. Registration. Declaration of legitimate city
business, projected length of stay.
Visas: one of those City-biased legal decisions.
He could, if he so chose, force his way to the front of
the line: he wore a ring on his left hand that would clear
his path in a quasimagical instant, should he choose to in-
voke its authority, but he resented using that ring in such
a fashion almost as fiercely as he resented the quasiroyal
power of the silver-filigree crest it bore. That he wore it at
all was solely a matter of family pride. Whatever else he
was or was not, he was the Rhomandi, eldest living male
of the Rhomandi Family.
On the other hand, who was to say the Rhomandi's busi-
ness was any more important than that of these other folk
mumbling and complaining amongst themselves?
A philosophical opinion which forced him to flatten his
already lean pouch by another few coppers to the cabby
for standing time. Princeps of Rhomatum, theoretically the
most powerful citizen in the Rhomatum Syndicate, and he
rarely had a silver-piece to his name.
Mikhyel would claim it was his profligate ways, that he
tipped too much, that he gambled too wildly and lent
money too easily and OB uncertain collateral.
He considered it . . . spreading the wealth, in a way
honorable for both parties.
Besides, it made him feel good to send a hard worker
away with a smile on his face rather than disappointment
like the cabby when at last his turn at the stile arrived.
"Papers, please." The registrar's voice was as bored as
the eyes that looked right through him.
"Papers?" Deymorin kept his voice low, controlled,
fighting the fatalistic disgust rising in him. "What papers?"
Possibly his face did not match his tone. Certainly the
drab assistant wielding the pen blanched quite markedly.
The registrar held out his hand and repeated, blindly
oblivious:
"Identity papers, please. All Rhomatum citizens have
been issued them, all visitors are instructed to pick them
up at the outer palisade. If you haven't filled them out, I
must ask you to step to the back of the line and do so.
Next!" The registrar's head dropped in total disinterest.
"State your name, your business, length of stay .. ."
"My name is Deymorin Rhomandi dunMheric," Deymorin
said tightly, without moving a step.
The assistant's pen dropped.
"I'm a free man, a citizen with no arrest record of sig-
nificance." Deymorin began jerking his left glove free, one
finger at a deliberate time.
The registrar's eyes suddenly biinked into awareness, his
litany slowed to a stuttering halt as Deymorin's handand
the unique silver-webbing over gold of the Rhomandi
crestcleared the pale kidskin.
"I'm bound for House Rhomandi. My business there is
damnwell my own. And my brother can take his bloody
papers and use them to light his way to the eighteen hells
above Rhomatum."
The assistant backed away, a slow step at a time, and,
with a mumbled excuse regarding nature and necessity, dis-
appeared into the garderobe within the wall itself.
The registrar, evidently made of sterner stuffor per-
haps, with his hne of escape already occupiedcleared his
throat and said haltingly, "You understand, y'r grace"
"Rhomandi." Deymorin corrected firmly. "The name's
Rhomandi."
"Yes, y'r grace Rhomandi."
My grace, your grace, lords and ladies: it .was ridiculous.
Rhomatum had been founded by men and women defying
such class distinctions, yet three hundred years after the
fact, with no rules of usage, no legal or philosophical justi-
fication  for  such  nonsense,  the  words  and  attitudes
persisted.
"You understand, y'r grace, I had to ask, y'r grace."
And it was senseless trying to fight the ancient tradi-
tionparticularly in so obsequious an individual.
"I understand nothing about papers."
"Identification, y'r grace. Standard procedure as of two
months ago, y'r grace."
"And if I'd had no . . . identification?"
"You'd have had the choice, y'r grace, to leave or fill
out the papers and wait in the confining area until"
"Until my sick uncle died, or the critical business meeting
was over. How . . . hospitable of us."
"It's the law, y'r grace."
"You mean, it's my brother's ..." He bit his tongue.
"Oh, never mind. May I pass, m'lord Registrar? Before
these good people storm the gate and trample us both?"
A titter from behind assured him the little exchange had
not gone unnoticed, and the registrar's frustrated glare as-
sured him it would not soon be forgotten. But the registrar
released the turnstile and waved him through. Deymorin
smiled sweetly and sauntered into the City, beyond the tit-
ters, beyond the cobblestonesand completely beyond the
sun-dimming clouds.
Storm without the umbrella, clear skies within. He'd ex-
perienced such sudden weather changes throughout his life,
but his gut had never reconciled to them. It wasn't natural.
Nature was storms the day before harvest, drought when
the seedlings were most vulnerable. Nature was a twenty-
year-old mare aborting and Win foals dying. ...
Half the joy of living was racing to beat nature's odds.
But in Rhomatum, the odds never changed. In Rhoma-
tum, rain would happen in the evening, every evening, just
before dusk and end before the street-lighting. Just enough
rain to flush the streets and water the roses. Predictable
time. Predictable amount. Predictable results. . . .
And the roses never mildewed. Gods, it must be boring.
The floatercab dock nearest the Oreno gate was empty
save for a waiting line of chattering, package-laden market-
grazers, all the cabs evidently engaged, enroute to one end
of the City or the other. By the time he made it through
that line and negotiated a floatercab, he could be halfway
home.
Besides, his heartrate was up, thanks to the registrar, he
was rested, thanks to the impudent cabby in the market,
and, deciding his legs could use a bit of a shake-out after
the long ride, he bypassed the dock without slowing his
stride and headed up the boardwalk toward Tower Hill.
Unlike the gregarious market, on walks inside the City,
and particularly along the leys, delays for the sake of gossip
were unlikely. But then, within the City, everyone always
seemed to be hurrying in one direction or another, too
busy, and too self-important to involve themselves in any-
thing or anyone outside their tiny sphere of pseudo-
civilization.
He feared even Nikki was catching the malady, if his
decreasing visits to Darhaven were any indication. At least
the lad still made regular treks Outsidethe greys' condi-
tion was evidence enough of that; when the day arrived
that he had to come and drag Nikki away from the City
for the foaling season, he'd drag him away, all right, and
never let him return.
Rhomatum was an unhealthy environment for a growing
mind and body. Besides holding nature at bay, it was a
fantasyland of consumer improbabilitiesmore so than any
of her eighteen satellite cities. They at least had some quan-
tifiable output: fabric mills and sericulture, glasswork, min-
ing ... two were primarily hospital nodes, noted for their
healing waters.
Rhomatum produced politicians and the industry of
diversions necessary to entertain visiting dignitaries. In
addition to her own Councils and debating Assembly, she
played year-round hostess to the web syndics, elected offi-
cials of the satellite nodes who gathered here to pontificate
ad nauseam on the needs of the web itself and their little
corners in particular, juggling their carefully narrow-fo-
cussed statistics and surveys to prove whatever legal or
moral point they currently espoused. Lawyers, all of them,
regardless what they claimed. Tweaking rules to finagle one
more iota of perceived advantage.
A city full of politicians and lawyersand Mikhyel was
worried about unregistered visitors?
Registration papers. Darius save them, where had Mi-
khyel dreamed that one up? It was of a piece with Mikhy-
el's obsession over street safety and his fascination with
statistics: assassins or cutpurses or unaffiliated prostitutes,
Mikhyel didn't care, provided the reported instances of
crime were within 'allowable parameters.'
He'd love to get Mikhyel at the business end of a
parameter.
Tower Hill loomed above him sooner than he ex-
pected. Literally above: his feet had taken him down the
tunnel to the northside service access, where servants
welcomed him with grins and handshakes and made room
for him atop a load of laundry bound for the House Rho-
mandi kitchens.
He settled comfortably, balancing his cane across his lap
as the grille slid into place, then waved at the head disap-
pearing between his feet.
He could have taken a more civilized route up Tower
Hill: floaters made the circuit of the whole damned govern-
ment complex on a regular schedule, weaving among the
governmental buildings and public libraries and museums,
arriving ultimately at House Rhomandi's marbled entrance,
but he never used them, willingly, and saw no reason to
break his personal tradition today when the service eleyator
could lift him quite comfortably and quietly through the
heart of the small mountain, avoiding barristers and coun-
cillors and lobbyists alike.
His arrival in the kitchens caused no more stir than it
had when he was ten. Cook bugged him, scolded him, and
slapped his hand when he kyped a crumpet; he kissed her
forehead, laughed, and, cane on his shoulder, skipped out
the door and up the stairs toward Nikki's apartment, ex-
haustion and aches vanishing at the suddenly near prospect.

Lights within the Rhomatum City Library flickered, an
extraordinary event that caught the assistant to the curator
with one foot in the air above the slick marble downstep
and tilted precariously beneath an enormous codex. The
young man staggered, a single shift of balance, as thunder
muttered in the distance.
"Be careful! Careful, I said!" sputtered the curator him-
self, his fluttering presence posing a far greater hazard to
the timeworn tome than anything the harried attendant had
done trying to transport the book into the private study.
Nikki bit his lip on a grin and surreptitiously shifted
notes and scrolled maps to clear a spot on the cluttered
table, then turned to take the book's weight into his own
hands.
An instant of sharply contrasting textures: ancient, travel-
weary leather, the velvety, unscarred freshness of the table-
top . . . it was as if his fingertips were caught between two
ages. It was a feeling not exclusive to his fingers: every time
he accessed this, or any of the archive manuscripts, he felt
this . . . oneness . . . with his ancestors.
Exerting immense control, he freed his hands from the
source of that deliciously eerie sensation and forced a warm
smile to his lips.
"I promise I'll be very careful with it, Gomarrin," he
assured the curator, though he was by no means obligated,
the book being his own family's property, on permanent
loan to the city archives.
"I know you. will, m'lord," the curator said, then glared
at his attendant, who just dipped his head respectfully and
faded into the shadows between book cases. "It's that ham-
handed oaf I don't trust."
The lights flickered a second time and the curator shot
a worried glance at the overhead chandelier.
"Don't worry," Nikki reassured him absently, thrilling to
that leathery touch, "my aunt was on duty when I left. It's
a big storm brewing over Khoratum, that's all."
"If you say so, sir." Gomarrin edged away as if reluctant
still  to  leave  his  prize  in  the  hands  of  an  amateur.  "If
there's anything else I can do?"
One did try to think of the book as a State Treasure, not
personal property, and one did try to remember that the
library was Gomarrin's life, not his hobby....
And one did try to remember that one's merest expres-
sion of displeasure could threaten that livelihood, even
while one tried, as Deymorin said, not to build too highly
on that privilege of rank. . . .
"Nothing, thank you," Nikki said, quietly but firmly,
ignoring, with near intolerable fortitude, the allure of the
leather cover lying just below his knuckles.
And in a moment of exquisite self-torture, telling himself
it was simple courtesy, he waited until the curator had gone
before taking his seat in front of The Book . . . to discover
he'd resisted a single moment too long: the sensation was
gone, thoughts of Gomarrin and the rights of those like
him intruding upon the romance of a past filled with kings
and priests, wizards and magic.
One tried, one sincerely tried to remember that all citi-
zens were equal under the laws of nature and Rhomatum,
but it was very hard when tradition refused to relinquish
the honorifics and manners of an earlier era, and when
daily reality was just . . . different . . . for himself than for
his friends in the stables, or Gomarrin, or the Rhomandi
House servants.
Mikhyel said the patrician traditions were just a courtesy,
the self-biased citizen's way of acknowledging the efforts
of those dedicated to making the machinery of justice and
economy run smoothly; that it wasn't words, but how you
treated people in the courts and on payday that was the
ultimate arbiter of social justice.
Deymorin said that Mikhyel had his head buried some-
where less than sanitary and that people who got called
lords eventually thought of themselves that way, so he was
just Deymorin, Deymio, or Rhomandi to everyoneser-
vant, citizen, and brother ahke.
Which was theoretically very nice, but functional reality
placed Gomarrin's neck on the line should anything happen
to this book, or any one of the treasures housed here, and
functional reality allowed Nikaenor Rhomandi dunMheric
to sit here day after day taking what might well prove to
be useless notes regarding information Gomarrin spent his
life protecting and never had the time to read. Functional
reality gave common-born Gomarrin a purpose in life, and
left the third son of Mheric Rhomandi dunFaren with more
money and time than he knew what to do with, and no
purpose or function whatsoever.
Though not for lack of trying. Someday, somehow, per-
haps within these venerable records, Nikaenor Rhomandi
dunMheric would find that purpose. . . . He just wasn't sure
exactly what that purpose might beyet.
Granting the scarred leather a final lingering caress, he
lifted the cover with a disposition approaching reverence.
Delicate, time-yellowed pages crackled beneath his finger-
tips; ruffled, uncut edges of an earlier era crumbled to fine
powder at his touch. And on the pages themselves, ridges
of ink, fading in places, gouges from an ill-considered
scrape of a ragged crow-quill's tip ... Darius' own notes.
Written by Darius' own hand over three hundred years ago:
Today I looked into the rings and saw a new and better
world...
Those heretical wordswritten in secret, by shaded
candlelight (or so his inner self envisioned it)had marked
the beginning of a new era, not just for the man who wrote
them, not just for those who followed where he led, but
for the entire known civilized world.
Among the thousands of volumes in the Rhomandi House
library were some seventeen different published editions
of Darius' Histories of Rhomatum, not including the nine-
volume, profusely illustrated, children's version, but some-
how the words always felt differentsounded different in
his head when he read them from this book and these
pages, where Darius himself had written them. Somehow,
following those faded words with eyes and fingers, he felt
. .. part of those momentous events.
The pages separated, dust laden with mysterious scents
caressed his nostrils, and suddenly, magically, he could
smell and taste the past, could see, as if he'd been there,
Darius' midnight invasion of the Mauritum Ring Tower
where, in defiance of law and religious custom, he'd asked
the god Maurii, directly and without sanction, for a vision,
a hope for the future of Mauritum's hopeless, homeless
massesa vision of the sort the ancient node's god suppos-
edly reserved for the city's high priests.
Out of that history-making illegal entry, Rhomatum had
been born. Modem scholars wrote monstrous treatises and
held month-long debates over exactly what Darius did or
did not see, what Darius did or did not do that night in
the Mauritum Ring Chamber. Some argued whether or not
the invasion of the Tower happened at all.
Darius claimed the rings had answered him, a junior
priest, without dispensation or master intervention, thus
proving his contention that the rings resonated to some
inborn Talent, not godly sanction. Darius claimed a vision
of a storm-wracked valley and a geas to go there.
Darius' modern detractors suggested Darius' stimulus
wasn't a vision at all, but common knowledge, at least
within the Maurii priesthood. That once Persitum had been
capped, the ringmasters must have sensed the nodes be-
yond, certainly so powerful a node as Rhomatum itself.
Each of those modern-day historians came up with his own
theory as to why the Maurii priests hadn't pursued capping
those obviously powerful nodes, theories as to why Darius
had been able to pull off such a coup, but the fact was
they hadn't and Darius had.
It wasn't as if Darius had tried to use that so-called reve-
lation to become a high priest, since he had abandoned the
priesthood altogether and led his family and the other origi-
nal Founders out of Mauritum in search of his valley.
Which they had found: Nikki's very existence, as well
as the existence of those outspoken detractors, was proof
absolute of that.
/ find it small wonder now that my vision eluded me for
so long. The veins are unbelievably rich. More leythium than
anyone could have dreamed . . . if not for the danger from
the storms, one could strip the surface away and simply
pump the essence out of the earth. ...
But the storms were there, and so every man, woman,
and child who had come with Darius, regardless of their
position in Mauritum, had participated in mining the silver
and leythium from beneath the time-eroded leymound.
That effort was the price, by Darian decree, that assured
them a personal stake in the future city, a decree that, at
one and the same time both assured their loyalty to Rho-
matum, and destroyed forever the cultural taboos against
any but sanctified priests handling the leythium.
When it came to the actual casting of the rings, Darius
himself, using knowledge and skills gained as a Maurii
priest, but passing those skills willingly on to any with the
desire to learn them, had supervised the construction of the
molds, and Darius himself had smelted and poured the sil-
ver, and coated the final product with liquid leythium.
And when he was done, atop those mines (whose shafts
still existed beneath Nikki's very own bedroom, above the
casting forms still on public display right where they'd been
carved into the foundation stone) those Founding Families
had constructed the first permanent building of the new
hub-city: the Tower to house the precious rings.
And when that was done, one man and one man alone
had aligned the rings and set them in motion, a feat that
was, in itself, a minor miracle of the time.
. . . Today, the rings spun, for the first time ...
How little effort it took to imagine, sitting with one's
hands resting on those age-dusted words, that ancient tower
of rough-hewn granite, lightning raging all around, bands
of blinding light reflecting off the concentric rings that lay
lifeless on the stone floor, awaiting one touch to quicken
them.
... All my life, terror has been a meaningless word, a
weakness in other men to be scorned. . . .
And a man alone, unwilling to risk a single innocent life,
raising each ring, one at a time, by himself, eyes closing as
he reached for some inner sense that would reveal the flow
of the ley, aligning the ring with that flow and setting it
spinning, the innermost ring first and working outward.
And when the Cardinal Ring was in place, when its orbit
matched the heartbeat of the ancient mountain's leythium
core, the radical streamer, the band of pure leythium that
was neither crystal, nor solid, nor liquid, would have un-
coiled of its own accord, to weave and dance among the
spinning rings. . . .
. . . / scorn it no longer. . . .
One mistakeone mismatch, energy flow to ring size,
one misalignment, one ring confounding the orbit of an-
other ... and Rhomatum would never have been born.
Darius, his people, Rhomatum itself, would have been gone
in a single, lightning-blasted instant.
Maurii would have won.
Instead, within moments of that radical's rising, the light-
ning stopped and the skies cleared above the Tower, and
Rhomatum became the safe haven for all the refugees.
Thanks to Darius, the one adept among them.
Darius, one-time junior priest of Mauritum.
Darius, founder, architect, and philosophical sire of
Rhomatum.
Darius, the original Rhomandi of Rhomatum. Nikki's
own ancestor, sevenor was it eight?generations
removed.
or was that remote?
Not that it mattered. Removed. Remote. Those were just
words. Darius was . . . history . . . and the future. His future.
Nikki shivered, feeling that link to his famous forefather
drawing at his very soul. It was ... exquisite, this internal
conviction that his very own, perhaps momentous, destiny
lay somehow linked to this great man and history itself.
Because Darius, founder of Rhomatum and the Rho-
mandi line, had been great. Nothing the detractors could
say could change the reality that the supposedly uncappable
node had been cappedby Darius. Whatever speculations
one might make about his character, Darius, alone of his
peers, had had the courageand the skillto accomplish
that great feat; and if such a man chose to employ a hint
of . . . poetic license in recounting his story for future gener-
ations ... well, it seemed to Nikki that the inheritors of
that historyand of the comfortable lifestyle Darius had
made possibleshould applaud the evidence of yet another
of Darius' talents rather than use that talent to devalue his
undeniable accomphshments.
... on this 13th day of the 21st meeting of the House
of Syndics, following the S7-node disaster, the Rhomatum
ringmaster has been granted absolute veto-power over Syn-
dic development....
Which meant, of course, Darius.
But the decision had been inevitable. In the wake of
Rhomatum's capping, with seventeen satellite nodes wait-
ing to be capped and mastered, a flood of would-be ring-
masters had arrived in Rhomatum Valley out of Mauritum
monasteries. Having located the nodes through the Persi-
tum Tower, they sought to cap them and claim them for
Mauritum, disregarding their physical link to the rebel
Tower of Rhomatum, possibly even in an organized at-i
tempt to force Darius into the Mauritum Web.
No one would ever know how many died in those wildcat
attempts, since no one of those would-be ringmasters had
~ dared announce he was making the attempt, and none had
survived a failed attempt. But it soon became evident to
even the most ambitious that no one capped a Rhomatum
satellite without Darian sanction and Rhomatumin aid, and
no one received that aid and sanction without adhering to
Darian guidelines.
Which meant, quite simply, no more priests in the towers,
no supernatural overtones to the leythium, and economic
and political loyalty paid to Rhomatum, not Mauritum. Vir-
tually anything else was, from the variety within the re-
sulting Syndicate contracts, negotiable.
Variety which more than once had made Mikhyel express
a wish that their illustrious ancestor had directed a fraction
of the energy he spent worrying about the negative effects
of a ring priesthood toward the production of truly viable
alternatives.
But no one ever said Darius hadn't had his ... obses-
sions. All truly great people had obsessions. Obsessions
were what drove otherwise normal people to greatness.
And Darius had been obsessed with the corruption within
the Maurii priesthood.
Darius had never written of his personal experiences
within the Sacred Tower of Maurii, or of his life before the
Tower, but the Darius who had entered that priesthood
could not have been the embittered and angry Darius who
led his family and a thousand others out of Mauritum and
away from its gods forever. Nikki was as certain of that as
-  if the decision had been his own.
Whether it was naive belief, a religious calling, or a ratio-
nal faith in the value of the priests' work in Mauritum,
something had once prompted an idealistic and intelligent
young man to join what appeared to be a blatantly corrupt
sect. That original True Believer was Nikki's elusive quarry
in these crabbed and overwritten pages, a remnant of the
young Darius that could . . . cast the light of understanding
upon the elder.
Perhaps, as popular scholarship maintained, Darius had
planned the Exodus all along. As a man with no prospects,
Darius might well have opted to become a priest with no
orospects in order to create secular options for himself.
Such scholars maintained it was unwise to make an icon of
Darius, that the new social order he'd created was an arti-
fact of Darius' own greed and therefore suspect.
But a single, obscure bibliographic reference to another
ancient diary had sent Nikki on a search through all the
family archives, a search that had culminated in the small,
cozy library at Darhaven, a not altogether surprising end,
as Darhaven had been Darius' sanctuary, his escape in the
final years of his life.
Those diaries had suggested that perhaps Darius had
hoped to change the priesthood from within, and that, as
a true believer, he'd hoped to revitalize that which had
been corrupted, and when he had discovered that righteous
ambition to be impossible, he had founded the Exodus as
a . . . as a creative option.
The Darius therein described, in such loving, intimate
detail, had been a dreamer, a philosopher ... the sort of
visionary Nikki just knew, in his deepest soul, Darius must
have been, and he sought today the subtle motivations and
internal nuances that would make the autocratic engineer
of Rhomatum society reconcile with the dreamer.
The author of the Darhaven diaries had been Darius'
contemporary, Darius' third, least politically significant
wife; her account of those years had gone unnoticed in
serious circles . . . possibly because of the common belief
that this youngest wife had been something of a butterfly-
brain. A reputation which, one had to admit, from the over-
all tone and substance of the multitudinous volumes, might
well have been justified.
But Nikki (who would, as Deymorin frequently pointed
out, read the instructions on a bell-pull) had devoured the
young woman's diaries and found, buried within the child-
ishly round-lettered text, hints that Darius had confided in
this wife as in no other. Hints between the lines of the
songs the girl had written to delight her much older hus-
band, that the true match for Darius' heart and soul had
not been, as the Darius-endorsed histories would have them
believe, the First Lady of his household, the woman who
helped him organize the Exodus, and the coarchitect of
Rhomatum ... but rather this child of his dream city,
among the firstborn of Rhomatum, whose very name was
disputed among those who studied Darius' life.
Personally, Nikki believed Darius had carefully fostered
that image of his child-wife to conceal the true intelligence
of a woman without official power, but whose son had been
- the only one of Darius' nine recorded offspring to survive
puberty.
Of course, it was also possible Darius had kept her clois-
tered to conceal the fact that his child-wife had also written
songs to the mystical Tamshirin.
One was obliged to smile, in pragmatic company, at the
mere mention of the 'people of the forest'or 'spirits,' de-
pending on the translation of the hill-folk's language one
used. And one had to admit that unexplained disappear-
ances in the forests, and visitations from old (and more
often than not, dead) friends and lovers, did stretch the
bounds of rational thought.
One tried to keep a properly receptive mind about such
things, and a scholar such as Dariusor himselfgiven
time and resources, was drawn to investigate the truth be-
hind the tales. A poet, such as Darius' mysterious young
wifeor,  more  modestly,  himselffound  such  tales
irresistible.
And as the real and spiritual descendantone might
even say the reincarnationof that spiritual side of the
Rhomandi Family, one felt compelled to investigateand
perhaps vindicateone's ancestors.
A task which might prove easier if only the people to
whom the Tamshirin actually appeared didn't always seem
somewhat less than reliable. Drunks. Half-wits.
And, in particular, ocarshi smokers, of which Darius'
child-wife, according to the less charitable biographies, had
been one. . . .

The bitter stench of ocarshi lingered about the cloak
Dancer flung into the far corner of the cell-like room. Dis-
gusting stuff. Impossible to imagine what Rhyys saw in it.
Lightning skipped along the peaks outside the room's
single window; thunder crackled a sudden staccato counter-
point to the low rumble that vibrated the very stones of
this old and crumbling hall.
Close. Very close.
Dancer closed the door and shot the bolt, alone at last,
and not likely to be interrupted, now that Rhyys had finally
retired to the Ring Tower, which, as the Khoratum ring-
master, Rhyys should have done at the first sign of the
storm.
But Rhyys had been at the Harvest Moon Festival, and,
in Rhyys' casually voiced opinion, one had apprentices to
see to such contingencies . . . particularly when there was
an important celebration in progress.
Never mind those apprentices were almost certainly also
revelling, following, as apprentices were wont to do, their
master's sterling example.
The formal robe of heavy brocade sailed after the cloak,
and the beaded hair-clip bounced off the vanity to disap-
pear beneath the rope-sprung cot. The wind's cleansing
chill whistled through the battered window and whipped
Dancer's hair free of its elaborate knot, twisting the fine
strands around Dancer's body along with the supple linen
undertunic.
With its cold and its inconvenient location in the outer-
most corner of the north wing, this room was undoubtedly
Khoratum Ringmaster Rhyys dunTarec's notion of Rhoma-
tum's hell on earth, considering it had been assigned to
Dancer, and considering Rhyys had personally handled the
room assignments.
Part of the original castle that had been deserted centu-
ries ago, this room was far down Rhyys' list for renovations.
The entire wing was battered and unreliable, half the stair-
cases had rotted or burned long since, and rather than the
delicate colored glass prevalent in the modern Tower, this
room's window was a lightning-blasted hole.
Battered . . . inconvenient . . . icy-chill ...
And Dancer loved it.
In fact, had Rhyys allowed the novice ringdancers to se-
lect their own quarters, Dancer might well have chosen this
very room, because, for all its inconvenience, for all the
north winds channelled straight for its one, unshutterable
window, this spot had the best view in all of Khoratum.
From here, one could look out across wild mountain peaks
and almost forget the city growing cancerlike below and to
the southwest, buildings oozing down the ley-strand toward
distant Rhomatum.
And from here, if one leaned just so, being careful not
to dislodge what sill remained, one could see the stadium
and the other rings of Khoratum, the only rings that mat-
tered to Dancer.
Lightning flashed, so close the fine hairs on Dancer's
arms tingled. If Rhyys didn't get at least the Cardinal reset
soon, the Tower would take another direct hit before he
had the rings reset from the last one. A wiser, more experi-
enced, ringmaster could have prevented the storm in the
first place, or at least directed it elsewhere. But Khoratum's
ringdirector (one could hardly call Rhyys a master of any-
thing) was neither particularly experienced, nor particu-
larly wise.
Complacent best described Rhyys dunTarec.
/Rhyys is a certifiable dolt. f
Mother's sarcasm invaded Dancer's thoughts, and for a
dizzying moment. Dancer allowed personal opinion to ebb
and flow into agreement with her, that being the easiest
option.
But only for a moment.
Dolt though Rhyys might well be, (Dancer maintained
firmly) he must have at least some Talent, else why would
Anheliaa of Rhomatum have endorsed Rhyys' application?
Anheliaa was not a woman, to judge by all her near-legend-
ary accomplishments, to make foolish judgments, and An-
heliaa Rhomandi dunMoren, Ringmaster of Rhomatum
Tower, had herself designed Khoratum Tower, commis-
sioned its ringsafter funding the expensive, and danger-
ous, mining operationsand Anheliaa herself had trained
Rhyys in their
f Dolt, I tell you. Like all his kindincluding That Crea-
ture. Invading the sanctums, stealing the structure and sub-
stance of the lace . . .}
._  "Humans require the leythium for the rings"
{Halt!)
Mother's rejection was a blow to the inside of a mere
human's skull. Vision dimmed momentarily. When it
cleared:
"Forgive," Dancer apologized, humbly, as one learned
to do after seventeen years of salvaging Personal Opinion
from Mother's insidious notions. "Humans are a lazy breed,
requiring mental crutches for a process as natural as ...
passing wind."
{Better.) Smug satisfaction tinged the thought. {And?}
"And I seek to transcend the limitations of my own
humanity."
{Take that laughter from your mind, you irreligious
squanderer of universal truth!)
"Yes, Mother."
{Oh, shut up.) Her 'voice' began to fade. {Silly, undisci-
plined rascal. As if I had nothing better to do with my pre-
cious ti...)
Her distinctive presence evanesced, leaving the question
scintillating in her pupil's mind, leading Dancer to wonder,
not for the first time, at Mother's interest in so imperfect
a vesselto wonder why, seventeen years ago, she'd trans-
ferred a human child from the surface into her cavern of
miracles, why she had taught that child to come and go in
her subterranean world at will, why she had provided a
learning far different from that gleaned in any human
school...
(Oh, shut your head up and hie your lazy butt down
here.}
And to wonder, most of all, why she had never yet called
in her debt, nor even so much as indicated what that debt
might entail.
{And pick me up some drenal leaves on the way.)
Enough to make that flawed vessel just a bit nervous,
even as that flawed vessel's fingers reached under the cot
for the pot of oil hidden there.
{And don't forget the aphids!)
On the far wall of this little-used library antechamber hung
a painting nearly as old as Darius' journal. A depletion,
Nikki personally believed, of the Mauritum of the age of
the Exodus. He'd found the rendering hidden behind a
false wall in a condemned building when he was only ten
years old.
It had been his arguments alone that had convinced Mi-
khyel not to destroy the painting; his arguments that had
persuaded Mikhyel that Darius' ancient ruling against all
things Mauritumin couldn't possibly apply after all these
yearsparticularly  not  with  the  long-sought  trade
agreement with Mauritum on the horizon.
Personally, he believed Khyel had been so amused at
hearing his ten-year-old brother spout legalities at him, that
he couldn't possibly have refused, but the important thing
was, they'd negotiated a compromise so that seven years
later and with that trade agreement still under negotiation,
the painting remained intact, though hidden away in the
Rhomandi Family Collection Wing of the public access li-
brary, where few but he, as he'd carefully pointed out to
Mikhyel, visited anyway.
He often wondered who the long-dead artist might have
been. Second generation, the experts had insisted, and sty-
listically one of three known names of that period. But for
him, the detail, the loving- sensuality of line and brush
stroke, the fantastical glamour about the city itself sug-
gested a more personal memory.
Perhaps, he imagined to himself, the artist had been
some reluctant exile, leaving Mauritum in the wake of a
disastrous love affair ... Or perhaps a failed spiritual re-
evaluation: a manor womanof unquestionable artistic
ability, destined to scrub floors for the rest of their life
because heor shehadn't gamered the money or politi-
cal  connections,  to  rise  above  the  Maurii-declared
situation....
Or perhaps not an original follower at all. Perhaps the
artist was second, or even third generationrecreating a
memory for a beloved, dying grandparent, then forced, fol-
lowing the Darian Ruling of the twenty-second year After
the Founding to hide a masterpiece behind a facade of
mediocri
Nikki sighed.
He had, according to Mikhyel, one besetting sin: he day-
dreamed. Mikhyel tried hard to cure him of itfor his own
good, he never doubted ita cure that sometimes left
bruises he'd just as soon avoid, and if Mikhyel were here
just now, his ears would ring for certain.
But he had to admit, his tendency to . . . examine multi-
plicities of possibilities . . . did absorb copious amounts of
time, which he had little enough of today.
Of course, he wouldn't be here at all, would have had
no time to waste if Deymorin had come as he'd promised
faithfully he would at the Transition Day Festival.
But probably Deymorin had forgotten. Or, equally prob-
able, Deymorin and Mikhyel were having another row
about something or other no one had bothered to explain
to him, and making a point with Mikhyel had taken prece-
dence over any promise to him.
Which left himhaving begged off (on the slender possi-
bility Deymorin would arrive this morning) Bertran's and
Phellrad's trek to see the Shanitum Node bell and candle
dancers on-stage-for-one-day-only in Gartum marketwith
only his own company. The muse hadn't struck, his guitar
strings were old and untunable, and if he'd gone to buy
strings, which he'd kept putting off and then forgetting to
do, he'd have had to go to Gartum market, where he'd
naturally have run into Bertie and Phell and have had to
explain that No, Deymorin hadn't shown . . .
Which had left the library, where Deyftiorin, if he both-
ered to make an appearance after all and cared to think
on it, would know to look for him.
He could almost hear Deymio laughing: Which is it now,
fry? Darius? the poetry of Belianus? the second century
Ultra-romanticist school of frog painting? C'mon, brat, let's
go for a ride.
Never mind it was storming Outside; Deymio was
waterproof.
Mikhyel, at least, could have no objections to his being
here today. Mikhyel would be proud of him for seeking a
purpose ... a realistic goal for his future, unlike his past
obsessions, as Deymorin called them.
Mikhyel would understand if he said his future lay in the
Mauritum trade agreement. That was politics and law,
things Mikhyel understood and appreciated.
As Mikhyel had understood the paintingor at least his
ten-year-old  brother's  need  to  save  his  find  from
destruction.
What neither Mikhyel nor Deymorin knew was how that
image had obsessed their youngest brother for years, or
how it was meant, (he was just certain of it), to affect their
younger brother's destiny. They didn't know, because their
youngest brother hadn't quite figured how it was going to
affect him. Their youngest brother only knew it drew him
to it ... as Darius' journal or the child-bride's diaries
drew him.
The painting depicted Mauritum Tower atop a rugged,
sunset-lit knoll rising far above the flat plain of the city
proper; and radiating out from that knoll, twelve save one
irregularly-spaced roads sparkled with the familiar silver of
leylight, the single darkened leyroad Mauritum's link to the
untappable node lying beneath the ocean.
Those lighted streets were a disturbing familiarity in an
otherwise exotic image.
The city in the painting was an interconnected webwork
of curiously amorphous structures, as if the architects had
intended the city to reflect the crystal structure upon which
all Mauritum power, both real and political, was based. One
had to wonder whether that depiction was mere artistic
whimsy or based on the architectural reality.
. . . We'll have no dynastic webs here. And no lords, no
kings, no graces. A man will be a man and of one family
only, son to one man only . . .
Family-webs. Multiple spouses. . . . Nikki had a difficult
enough time imagining himself with one wife. But two . . .
or even more? And each of them with loyalties, and legal
bed-mates, other than himself?
Not that such arrangements were unheard of in Rhoma-
tum. A widow or widower often joined houses with a mar-
ried cousin or even sibling, for economic advantage or
simple convenience. And if joining households included
joining bedchambers . . . well, it was only natural, wasn't it?
But with the lesson of Mauritum behind them, Rhoma-
tum citizens knew better than to let such associations blos-
som into excessive offspring. There was finite space beneath
the node's power umbrella and all of that land was long
since privately owned, or if state-controlled, platted for
public gardens or other predetermined use. For the off-
spring of a family who had physically no more space within
the city, there was only the darkness between the lines,
those wide, untamed lands where the ley did not reach,
where the only source of light and heat was fire and where
other facilities were equally primitive.
(Personally, he rather liked fire. And horses. And chick-
ens. And cats and dogs . .. and all those other things you
couldn't have inside a city because they either weren't nec-
essary or because they produced dirt or noise or static. But
one had to admit that leylight and leyheat and sewers that
ran into leylines and disappeared were pleasant conve-
niences.)
Early on, of course, population had not been an issue.
Early on, Darius' new city had flourished so well that, ac-
cording to Darius, some of Mauritum's landed Families had
encouraged whole portions of their clans to relinquish their
landrights within Mauritum and follow the waves of immi-
grants to Rhomatum and its rapidly expanding web of satel-
lite   citiesuntil   Darius,   due   to   major   philosophical
differences with those aristocratic immigrants, had ended
all contact with Mauritum, and ultimately, in the thirty-
third year of the Exodus, had ordered the destruction of
every image and book that referenced Mauritumthe rul-
ing that had nearly demanded the destruction of his pre-
cious painting three hundred years later.
For a man who had proclaimed the Exodus as an escape
from the authoritarian rule of a handful of individuals,
Darius had certainly taken a dictatorial approach with his
own followers. But they must have agreed in principle,
since they had never, in Darius' fifty-three year tenure as
their absolute leader, attempted to depose him.
Not, at least, according to the histories Darius had per-
mitted to see publication.
Although, to be fair to his illustrious ancestor, neither
had any personal diaries or letters surfaced in the subse-
quent centuries to refute that record.
At least, not that any of Darius' descendants had allowed
into the public eye.
It made for a suspiciousand dizzymind, considering
history the way Berul insisted any serious scholar must.
Berul's contention that historical accounts were, of neces-
sity and simple human nature, slanted by the writer's own
political bias and personal historywas so obvious, and yet,
at the same time, so very revolutionary a thought, such a
simple insight, and yet no one prior to Berul had ever con-
sidered the possibilityor at least, not considered the pos-
sibility and made it into print. Certainly none of Nikki's
private tutors had ever suggested that the Written Word
might not contain all the truth necessary for understanding.
But he'd found Berul's privately published essays on his
own, and on his own he sought now to apply them to his
illustrious, but elusive, ancestor in general and to Darius'
journal in particular.
Strikethroughssome so violent the heavy paper itself
was ripped, and sometimes the pages beneath, as well. A
man of temper, Nikki's thought tasted of wry humor. Darius
would have been right at home in the current Rhomandi
generation.
Darius had been a fighter, as Deymio wasand as
Mikhyel was, in his own way. Darius had fought Mauritum
for independence of thought and personal freedom, and
yet, considered in Berul's light, Darius' subsequent high-
handed censorship made a sort of cold-blooded sense, an
action,  in  that  considered  light,  not  entirely  out  of
character.
Darius and his most ardent followers had wanted a clean
break from the past. Perhaps they had seen such darian (a
word coined by Berul himself) tactics as the only way to
accomplish that separation- from all Mauritum represented,
and to prevent the newly arrived aristocrats from exerting
their residual influence. . . .
Residual because in this new land, every citizen began
equal.
Theoretically.
But then, everything they knew about that time, and par-
ticularly Mauritum, was theoretical.
On the other handa thrill of excitement shivered down
Nikki's  spinea  breakthrough  in  that  pending  trade
agreement with the ancient web suddenly bid fair to change
that. The limited agreement signed two years ago was about
to expand. Soon, trade would begin to flow freely. Three
hundred years after Darius, trade relations between Rho-
matum and Mauritum were regenerating, and it was going
to take men with historical perspective on both sides to
permanently heal the well-entrenched rift.
And, in one's most private thoughts, one did think one
might be among those history-making peacemakers. One
had, after all, had plenty of practice, having spent one's
lifetime making peace between one's brothers.
And who better than the third son of the House of Rho-
mandi to fill one of those soon-to-be-named ambassado-
rial posts?
"M'lord?"
Who better to understand Darius, and by that under-
standing, perhaps understand Darius' passionate abhor-
rence of Mauritum and find the truth behind the fable?
"M'lord Nikaenor!"
The curator: standing on the far side of the table, flanked
by two attendants.
"Yes, Gomarrin?"
Two quite large attendants.
"M'lord, the library closed some time ago."
Nikki tipped his head. "Closed? . . ."
For a moment, it was only a sound, not a word with
meaning at all.
"M'lord, I must send my people home. You're the last
one here. We must return the book to the vault."
"Oh . . . of course . . ."
Nikki was not in his suiteor in any of the other eighty-
one private rooms in this damned monstrosity of a house.
Deymorin collapsed on the couch in the reading nook
that was part of the small complex of rooms maintained
year-round for his use, never mind that he only used them
a handful of days out of that year and would as soon pa-
tronize Tirise's establishment on those nights he was forced
to spend in the City.
But his staying at a brothel, regardless of its reputation,
would horrify prudish Mikhyel's delicate sensibilities (which
he didn't mind in the least) and hurt Nikki's feelings (which
he did) so he said nothing and rattled about in unfamiliar
surroundings, wearing unfamiliar clothing Mikhyel's tailor
provided to keep Mikhyel's lamentably rustic elder brother
presentable.
At least the wardrobe so provided wasn't solid black.
The wine he'd ordered arrived along with Jerrik, Nikki's
so-called valet and erstwhile partner in juvenile chicanery.
"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded by way
of greeting, and Jerrik, whom Deymorin had known since
childhood, only grinned.
"Might ask you the same thing, m'lord Dee. Mighty
upset, Nik was, when you didn't show last night."
"Oh, shut up and hand me a glass of whatever you've
brought. Is it drinkable?"
Jerrik licked his lips and wiggled his brows, then handed
a glass over, his expression turning woeful.
"Oh, pour one for yourself and park your rear. Lord,
you remind me of Ringer."
"I'll take that as a compliment, m'lord Dee."
"So, where have you been?" Deymorin repeated, when
Jerrik had settled in a chair opposite him. "And where's
that pesky brother of mine?"
"Left early this afternoon, sir. Said he'd be back in plenty
of time."
Deymorin snorted and Jerrik cast him an apologetic look.
"Sorry, sir, but I couldn't ride herd on him this time,
could I? Had to get his party clothes ready, I did."
"No one blames you, Jerrik, but the lad's sense of time
is deplorable."
"Family trait, m'lord Dee?"
"Oh, shut up. Where'd he gothe library?"
Jerrik's eyes dropped.
"Might have known. What is it this time? Tamshirm?
The stratification ofno, it's Darius these days, isn't it?
The boy's obsessed with the man and his little piece of
fluff."
"He's not obsessed," Jerrik protested. "He just wants"
The young man broke off, obviously discomfited, obviously
hoarding some knowledge he felt Deymorin should know.
Deymorin, trying to hold back his growing alarm, said
gently:
"Wants what, Jerrik? It's all right, son, you can trust
me."
"I do, sir, you know that. I just don't want Nikki to stop
trusting me. It's possible Nikki wants to tell you himself.
It's not crazy"
"I think maybe you should let me be the judge of that."
Jerrik took a long swallow. Then: "He wants to go to
Mauritum."
"Of course he does: History incarnate. Probably dig the
whole damn place up and get us sued for the damages."
"It's not like that, sir. He wants . . . Rhomatum will need
ambassadors to Mauritum, won't they? Rhomatum repre-
sentatives within the city?"
"He's too young!" Surprise startled the truth out of him.
Jerrik bit his lip and frowned, refusing to meet his eyes,
and Deymorin extrapolated carefully: "I mean, of course,
that he'd be fighting an uphill battle getting Mauritum lead-
ers to take him seriously. Perhaps someday . . ." He let the
thought trail off, not committing his support to the fluff-
brained scheme, but not totally opposing it either, which
never got anyone anywhere against seventeen-year-old
dreams.
And Jerrik's shoulders dropped. "I know that, sir. I've
tried to convince him, but you know Nikki."
"Too well. Wait here." Deymorin rang for a footman
and sent him off to the library to haul Nikki home. "And
if the library has closed, have Gomarrin open it up. He
could have gotten himself locked in . . ."
"Again." Jerrik muttered, behind him, and he stifled a
grin as he shut the door behind the messenger, and turned
back to the young man.
"So, why did you really come down here?"
"Thought maybe you could use some help getting ready.
I heard you arrived without Tonami."
"Appreciate it. Maybe you can make sense out of what-
ever Mikhyel's tailor has left in my closet this time. Find
me something appropriate for tonight, will you? And if I'm
not out of the bath by ..." He thought of long rides and
weary bones. "Hell, by the time Nikki shows . . . well, come
and make sure the old man hasn't drowned, will you? Be-
fore seeing to that unappreciative wretch."
Jerrik grinned. "Aye, m'lord Dee."
As fate had it, he'd no more than settled into the steam-
ing water, than the tinkling of the doorbell and Jerrik's
quiet query stole the moment away. Jerrik entered, carrying
a folded note.
A scented, folded note.
Addressed with Tirise romMarinni's distinctive, florid
hand.
*     *     *
The storm raged on over Mount Khoratum. Deep within
Khoratum's heart. Dancer watched the radiant leythium
chandeliers respond to those atmospheric shivers, and
wondered.
From above, the storm had seemed natural enough.
Down here, where cause and effect remained manifest in
the leythium strands, one suspected differently.
For seventeen years Dancer had watched weather sys-
tems flux the crystalline lace into semipredictable curves
and twists, had learned through experience how those mu-
table shapes reflected surface-world mountains and valleys,
as well as shifting clouds.
When storms built over distant oceans to the west or
grassy plains to the south, the cavern's response would
begin as the merest shiver of the outermost fringed edge;
the shiver would grow to a biUowing bulge as that seething
energy crashed into land and mountain. Following familiar
patterns, warps and wefts of living crystal formed from mil-
lennia of world resonances, the outworld storm should then
weave in and around mountain and valley, leyline and
tower: natural forces creating natural, logically predictable,
effects in the ley.
Too often these days, something affected that pattern.
Somewhere beyond three-node distant Mauritumthe limit
of the cavern's awarenesssomething . . . irritated . . . the
ley, not creating these storms, but certainly encouraging
them, as sand in an oyster encouraged a pearl to grow.
Sometimes, like today, that irritant would resonate with
Khoratum, changing a simple rain cloud into something far
more sinister.
The lightning blast that had blackened Khoratum had
exploded the sparkling leythium cloud that represented/was
Khoratum Tower. The cloud that was neither crystalline
nor liquid nor gas, but something of all three, was rebuild-
ing its integrity more rapidly than usualand without help
from Rhomatum. That was surprising. Rhyys' adrenaline
must be pumping.
A shimmer in the veils: rain in the world above. A great
deal of rain.
No surprise to someone newly transferred from the sur-
facewater still dripped from Dancer's oil-slick skin and
hip-length hair, to make rainbow pools in every nearby
low spot.
Mother and her delicate taste buds. The drenal leaves
had to be damp but not drenched, and the buds must have
at least three aphids per petal. Never mind it was fall and
aphids even harder to find than buds. Mother's human ap-
prentice fetched whatever Mother might, on a whim, decide
she required. Her flawed vessel of an apprentice . . .
PerhapsDancer grinned at the softly drifting lattice
one should say vassal, since one was expected to interrupt
one's rare-enough within-time for those whims, to transport
between cave and surface and back again, until one's skin
began to glow with accumulated ley energy. A glow that,
fortunately, faded quickly once one was back above.
The rain-shimmer intensified: the storm, defying all
Rhyys' efforts, had stalled directly above Khoratum, and
was releasing its bounty all at once, a deluge that must
concern surface dwellers of mountain and valley alike.
The previous summer's storms had been all fire and thun-
der by the time they reached the Khoramali Range. That
mysterious, faraway irritation had clashed too often with
Rhyys' inexpert control of weather patterns, (andone had
to be honestMother's interference) causing the clouds to
relieve themselves over the valley to the west. By the time
the clouds had reached the Khoramali, they had lacked the
moisture to placate the thirsty mountain soil.
The mountainside had turned hard and crusty, requiring
a gentle soaking to open it again to life. Instead, it was to
receive a deluge that would skim the surface and tax the
limits of even the greatest river gulhes.
The mountain-folk who built their stone and thatch cot-
tages along the deep river cuts, would have been watching
today's darkening skies in awareness and no small fear.
And when the initial surge of water swirled, driving rock
and tree before it, they would retreat to the altars cut deep
into the rock beneath their homes to burn incense to the
guardians of earth and ley, praying the flash floods would
not pound their surface dwellings into rubble and wash the
rubble downstream with the rocks and trees.
The strands nearest Dancer shivered, shimmering deep-
est violet.
Years ago, following a similar storm, when the earth it-
self had quaked in fear, Mother had found a human child
huddled beside one such altar fire gone dead, the bloody
seep from the tunnel's collapsed mouthall that remained
of the child's grandmotherthankfully invisible, gone with
the fire's light.
But that memory was long ago and far (figuratively
speaking) away. Dancer paid Grandmother's memory the
loving respect it deserved and pressed it lovingly back into
the past where it belonged. In moments, the leythium re-
sumed its natural iridescence.
Flashes within the lace, a series of blinding crystalline
novae: lightning, and a great deal of it.
Above and a bit to the (a mental pause to translate ley-
thium-lace response to human surface association) south-
east, the residents of Khoratum were looking to their
precious Tower and sighing, resigned to another period of
candlelight and smoky fireplaces.
Dancer had little sympathy for those valley-bred foreign-
ers who, fifteen years ago, had invaded the once-tiny moun-
tain village, polluting the fields and minds of the mountain
folk, bastardizing the ancient wisdoms; had less sympathy
for the city-dwelling natives, like Rhyys, who had welcomed
those invaders, even to adopting their foreign naming prac-
tices. Those folk had known the risks when they pledged
their lives to the new tower, and moved in, bringing indus-
try and problems the mountain folk had never realized they
neededuntil they had them.
Another lightning string danced the lace.
The true disaster of the storm in the world-above would
occur when that river swell reached the valley below: disas-
ter by flood, against which not even the fabled Rhomatum
rings had defense.
For those lowland farmers, Dancer did feel some sympa-
thy, even though they were Rhomatumin. After previous
rains had ruined two cuttings, a rich third lay curing on the
ground, desperately needed hay to winter cattle and horses.
Bumper crops of barley and cornmore than sufficient to
offset last year's disastrous droughtstood a scant week
short of harvest. Drenched one last time, and lacking sum-
mer's drying heat, the hay would mold, and the grains,
already bending their heads under their own weight, would
flatten to ground turned soft and unworkable.
As for those who lived in Rhomatum itself, on the far
end of the Khoratum Line, those whose existence in the
lace was a gentle breeze through loose filaments ... the
Rhomatumin would feel no qualm, would probably not
even have noticed the clouds gathering into ever-darkening
piles on their northeastern horizon.
They were the lucky ones, they would acknowledge hum-
bly (while privately assuring themselves that of course luck
had nothing to do with their superior circumstance). They
lived in the City (Rhomatum, to those Outside), the harbin-
ger of the Modern Era, where the leylight and heat never
wavered, and the floating cabs were never grounded; where
crime was virtually nonexistent; where roses grew in the
dead of winter, water ran cool and fresh year-round, and
rain happened predictably an hour before sunset . . .
Let the lightning dance about the distant clouds. Dancer
could almost hear them say, it will not affect Rhomatum.
The Lady would never permit it.
{Lady?} Mother's disgust screeched between Dancer's
ears, an instant before Mother herself appeared between
two ceiling-to-floor crystalline veils. "That creature is no
lady!"
The veils curled back on themselves, evading Mother's
heated emotion, but relaxed and resumed their glimmering,
glowing sway in an instant as she controlled that disrupting
emission, and glided toward Dancer, hands outheld.
{Welcome, child.)
Never mind Dancer had long since delivered the drenal
leaves to Mother's inner sanctumMother operated on a
different time sense and Mother's flawed vassal had learned
to accept acknowledgment when Mother deigned to make
it and never take offense.
Not that offense would accomplish anything anyway.
Mother's embrace ended almost before it began, leaving
behind a residual:
{Oil . . . there's a good child. . . .)
Dancer retrieved a translucent, leythium-traced bowl
from a constantly metamorphosing shelf composed of living
leythium crystal, dipped oil from a deep, narrow-mouthed
pool, stood, and poured at her signal.
Mother spread the sacred oil over her hands and arms
until the faint green scales glimmered with iridescent light,
then turned to the Cauldron of Life to lift a bud from the
Sacred Flame with her bare palms. Swaying and swirling to
some internal melody, or perhaps in response to the earth
itself. Mother showered the shimmering essence over the
sanctuary floor in a seemingly (though Dancer knew better)
random pattern. Where the drops fell, small flames
flickered.
Sacred Flame. Sacred Oil. Cauldron of Life. Human reli-
gious terms for Tamshirin tools of the trade. Terms two
thousand years old and more. Words the first human visi-
tors to this cave had carried to the surface to describe the
magical images and events they'd witnessed.
For Mother, the oil was simple precaution, insulation
against energy surges, the Cauldron a reservoir of liquid
leythium, unstable, volatile, the better to show the pattern
she set.
Her preparations completed, Mother contemplated that
pattern, flicked the final drops carelessly into the center of
a glowing flower, then grinned, her glittering fangs re-
flecting the shifting, shimmering flames: rain would fall,
lightning would strike whenand whereMother decided.
Mother didn't create storms, but once they existed, she
did tend to play with the results. And Mother, her resent-
ment of Anhehaa tinting the ley with gleeful yellow, shifted
the storm's course now, countering Rhyys' every defense,
never sending the storm quite to Anheliaa's doorstep, but
bouncing it instead right back toward Khoratum and An-
heliaa's vulnerable prize apprentice.
Mother rarely took an interest in surface events; she
didn't now, except to scratch the itch Anheliaa gave her.
But Dancer was of the surface, and Dancer knew Rhoma-
tumin history well, studied it with an eye to Khoratum's
future, and Dancer cared about Khoratum's future because
as that future went, so went the future of the Khoratumin
ringdancewhich meant Dancer's future.
Dancer knew, for instance, that Lady Anhehaa dun-
Moren's uncanny knack for knowing which ring-related
technologies to support, her own experimentation into uses
of the rings themselves, would alone have guaranteed her
place in human historya fact that would have left her as
minor an annoyance to Mother as Anheliaa's predecessors
had been.
However, Anheliaa had managed what her ancestors as
far distant as Darius himself had failed to accomplish: she'd
capped Khoratum, the last radical line out of Rhomatum,
its  nature-given  attraction  leeching  (or  so  human  ring-
theory maintained) perfectly usable ley energy into use-
less groundflow.
Once Khoratum had been controlled, the sheer power
available to Rhomatum had, for the first time in history,
exceeded that required by the City itself, and Rhomatum
had begun to supply that surplus energy to lesser nodes
for a price.
Mother didn't care about money. Mother had quite a
different view of how 'useless' that 'groitfldflow' had been.
Mother cared about
{Hackers!}
Mother's thought was a darting thrust, penetrating, and
vanishing in an instant, but leaving a residual image of hu-
mans chopping and mutilating the delicate leythium fibers.
Mother didn't like careless exploitation of the ley energy.
Liked far less any unconsidered (in her opinion) experi-
mentation with it. Especially where that experimentation
involved Khoratum Node.
Mother's node.
But according to rumor (a satisfied mental glimmer from
Mother), Anheliaa's experimentation had finally caught up
with her. According to rumor, taming Khoratum had cost
the Rhomatum ringmaster dearly.
{Of course it did!) Mother's capacity to manipulate the
ley and chatter at the same time never ceased to amaze.
{I'm not as easily cowed as my brothers and sisters. I'll never
comprehend why . . .} Her next referencesomething about
drinking disgusting substanceswas her personal image for
her counterpart beneath Rhomatum. {... allowed Darius
access in the first place. We could have handled the storms,
but no-o-o. Sucks-pond-water liked the taste of Darius'
mind, so Sucks-pond-water invited Darius into the valley,
and look what that got us. Anheliaa.}
The sensory-rich image she incorporated into that last
'word' made 'Sucks-pond-water' quite palatable in contrast.
Dancer had only the most hazy images of the leythium
chambers prior to Anheliaa's capping of Khoratum, but the
clearest memories were of sitting and watching the crystal
patterns actively growing, overnight changes that now took
monthseven yearsto achieve. Mother insisted the node
had been growing, extending new hues, that she'd been
able to sense the sun on the far side of the world when the
full moon floated overhead.
The world-cavern Dancer knew could see only three
nodes distant, and struggled to maintain its own integrity.
New lines, which always grew in opposing clusters of three,
would have made it a nine-line intersection, comparable in
power to Rhomatum. If Mother was correct, another
human generation and capping Khoratum would have been
impossible, without Mother's aid.
It was possible Anheliaa had sensed that was true. Possi-
ble Anheliaa had risked her life to cap Khoratum precisely
because it was her node's last chance for absolute domi-
nanceand perhaps she'd sensed, even fifteen years ago,
that the next generation would prove inadequate to the
challenge.
Dancer had seen Anheliaa once only and then from a
distance, when the Rhomatum ringmaster had travelled to
Khoratum for the tutoring of Rhyys. Anheliaa had been
frail and aging even at that time, and she'd had to have
been aware that, even though she survived capping Khora-
tum, one day she'd be dead; all humans died.
One had to wonder if, on that day when Anheliaa had
been carried through the streets of her conquered mountain
village to the Tower she'd financed and designed, the Rho-
matum ringmaster was feeling triumph over her gods, or
betrayal by them.
Because in order to cap Khoratum, Anheliaa had had to
draw on the power of all the other satellite nodesfor a
venture that might, for all they knew at the time, have
destroyed the entire web. In order to gain the cooperation
of the satellites, Anheliaa had had to sign a variety of
agreements. The terms of those agreements were unique to
each node and secret, but rumor held little doubt those
agreements held Rhomatum to severe standards of perfor-
manceboth during Anheliaa's lifetime and after.
And in the perverse way of nature, following the most
accomplished ringmaster of all time. House Rhomandi's un-
contested control of the Rhomatum rings appeared in dan-
ger. Rumor held that none of Mheric's three sons possessed
even a modicum of skill with the rings, and they were all
(reportedly) without issue.
A derisive snort: a mental drowning.
{Mheric's sons might have all the ability in the universe.
Won't do them any good whatsoever with that creature in
charge.)
"But Anheliaa won't be in charge forever. And when
that day comes, Mother, you'll have someone totally un-
known to contend with."
// contend with no one. And Mother knows everyone.
Now, go away. Mother's busy.)
Never mind she'd instigated the conversation. Dancer
smiled, accustomed to her moods.
In all hkelihood, . Mother knewif Mother cared to
knowwho was destined to be Anheliaa's successor.
Dancer, who received only the vaguest of images from the
flickering, shimmering lights of the leythium web, had to
rely primarily on rumors overheard in Rhyys' court of so-
cial climbers.
Rumor held Deymorin, Mheric's eldest and heir to the
vast Rhomandi holdings, to be obsessed with Outside inter-
ests: hardly what one would expect of a ringmaster, cer-
tainly not of someone who could have near absolute power
within the City. But so far, Deymorin had abdicated that
power to his brother, Mikhyel.
Serious, dark-featured, and (so the ladies of the court
claimed) wickedly mysterious Mikhyel had for years held
his father's administrative officesan important job in it-
self, leaving little time for Tower training, when one was,
as rumor held Mikhyel to be, meticulous and scrupulous in
his work.
Finally, there was Nikaenor . . . Nikki the Scholar, people
called him. Nine years the youngest ... who apparently
emerged from his history books for only two things: wan-
dering condemned buildings looking for what he called 'his-
torical artifacts' . . . or riding brother Deymorin's horses.
Nikki the dreamerthe City's businessmen and religious
leaders agreed, and no one argued.
(Least of all me. Mother never argues. Now go away/y
" '...  and  from  the  wind-swirled  ashes,  my  love's  spirit
climbs' " The voice from beyond the door paused, then:
"I think, maybe, that should be 'soars,' don't you?"
"Nikki, Nikki, Nikki ..." Deymorin sighed and leaned
his brow against the closed door, finding in its rough surface
unexpected relief from an irritating itch. "What am I to do
with you?"
"Don't worry, Dey-m'love." Long-nailed fingers brushed
his temple, securing wayward hairs behind his ear. "May-
hap they're takin' a wee rest. Been up here a longish while,
they have."
"I wish I could believe that," he told the door sourly.
"How long did it take him to work up the nerve to come
upstairs?"
Tirise laughed softly. "Oh, less than you, as I recall."
"I was a year younger."
"Two. And among a crowd of friends."
That surprised him. "Nikki's here on his own?"
"His birthday present to himself, as he was quick to point
out when he arrived."
"Wanted to make clear right off he was legal, did he?"
Her nod brushed his shoulder. "Seemed right deter-
mined, just a smidge confused, if you take m' meanin'."
Another soft laugh, a quick squeeze at his waist. "Bring th'
laddie back, Deymio-luv. Mayhap I can straighten 'im out.
I did think Beauvinawhat with her innocent ways and all
. . ." Her cheek pressed lightly against his back, and he felt
her sigh. "If only they hadn't looked so sweet together."
Sweet? Tirise was a closet romantic. He'd have had a
different word for it, he'd wager. Still . . . Tirise and Nikki?
He tipped his head, looking past his shoulder to the pro-
prietress' full-bodied figure. Tempting. Sincerely tempting.
Oncea very long once ago, so it seemed these days
Tirise had introduced him to the finer things in life. Fifteen
years later, she was still an extremely handsome woman,
particularly in the soft backlighting of the hallway's silver
leylights, but somehow . . . legal age or not . . . Deymorin
shook his head reluctantly as he pulled her ample form to
the fore . . . "I don't think he's quite up to your weight yet,
m'dear." ... and bending his head to hers, proceeded to
erase any possible sting in his words.
Tirise was humming when she surfaced, and with a sultry
smile, a sway of hip against hip, and a tug at his waist, she
murmured, "Whaddaya say, lovie? Empty room, next. No
charge for an old friend. Been far, far too long since you
visited us."
With even greater reluctance, he resisted the pull and
nodded toward the door. "Better rescue the fry before
Beauvina guts him from sheer boredom."
Tirise chuckled, a low, warm sound, deep in her throat.
"Little worry for that. 'Vina looked right impressed with
his little verses down below. That's when I first reckoned
they'd match."
"Ringfire," he exclaimed, in only partially feigned alarm,
"she encouraged the brat? He'll be expecting me to read
the damned things next. Now I must get in there. Hold
this for me, will you?" He handed her his cane, then
reached for the latch. "Have you the key?"
The well-greased bolt moved easily, silentlyand with-
out need of a key.
"Never mind," he finished, disgusted.
Through the slightest crack in the doorway, he took the
whole pitiful scene in at a glance:
Deep red draperies, gilt gold furnishings awash in the
warm glow of candlelight, the soft, inviting texture of vel-
vet, safe (and legal) this far removed from Tower Hill.
Perched on the edge of her chair, clothing and hair still
depressingly intact, was a girlabout Nikki's age, or a bit
olderher kohl-darkened eyes wide, her reddened lips
pursed in anticipation. On the bed, feet spread for balance,
one hand to his breast (undoubtedly for dramatic empha-
sis), the other hanging at his side holding a thick sheaf of
curling pages, was his scatterbrained brother.
Deymorin muttered a curse, then, with a, Pardon me
to Tirise, he took a deep breath and threw the door back.
It struck the wall with a gratifying crash.
For a single startled heartbeat, Nikki stared at the shad-
owed opening, mouth hanging open on a forgotten line.
In the second, Deymorin bellowed, "Down!"
In the third, his idiot brother dropped flat on the mat-
tress, bounced once, and rolled to the floor on the far side
of the bed, disappearing amidst a pouf of loose pages.
Deymorin waited a fourth and fifth heartbeat, allowing
the dolt time to do something incredibly stupid, realized
pleasant surprise when he didn't. Better, of course, if the
fry had dropped without the cue, but overall . . . one took
what one could get. Especially when one recalled one's own
youth, when impressing the lady in question would have
been infinitely more important than common sense.
Or perhaps not so common. Normal men didn't worry
about assassination and abduction. Such concerns were lim-
ited to men whose family tended to irritate those with mur-
derous tendencies.
Families like the Rhomandi. A fact of life Nikki had yet
to realize.
Deymorin stepped into the candle-glow, and feigning
nonchalance, leaned his shoulders against the doorframe
and drawled: "Not bad, fry. You'd only have been dead
twice over, this time."
Blue eyes biinked above the disrupted bedclothes.
"D-Deyrnio?"
He raised an eyebrow. "You need to ask? You can come
out now."
Smooth skin flushed bright red, then disappeared, and a
muffled curse rose from beneath the rippling mass of
golden, bane-of-his-young-life curls.
Deymorin waited patiently until, embarrassment evi-
dently conquered, Nikki flung the golden mane back with
a flourish, taming it with a practiced (undoubtedly before a
mirror) two-handed sweep, and stood up with exaggerated
dignity, ignoring the shirt hanging open at the throat,
exposing him nearly to his cummerbund.
"Picturesque," Deymorin said, restraining a wicked urge
to point out the childish roundness thus revealed, "but not
highly efficientfor much of anything. Mind telling me
what you're doing here?"
The slightly cleft chin raised another notch, hinting boy-
ish  stubbornness  and  little  else.  "I  should  think  that
obvious."
"Obvious." Deymorin swept a calculated and calculating
gaze over the fully clothed young woman cowering behind
her chair, past the boy's artistically loosened clothes, ending
with a long look at Tirise's carefully neutral facea look
that ended in the merest hint of an off-side wink. "Just
arrived, did he?" And Tirise, with the wisdom gleaned of
several dozen young Nikkis, replied without missing a beat:
"In the salon . .. oh, not half-an-hour ago, they were."
Deymorin schooled his face into determined sincerity and
turned back to his brother. "Obviously, then, I've inter-
rupted you at an awkward moment."
"Damn right, you did." Nikki's lower lip pouted ever
so slightly.
"Not in front of the ladies, child," Deymorin chastised
gently, and when Nikki looked daggers at him, perversely
courted even greater youthful resentment with a firm: "Put
on your clothes, we're going home."
"But"
"Now, Nikaenor," he said, all tendency toward humor
leaving him, and for a moment, he thought the silly boy
was about to argue, but then Nikki's eyes widened, and:
"Damn. I forgot."
"Forgot." Coming from anyone else, he'd have said that
was impossible. Coming from Nikki, who had just been
standing on a bed, reading his poetry to an enraptured au-
dience of one . . . he could believe it.
"Deymio, I'm sorry." "The pout faded into heartfelt cha-
grin, a look the boy's angelic face did so well that in his
less charitable moments, such as now, Deymorin suspected
him of practicing it, too, in between those swipes at his hair.
"I know you are, brat. Just get dressed, will you?"
Nikki nodded, setting his curls to bouncing. "Miss Beau-
villia ' '
"B-Beauvina, Nim'lor'," the girl corrected in a charm-
ingly lispy whisper.
"Oh. Ah. Yes, of course." Nikki ducked his head again,
tucking his shirttail one-handed, shrugging awkwardly into
his tailored coat with the other. "II'm sorry, but I'm
afraid we'll have tocontinue another time."
'Miss Beauvillia' expressed her regretquite vocally
and amusement threatened anew, but Deymorin swallowed
the chuckle and lent Nikki a hand with his coat. He brushed
a cursory hand over the lightly padded shoulders and
tugged the skirt-pleats straight with a snap of brocade (the
boy was becoming quite the dasher), then pulled the blond
mass back into a quick, barely respectable queue, securing
it with a ribbon the redoubtable Tirise slipped him. Follow-
ing a final evaluation of his brother's person to assure him-
self the  truant wouldn't  destroy  whatever gentlemanly
credibility he had remaining, he shoved Nikki unceremoni-
ously into the hallway.
Beauvina darted past him and fluttered after Nikki like
an oversized butterfly. Pretty little thing; one couldn't fault
Tirise in that, but not to his taste.
Not even when he was seventeen.
Deymorin retrieved his cane and offered Tirise his arm;
she accepted with a grace no simpering so-called lady of
his acquaintance could claim, and they sauntered after the
youngsters, down the silver-lit hallway toward the broad,
sweeping staircase. "I can't thank you enough, Tess. I'd
have been all over the City looking for him, and this"
He tapped his left leg with the cane. "was already giving
me fits."
She squeezed his arm sympathetically. "Wondered why
you was favorin' it so. Sure you don't want to give it a
rest?"
"No time. We're late as it is."
"Celebration tonight?"
He nodded. "If you hadn't sent that message ..." He
cast his eyes heavenward. "I owe you."
She laughed and patted his elbow. "I'll remember that,
lovie" Her wink held nothing of girlish coquetrishness;
he laughed and finished for her: "and remind me in your
own good time, eh?"
She just smiled the smile of a cat with the key to the
milk-barn.
"Ta, sweetling. . . ." A door shut behind them: another
customer on his way out.
Deymorin glanced quickly down the hall: Nikki and his
would-be paramour were safely out of sight, around the
corner, and heading downstairs. With luck they would es-
cape with the boy unrecognized
"I say, there. Rhomandi, is that you?"
Unmistakable,  that  nasal  voice.  Deymorin's  spine
stiffened.
Not that Nikki hadn't every right to be here, but he was
cutting the age laws close, a law Mikhyel passionately sup-
ported, and Pwerenetti dunPatrin was . . . less than discreet
at best, and fully capable of running the tale straight to
Mikhyel's ears, if he thought to curry favor by doing so.
And curry it, he could: Mikhyel had absolutely no sense
of humor in such matters, and a damned overblown sense
of Family dignity.
Damned prig.
Deymorin forced himself to turn and greet the . . . pros-
perous ... individual hurrying down the hallway toward
him.
"Long time, old man." The sweaty hand pumped his en-
thusiastically. "What brings you to the City?"
The things he did for his brothers. . . . Gently disengaging
himself, Deymorin curbed the temptation to wipe his hand
on the nearest tapestry, and planted a smile on his face.
"Business,   Pwerenetti."   And   quelhngly:   "Family
business."
"Family?" Beady pig-eyes lit. So much for quelling; the
old gossip's voice positively quivered with anticipated ex-
clusivity, then: "Oh. Your brother's coming of age."
Deflated-sounding statement of fact: so much for Mikhyel's
dignity. Deymorin nodded and turned to leave.
"I say, does this mean Anheliaa's to declare her heir at
last?" The light of hope flared anew.
"I didn't say"
"Of course not, old fellow. But she is getting old, isn't
she? I mean, no one's seen her for years. And someone's
got to replace her soon, isn't that so?"
The cane's carved ridges cut into his clenching fingers.
"Having trouble with your power lately? Lights quit?
Clocks stop spinning? Take it up with the Commissioner."
"No complaintsyet. Though we do get a flicker now
and then, which never used to happen. We live in daily
fear, now, don't we? Reassurance of a Talented successor
would do wonders for market confidence. . . ."
What had begun as a delaying tactic for Nikki's sake was
rapidly developing into cold resentment. Whereas he and
Anheliaa had had their (frequent) differences, she was
Family, and as the eldest living Rhomandi deserved re-
spectparticularly from leeches like Pwerenetti.
"Obviously, someone will replace her in the Tower even-
tually," he said carefully. "The last time I saw her, she was
doing quite well, overall." Under the circumstances, one
didn't admit how long that had been. "It's just that ever
since Khoratum"
Light, easy laughter interrupted him. "Come, Rhomandi.
We're all friends here, now aren't we? We can be honest.
Anheliaa's  reclusiveness  has  nothing  to  do  with
Khoratum."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Of course you do, old fellow. WeB11 know these rumors
about Khoratum crippling her are just to keep the un-
washed masses content, now don't we? Rumor loves mar-
tyrs, and rumors like the business at Khoratum"
"Make our exalted state more ... palatable to lesser
mortals?"  Deymorin  finished for him  with deceptive
gentleness.
"But of course."
While finding the revelation uncomfortably enlight-
ening (Anheliaa should be relieved to know the daily tor-
ment she suffered was nothing more than a political
smokescreen), Deymorin found himself controlling an urge
to smear the complaisant look on Pwerenetti's face into
the floorboards.
"Comfortin' thought, that," Tirise said, nodding her head
sagely. "One would hate to think the price of all this"
She swept an elegant hand through the air as they headed
down the wide staircase. "Was somebody's life."
Deymorin aimed a slight smile in her direction.
Pwerenetti's eyes skated from one to the other of them,
increasingly,  almost  pathetically,  confused.  Finally,  he
cleared his throat and said, "Yes, well, in any event, Rho-
mandi, I wish you and your family well. And now, if you'll
excuse me"
"Now promise me, Nikki. You must come back and tell
me the rest of the wonderful, sad story. . . ."
They'd reached the landing at the midpoint turning of
the stairs. Deymorin glanced down ~
"Please, Nikki, love . . ."
where, in the cross-fire of laughter and music from the
mirror-image greeting salons, (Gents to the left, ladies to
the right, thank you very much, darlings . . .) poor, poetry-
starved Mistress Bee had cast herself into Nikki's arms and
was kissing him hard and on the mouth.
A salute the boy returned with apparent skill, and a
distressing oblivion to the impending approach of one of
the City's worst gossipmongers.
Deymorin tossed a panicked glance toward Tirise; she
returned a slight, knowing smile and, taking Pwerenetti's
arm, said:
"Y' can't leave me just yet, m'lord. Seems like months
since we last 'changed a word." And urging him gently
toward a side room, her private salon: "Come 'n set awhile.
Share a pint wi' me, eh? No charge, lovie." And with a
backward glance: "Not for an old friend."
Darius save him, another level of debt to Tirise dunMarmni.
With luck, she'd get the man so sloppy drunk, he'd be out
for days and not remember a thing about their meeting,
once he'd surfaced.
Downstairs, NikkVs rather energetic mouth had worked
its way down past Mistress Bee's white neck to her exqui-
sitely displayed bosom, and her red-painted fingers had dis-
appeared under his coattails.
Trust Nikki to figure things out at the front door.
Before matters developed further, Deymorin grabbed his
brother's elbow and pulled him (protesting every step)
through the front door with its stained glass inset, past
dripping eaves, and down the stairs into the darkening
street.
The evening mist was rising rapidly. Silver leyglow
pushed that mist before it, marking the lightwatchman's
progress as he worked his way down Beliard Cross from
distant Gart Ley, one lamppost at a time, turning the bulbs
to the leylines, refining the alignments with a single deft
twist of his six foot long key.
Benotti dunTogan, like most lightwatchmen, was a re-
tired Tower Guard. It was a lonely job, this wandering the
deserted streets with night coming on, one which, in the
past, had frequently required the lightmen to act as im-
promptu peace-keepers, there never, in the past, being
enough constables to man the streets effectively; conse-
quently the Guard had long ago absorbed the necessary
task into its duties.
In recent years, thanks to Lady Anheliaa and the new,
tougher penalties for repeat offenders, crime had grown
rather less ordinarysome nights had become downright
boring, but the tradition still held, as much to reward old
has-beens like himself as for the City's protection.
Oh, there were a few young recruits sandwiched among
the veterans, those like dunRimble over on Westin Cross-
ley,  next  street  down-ley  from  Beliard;  the  Khoratum
expansion of the city boundary had made it necessary. But
those recruits were brought in from Outside (Citizens pre-
ferring their light to happen without personal effort) and
like most Outsiders, those recruits were too easily lost in
the maze of side streets and underpasses to be of much use
in an emergency.
But emergencies on this misty evening were unhkely.
Other than himself and a handful of early pub-jumpers
weaving past, the street was deserted.
An outdated postera garish thing gone ragged on the
edges, advertising the Transition Day Ringdancewas
hanging by a single tacked corner. Ben worked the tack
free of patterned stucco, located the fallen tacks in the cob-
bles, and shoved the lot into the trash bag he dragged be-
hind him. Not all the lightmen worried about such things,
there being- a plethora of young ne'er-do-wells paying city
penance to keep the streets clean, but Ben took pride in
keeping his beat spif-spaf.
It had been a good dance that one advertised, better than
the garish poster would suggest. The visiting troupe, from
Beliard Node, had pulled some truly splendiferous moves
on the whirling rings. Made a man wonder, who'd heard
talk out of the hills, what the original dance must have
been like. Dangerous, from the looks, but exciting, no
doubt about it.
The next bulb turned, but failed to respond. He carried
a spare in a bag slung from his waist, but bulbs rarely failed,
their fine leythium-webs being near indestructible. Besides,
Ben knew this particular post. Reaching with the key, he
tapped the leythium-bearing end of the bulb itself. Once,
twice . . . on the fourth, it flickered and glowed as properly
as you please. A final flick of the key, and that reluctant
silver shimmer brightened to a cheerful gleam.
He grinned triumph at the post and moved to the next.
All about him, the buildings rose five stories and more,
each sharing walls with its neighbors, their interconnecting
walkways making lacework patterns in the overhead mist.
Within those vast complexes, thousands of individuals just
like himself lived and loved and worked.
Old Darius would have been proud.
Another twist, another glow, a move to the next lamp-
post.
His cousins from Outside the City marvelled at the ley-
light and the floatercabs, at the smokeless heat and inexpli-
cable coolth that circulated through the building vents. And
they still refused to believe him about the sewers.
Sometimes, they even called it magic.
To him, the lights werethe lights. They did what they
did, just as the floatercabs (for those too lazy to use their
own two feet) provided effortless transportation along any
leywould likewise provide it along the cross-leys, but for
the low overhead. Through her rings, the Lady of Rhoma-
tum supplied the power that made the lights glow, and
warmed the heaters for the floater-balloons and buildings.
As for sewage, everything just went . . . down. Into the ley.
That was just how things worked. Simple facts of life in
the City.
But these buildings . . .
To a man who, once upon a time, had helped his Outside
brother-in-law construct a simple lean-to, and had spent the
ensuing years reinforcing that initial design and repairing
the annual leak in its roof every time he paid sister-widow
Lisa a visit, the City's engineers, carpenters, and masons
were the true magicians.
Darius and his codesigners had set the initial codes and
standards, all directed toward safety and maximum effi-
ciency; the City Planning Commission had upheld those
codes and upgraded them with each new architectural and
engineering advance. Of course, partly that was because
they had to, since all new construction and alterations
within the City limits were required by law to pass the
Commission before execution, but that august committee
must have remained amazingly unpurchasable over the
years, considering.
His course took him past Winemerchants' Row, where
restaurants and taverns from within those engineering mar-
vels rang with laughter, and where mouthwatering scents
' filled the air. Throughout most of the City, the roadside
level was devoted primarily to shops and businesses, all
levels above to apartments. Even the street-spanning arch-
ways supported living space.
At Tinkers' Lane, the wide access tunnel marking the
halfway point of Beliard Cross, he paused, craning his neck
for sign of light from dunRimble's route.
Black as between. Teach the wet-behind-the-ears junior
a thing or two about 'old men'. He'd finish his row, then
swing down and finish up junior's for him.
Or maybe he'd just drop into Mully's for a . . .
"What in the name of all that's holy prompted you to
go therel And alone, for the gods' own sake."
It was a familiar voice that rang from the mist ahead.
Deymorin dunMheric, and none too happy, from the sound,
and coming this way.
"If you wanted to visit the ladies . . ." The young lord
Deymorin, as he insisted on being calledtook a lighter
note this time, as if he strove to soften the effect of that
previous facer. ". . . why didn't you say something? It's not
as if Tirise runs a cross-ley hovel; her girls are clean and
respectable, the business properly registered and overseen. . ."
Ben paused, squinted into the mist, striving to spot Lord
Deymorin through the leyglow. Unusual to find the Rho-
mandi in the City these days, but a pleasant surprise none-
theless. Or it would be, if m'lord weren't obviously involved
in reading the riot over someone's head. Had he been
alone, they might have gone to Mully's together.
Two shadow shapes strode free of the glow. Lord Dey-
morin, limping badly to keep pace with a strikingly hand-
some younger man, was saying: ". . . could have arranged
things first, taken you there, introduced you properly, ex-
plained protocol, made certain you had"
The younger man's sulky mutter interrupted Lord Deymorin.
"Sorry, Nik," m'lord said, in a voice Ben had heard be-
fore. "What was that?"
Like when m'lord was trying to quiz, rather than bash,
sense into some young fool's head.
This particular young fool, unless this particular old
guard missed his bet, was the Rhomandi's youngest brother,
Nikaenor, which made it not altogether surprising when,
instead of relenting, the handsome lad's mouth set stub-
bornly. "I said, I don't need your help!" And the youngster
lengthened his stride for a few jogging steps, deliberately
opening a fair distance between himself and his limping
disciplinarian.
Lord Deymorin paused, leaning heavily on his cane, and
glared after the boy.
"Halloo, m'lord," Ben called softly, figuring a rescue
from such dark thoughts might be considered welcome.
"Evenin'."
The young lord started. His hand twitched as to an
aborted salute: habit died hard, even in a lord, but only a
twitch, these days; Deymorin dunMheric's cadet years were
long since gone, and the dark scowl smoothed lo a warm
smile as Lord Deymorin approached him.
Still favoring the leg, though he chose his own pace.
Damn shame about the accident; once upon, m'lord had
been one of the best prospects the cadet corps had seen in
years, regardlessor perhaps because ofhis wildish ways.
But the accident had happened, and the corps' loss was
the Outside's gain. Hard to imagine the .young reprobate
of the old days pulling garden weeds and training horses
in rustic .Darhaven, but there he was, most times.
"That young Nikaenor, m'Deymorin?" Ben asked by
way of opening, tipping his head after the lad.
Lord Deymorin nodded.
"Grown a bit since I saw him last. Ladies'11 be after
him soon."
"Already are," Lord Deymorin returned dryly.
"Thought that's what the skirmish was about, beggin' yer
lordship's pardon."
His lordship lifted a casual shoulder, his attention fas-
tened on his brother's retreating backside, until, with an
obvious effort, he forced it back toward Ben. "Should have
expected it, I suppose."
He lifted a brow toward the mist wall. "Tirise's?"
Lord Deymorin grimaced and he laughed.
"You boys always did have good taste." And as Lord
Deymorin's distracted glance again sought his brother:
"Don't let me keep ye, m'lord."
Made a man want to bite his tongue, who knew Dey-
morin dunMheric's feelings on the subject of titles. But if
ever the honorific fit, if ever a man lived who took his
responsibility for other lives seriously, it was this man. For-
tunately his lordship didn't seem to be taking notice this
night. His lordship only shrugged and said, "Hell, let him
go. He's probably right in thinking he's safe enough in the
city, and a bit of exertion is as good a cure for damaged
pride as any."
"Interrupt something important, did ye?"
The sharp bark of laughter that answered him held little
in the way of real humor. "He'd like to think so. I'd hoped
to keep his escapade quiet, but the way he's acting, by
tomorrow morning it'll be City-wide gossip."
"Gossip, m'lord? Underage, perhaps?"
"Not any longer. That's not" The young lord biinked
and shrugged again, but there was something false about
the nonchalance, something about this particular disap-
pointment was cutting deeply indeed. In spite of that, a
half-grin forced itself out, a sardonic brow lifted his way.
"Hell, let the City talk. Not the first public squabble Mher-
ic's sons have had." A breeze set a third-story wind-chime
to singing. Deymorm looked up and shuddered. "This part
of the City always feels . . . claustrophobic."
"Prefer open fields now, do ye, m'lord?"
A very real grin answered this time, quite unforced.
"Sacrilegious to a good City man, isn't it? But yes, give me
open skies over catwalks and fireglow over leylight any
day." He gave a breath of a laugh. "Or night, as the case
might..."
The grin faded. Lord Deymorin's glance falling again on
the walkway-shadowed street and its single other occupant.
The lad's pace had slowed as if he'd realized at last he'd
left Lord Deymorm behind, but he didn't stop. Didn't turn
back. Just kicked a stone or two ahead of him.
Stubborn, like all young lads, and if a bit more petulant
than some, well, he'd reason to be a bit spoiled, coming
from the family he did, and with his parents gone, and a
brother like Lord Deymorm, openly affectionate, obviously
inclined toward leniency, his other brother, by all accounts,
too absorbed in the City to concern himself with mere Fam-
ily affairs.
"I wish . . ." M'lord's voice was little more than whisper.
"Wish what, m'lord?" he prompted, the wistful note in
that whisper encouraging him to be bold.
"That I knew what to do with him. I'm fond of Nikki
I truly ambut . . ."
"Meaning no disrespect, m'lord, do ye mind? Had a bit
of experience with boys, you know."
A flash of even white teeth reassured him. "A bit, Ben?
I doubt there was a cadet in my unit didn't spill his guts
to you at some time or other; most of us on a regular
basis.It's simple, really. We've a family party tonight
reason enough for him to bolt, I suppose, but out of charac-
ter for him. Nikki wasn't at home when I arrivedand I
was late. Thinking to save us both from familial wrath, I
went looking."
He glanced down with a puzzled shake of his head, and
tapped his cane against his high boot-top. "The last place
I'd have thought to look was Tirise's. If not for her mes-
sage, I might never have found the boy in time. As it is
. . ." He sent a speaking glance down the darkening street
and shook his head. "Why tonight? Why Tirise's? Dammit,
it's not like him to push the limit this way."
"On the other hand . . ." Ben ventured, "perhaps ye're
still thinkin' o' him as yer little brother. He's a man now,
what ye say, legally speaking, and men do tend to summat
diffrent goals than boys."
Dark brows knit in a worried frown. "You really believe
it could be that simple?"
"Reason to think it could it be more?"
"It just seems so sudden, thisescape. I'm concerned
about him . . ." And that worried look angled again toward
the narrow cobbled street and the bend around which
young Nikaenor had just disappeared, and the young lord
began edging after his brother, drawing Ben with him. "He
used to talk to me. Now" A rueful smile pulled his lip.
"I suppose I can't complain. I haven't been around much
of late. Mikhyel's been so damned . . . but that's beside the
point" M'lord's smile stiffened about the edges; m'lord's
eyes took on a distant look. "Maybe Nikki just doesn't
need me anymore. Makes a man feel a wee bit old."
"And mebbe," Ben ventured, "a wee bit sad?"
"Truth be told ..." Dark eyes dropped to the cane he
twisted between his fingers. ". . . more than a bit."
If ever a man needed a child of his own . . . But not the
slightest hint of a rumor connected Lord Deymorin with
an ehgible wife. Pity.
The nervous twisting ceased and Lord Deymorin said,
"You must think me maudlin, but more than the boy's
manhood is at stake, Ben. He's careless, far too careless for
his own good. He's an easy mark with his trusting waysin
constant danger from far more serious opponents than
some female with a paternity contestment. By the time I
was his age, I'd fended off three murder attempts."
"Assassins, m'lord?"
"I hesitate to give them the dignity, but it's possible they
were that organized. These things happen. It's possible the
danger is past, here in the Citythough I'd argue against
that complacencybut certainly outside its walls, and par-
ticularly with travel restrictions easing it's still a very real
concern. Nikki's not like Mikhyel. He goes Outside with
me. Has gone to Armayel on his own for years and will
attempt further solo ventures soon enoughif he's not al-
ready. He should have had his stint in the Corps, but Mi-
khyel was so damned paranoid Nikki would be hurt, he
wouldn't have it. Nikki hardly knows one end of a pistol
from the other, is barely competent with a blade, and I
don't"
A muffled shout. The sounds of a scuffle from the misty
residue leyward.
"Damn!" The next instant, Lord Deymorm, still quick
despite his leg, was pounding the cobbles in his brother's
wake, Ben hot on his heels.
Lightning above Khoratum generated a blinding display
within the lace.
Mother's laughter rippled the folds, setting threads to
humming musically.
A stabilizing impulse chased down the ley from Rhoma-
tum: Anheliaa, coming to Rhyys' aid at last.
And as the Khoratum cloud reorganized, glowing a grate-
ful yellow, an angry red pulse emanated from Rhomatum,
thin tendrils, seeking answers.
Mother laughed again, and at the tip of each tendril, set
a false trail, a maze of almosts and maybes ... simply to
amuse Anheliaa.
So Mother said.
Lightning chained across the northern horizon, setting
the mist aglow, casting the wet cobbles in sharp-edge relief,
as Deymorm cleared the haze.
Heightened senses made a quick, on-the-fly assessment,
and a sickening cause-and-effect filled him. As if his words
had conjured them, three men surrounded Nikki, just out-
side the Winemerchant maze of ground level corridors.
But a second quick assessment, this time of his brother,
set his immediate fears aside. The fry was a bit battered
about the edges, but overall ... Deymorin skidded to a
single-footed halt short of the struggle, lifted his weak leg
to avoid a backward tumbling, would-be thug . . . Overall,
Nikki was doing just fine.
The would-be thug had landed in a shadowy tunnel be-
tween buildings. Only two adversaries left now, and as
Nikki appeared to have them quite handily under control,
Deymorin followed the grounded thug leisurely, pulling a
protesting Ben after him.
"Maneuvering room," he murmured, and settled his
shoulders comfortably against the stone wall. Still and all,
he slipped the release on his cane . . . just in case.
The thug lying at his feet stirred, and he planted a sug-
gestive foot on the man's thick chest. The thug's unswollen
eye swivelled in its socket, taking in his situation, sliding up
past boot and cane, eventually reaching Deymorin's face.
Deymorin shook his head slowly; the chest beneath his
foot heaved once, and the thug's head thumped back to
the damp cobbles. Clever fellow
An exclamation from Nikki; Ben's elbow jerked in his
hand. But Nikki was still in control, the cry a frustrated
curse, not dismay, so Deymorin tightened his grip, whisper-
ing, "Hold...."
. . . and slipped the fine-edged steel free of its deceptively
innocent sheath.
A slow three-way circling; a glint of steel. At least one
of Nikki's assailants was armed.
Deymorin tensed, but heeding his own advice, he waited.
Let the boy test his own skillwhich was proving, to an
older brother's profound relief, cool-headed and
Of a sudden, Ben sneezed.
The thug with the knife broke ranks and ran; the old
guardsman jerked free and chased him down the street.
Nikki, momentarily distracted, caught the remaining
thug's shoulder in his stomach, and fetched up hard against
the rain-splattered wall. A shadowed hand struck upward,
and Nikki doubled over; another shadow-hand brushed
Nikki's waist; the clinch broke
And the ruffian escaped toward Deymorin's shadow.
And Deymorin's grounded prisoner.
And Deymorin's extended foot.
Ruffian two sprawled over his partner, momentum car-
rying him beyond to the alley cobbles. He lay there,
stunned, one hand clenching a knife, the other Nikki's
purse, while thug one, on a suggestive nudge to the back-
side, darted unchecked into the darkness.
With a flick of his wrist Deymorin sent the cane-sheath
spinning into the street, then tapped the prisoner's knife
hand with the sword's tip, pressing further when the man
glared up at him. The hand inched open; the knife, a
wicked-looking stiletto with a simple, leather-wrapped hilt,
dropped free.
"Here, brother." Deymorin hooked the knife hilt with a
toe, and flipped it back toward the street, trusting Nikki to
control it.
Holding the thug's gaze prisoner with a cautioning look,
he lifted the sword and reached a solicitous hand to grasp
the man's hairy wrist and pull him to his feet, shifting that
hold to the elbow when imminent attack brewed in flex-
ing tendons.
He tightened his grip, pressing his fingers into dehcate
nerves, a pressure that would numb the strongest man's
arm, then tossed the sword-cane after the knife and ex-
tended his empty hand, palm up.
The man tried to jerk away; he exerted more pressure,
and tapped fingertips to palm. With a gasp of pain and a
heartfelt curse, the man buried his prize at Deymorin's face.
Laughing in honest amusement, Deymorin released him
to catch the purse, considering the tradethe man's free-
dom for Nikki's lesson in self-preservationabout equal.
The thug disappeared into the shadows; Deymorin
turned, still chuckling.
"Well, well, well, Nik ..." Laughter died in his throat.
Nikki was on the ground, hunched over his knees, and Ben
was at Nikki's side, urging him to let him have a look-see,'
Nikki all the while protesting and pushing Ben's hands
away.
"Damn," he muttered, and joined the huddle on the rain-
damp cobbles, growling at Nikki to shut his mouth and
cooperate.
"Did you get him?" he asked Ben abruptly, no longer
counting the score settled.
"Old legs couldn't keep pace, m'lord. Sorry."
"Did you recognize any of them?" He pulled at Nikki's
tightly-clamped elbow, received a singularly fraternal curse
for his efforts.
Ben shook his head. But:
"He yelled at me, m'lord, while he was runnin'1 think
he mistook me for one of hisand his accent was strange.
Not from Rhomatum. Not from any City I've heard."
Interesting. But then his hand came back damp and dark
with Nikki's blood, and he forgot all about the cutpurse.
Fingering Nikki's tight coat-sleeve with one hand, he waved
his other vaguely toward the ground behind him: "Hand
me the punk's knife, will you, Ben?"
"You're not ... cutting my coat!" Nikki gasped, and,
apparently oblivious to the fact the coat was already ruined,
staggered to his feet, taking a few wavering steps . . . in the
wrong direction.
"Dammit, boy" Deymorin grabbed his recalcitrant sib-
ling and held him while Ben worked the meticulously fitted
garment off the boy's back, not much caring now if they
hurt him. If he was so damned worried about a stupid coat,
he couldn't be that badly off.
But he was. A deep stab wound that grazed along the
high ribs under the armpit that would hurt like hell once
the boy cooled off enough to notice . . . which, at the rate
he was leaking, wouldn't be long.
"Clear through, unless the scut got him twice," Ben
muttered.
Deymorin bit back a curse. "Any chance the blade was
poisoned?" he asked quietly, while they used Nikki's shirt
to stanch the flow of blood.
"No," Nikki said on a gasp.
Ben extended a bloody sleeve into the leylight, sniffed,
then shook his head.
"Color's good," he said to Deymorin. "Doubt it."
"Don'tdon't talk 'bout me like I'm not here. Think
I wouldn't know?"
"Shut up, Nikki," Deymorin said absently, wondering
how in hell to get the boy home and treated without creat-
ing a stir, knowing such a feat would be next to impossi-
ble tonight.
But the wound didn't appear, from what he could see in
the leylight, to be that dangerous. The bleeding had already
stopped, though there was no telling how long that would
last if the fool youngster took it into his head to go lurch-
about again, and it was just possible, if he could get it seen
to, Nikki could muddle his way through the evening.
Possible, but not highly probable.
They tore the ruffled shirt into strips to effect a rough
field bandage, then Deymorin got an arm under Nikki's
uninjured side and, telling his protesting leg to be glad it
was on the off side, muscled them both to their feet. He
balanced against the stone wall, while Ben threw his warm
cloak around Nikki's bare shoulders.
"Thanks," he muttered, and Ben said: "Just leave it in
the Guard-room. I'll pick it up tomorrow."
Neither mentioned the bloodstained coat lying in a
nearby, shadowed puddle.
Nikki was past noticing. The wrist he gripped, the-arm
over his shoulder, had grown limp and cold; Nikki's clasp
on his hand where it rested at Nikki's waist, was weak
and shaking.
"I can manage now, thanks," he said quietly to the light-
watchman. And answering Ben's involuntary glance to his
leg: "Don't worry, it's strong enough. Stronger than the
other, when it's not complaining."
Ben's eyes dropped further, to the wet cobbles.
Deymorin laughed breathlessly, not the least offended.
"Lord and rings, man, never mind. Just take care of the
mess, will you? Then better finish with the lights. Folks will
be out and about, soon, and wondering."
The old man nodded and bent to pick up the sword-cane,
sheathed it, then stood holding it uncertainly.
"Nikki?" Deymorin asked casually. And more sharply
into the silence that followed: "Nikki!"
The confused mumble confirmed his worst fears. He
tightened his hold on Nikki's waist, with a httle shake. "Lis-
ten to me, fry. Don't go out on me, hear? I have a job
for you."
Awareness dawned on Ben's face; Nikki moaned and turned
his face into Deymorin's neck, muttering something ob-
scene. Deymorin laughed and shook him again. "It's easy
enough." He nodded to Ben, who pressed the cane against
Nikki's palm, whose cold fingers wrapped convulsively.
"Drop it, brat, and I'll be forced to leave you in the street.
Can't carry both it and you, now can I?"
Muted laughtergiggles, to a less discrimmating observer
added to Nikki's bodily tremors, but Nikki's hand tucked
the cane in against his chest, taking a fold of the cape with
it, and Nikki's arm grew less flaccid against his neck as the
boy took a bit more of his own balance.
"Take care, m'lord," Ben said. "Surgeon's in order, or I
miss my bet."
Deymorin nodded, then staggered as that new-found bal-
ance faltered and Nikki swayed against him. "Lord, boy,
what have you been eating? Don't worry, Ben. Diorak
should be staying in-housemy aunt's not been well lately.
He can look after Nikki."
A blue eye glared at him from behind a silvery tendril,
the leylight turning all colors metallic: "Don't need"
"Shut up, boy." And when Nikki's side heaved against
him, gathering wind for further protest: "Just tell the nice
man thank you, so we can go home."
The youngster's exhalation withered into a sullen Thank
you, and Ben pressed the boy's shoulder lightly. "Take
care, lad," he said, then watched helplessly as Lord Dey-
morin steered his brother toward Gartum Ley.
He plucked the boy's jacket from the puddle, folded it,
mud and blood carefully to the inside, and wrapped the
poster around it before placing it into his trash bag. The
boy seemed fond of it. He'd get the missus to clean it up,
see if she could mend it.
A brighter shine within the puddle's gleam: the thug's
stiletto. Not a distinctive style. Likely it would be no help
whatsoever in tracking the men down, but Ben slipped it
carefully into his belt anyway. He'd deliver it to the Tower
Guard in case the Lady could use it, perhaps even to locate
the bastards through the rings. Rumor claimed she could
do such things.
Laughter from a nearby tavern. Citizens. Lord and rings,
he was late. He hurried back the way he'd come, breaking
into a run at the last, and pulled up short of the halfway
point.
The wall of mist was gone. Light continued around the
street's bend, undoubtedly, all the way to Berinor Ley.
And parked on the midway light, his skinny arse propped
on the decorative stand-off rail, a cocky grin splitting his
flat face, his key held upright like a lancer ready for battle
. . . was diinRimble.
Lightning raged about distant Khoratum, and with each
bass roll of thunder, Nikki shuddered beneath his arm.
"Almost there, boy," Deymorin gasped, risking a pre-
cious bit of his own breath on that reassurance, had his
reward when Nikki gave a little hiccup and managed the
final few steps to the floater dock mostly on his own.
Not much, but enough to give Deymorm's lungs a neces-
sary respite, as the dockmaster walked into the streetlight,
suspicion in his every move. Warranted suspicion, Dey-
morin realized in sudden blind panic: he'd left his money
pouch, slim as it was, at home.
Deymorin pulled Nikki to a wavering halt, secured the
cloak to cover his bare shoulders and bandaged middle,
then jerked his glove free and extended his left hand, Fam-
ily ring forward, for once not the least reluctant. The dock-
master's chin raised a notch, his narrowed eyes moving
from that ring to Deymorm's face and back.
"Rhomandi," Deymorin said flatly, his title, as head of
House Rhomandi. Time was, he wouldn't have needed to
make that identificationthe price of changing venues: five
years since he'd moved permanently from the Tower house
to Darhaven, and it might have been a lifetime.
But the man's chin lowered. He squinted more closely at
him, at the ring, then at Nikki's shadowed face. His eyes
widened.
Nikki, he recognized.
Deymorin inhaled again, held it, then said: "Tower."
Which exhausted what breath he had left, but it was
enough. Without further question, the dockmaster rushed
them to his most elegantly appointed vehicle, half-carrying
Nikki in his eagerness to help, offering to send a runner
at the cab company's expense, of courseto warn the
Tower of their imminent arrival.
Deymorin thanked him breathlessly, but, no, he didn't
want to cause a fuss, and the boy would be fine (A bit too
much, if you know what I mean), and accompanied it all
with a rather too-broad wink. The dockmaster, assured of
his conspiratorial status, returned the wink and patted
Nikki on the shoulder, and called him by name before low-
ering the floater door behind them. Surprising familiarity
that made an already anxious brother wonder just how
often the brat had been carried home from this district.
Deymorin eyed the spacious interior somewhat guiltily.
This had been a private car, once upon a time. Each brocade-
upholstered bench seat had a matching gilt-fringed foot
ledge, adjustable for personal comfort. Not to mention a
dozen tasseled cushions.
Probably the best coach in the dockmaster's fleet.
"Don't you dare bleed, fry," he whispered to his brother,
before easing them both down and propping Nikki between
himself and a side window.
From his station outside the rear grill, the pedaller ad-
justed the heating unit until the coach drifted free of the
docking cradle, then released the anchor and signalled the
dockmaster to propel them into the stream. With a barely
perceptible jar, the tether slipped from the parking track
into Gart Leyside.
From there, it was a ley-straight shot to the Tower Hill
spiral.
Settling back with a heavy sigh, Deymorin lifted his
booted foot to the ledge to ease the throb in his leg. Poor
old Ben, trying so hard not to notice. Stupid, but the stupid-
ity had been his, and that one moment of idiocy had proba-
bly saved his neck in the long run.
It had certainly saved other necks.
A spasm rippled through his brother.
Just as well he hadn't had the breath to correct the dock-
master's instructions to deliver them to the front entrance
of House Rhomandi. He'd have preferred the anonymity
of the servants' entrance, but they were neither of them fit
for a climb.
Another shiver.
He'd have to get Diorak up to Nikki's room without
raising suspicionssomehow. Perhaps he could claim the
boy had taken ill. Once there, he'd have to rely on the
physician's discretion not to inform Anheliaa.
Or Mikhyel.
And perhaps a miracle would happen and Nikki would
magically heal by the time they arrived at the Tower.
Rings. He wondered whether Diorak was taking bribes
this week.
The shivers came in waves now, but he did his best to
ignore them. The wound was far from life-threatening, and
the way things were going tonight, Nikki would like as not
take any further kindness as a personal affront.
Seventeen was such a hard year.
Still . . . he reached past Nikki for the speaking tube pro-
truding from the wall socket, pulled it to his mouth, and
said quietly: "Bit chill in here, mate. Could you vent a bit
more our way?"
And through the back speaker, the pedaller's cheerful:
"Pleasure, m'lor'," preceded a welcome blast of warmth
from the brass grill under the footrest. "The young m'lor'
looks a mite peckish, m'lor'. D'you want I should hurry
it along?"
A stolen glance toward Nikki. Closed eyes, white-edged
lips pressed tightly together, a film of sweat forming be-
neath the curls . . .
Deymorin swore softly, then answered in the same low
tone: "Appreciate it."
"Right-o, m'lor'."
The vehicle's subtle vibration increased markedly as the
pedaller picked up his pace. The fan blades behind the rear
window blurred with his efforts. Probably hoping for a large
tip, poor sod.
Evidently the stationmaster hadn't warned him it was a
state job. And him without so much as a silver
Nikki shivered: a single, bone rattling spasm.
Nikki. Nikki always had money.
Digging after the purse hanging heavy at his waist roused
a muttered protest from Nikki. Deymorin ignored him and
shook the purse's contents into his hand.
Seven gold darics, three silver rodari, a dozen coppers
. . . Damn, the kid was shiny.
"That'smine." Teeth chattered around that protest.
Deymorin raised an eyebrow. "Really? I lifted it off a
cutpurse. I'd say that makes it mine."
A shaky scowl deepened the line between Nikki's brows,
the girlishly full lower lip pouted ever so slightly. "Scum."
"Me? Or the cutpurse?"
"Both." Ridiculously long lashes fluttered down, masking
pain-dulled eyes, before the curly head flopped back toward
the window, finding a pillow in the heavy brocade drapes,
pointedly ignoring the coins riding heavy in Deymorin's
hand.
Shiny, indeedunless Nikki had brought his entire sav-
ings: youthful optimism . . . or ignorance of the going rate.
Deymorin dribbled the coins back into the pursesave
for a silver and three coppersand tucked the purse se-
curely back into his cummerbund.
Another shiver; he pulled Ben's warm cloak tighter
around the boy and murmured: "Soon, fry."
. Nikki sighed again, an oddly contented sound, and
shifted about, pulling his knees up onto the seat, curling
against Deymorin's side the way he did at twelve, albeit a
somewhat tighter fit these days.
Evidently his own transgressions were forgottenat least
for the moment. Probably forever: Nikki hated arguments,
and tonight's little contretemps was the closest the two of
them had ever come to one.
Deymorin chuckled softly and put an arm around the
very unchildish shoulders: soon, very soon, now, the brat
wouldn't need that stylish padding. "Don't worry, Nik, old
man. You'll have it back. I just wanted a tip for the nice
pedaller-man, is that all right with you?"
Golden curls,brushed and bobbed against his chin. "Nice
pedaller-man." Nikki's bare hand sought his gloved one
-and squeezed. "Nice brother-man."
Deymorin's throat closed. 'Nice brother.' Nice brother,
who left his kid brother to explore life in the cross-leys on
his own, never bothering to ask Did he want to; who stood
aside and let that same mild-mannered kid brother take on
three men with knivesaloneand consequently ushered
him home with a hole in his side, late for dinner . . .
And tonight, of all nights.
This dinner, of all dinners.
Nice brother? Not exactly how he'd put it.
Once, perhaps.
He recalled a time, not so very long ago, when Nikki
would have come to hima time when he'd been the recip-
ient of all Nikki's boyish hopes and dreatos, as he'd once
shared his with Mikhyel and Mikhyel with him. Brotherly
confessionals. A reward of siblinghood Mikhyel hadn't
granted him in yearsnot since their mother had died
but which had been as natural from Nikki as breathing.
Tonight's escapade put a shadow over the past. Made a
man think twice about trusts given and received. Made a
man recall the new length and purpose of stride in the boy,
and realize the breadth of shoulder beneath the stylishly
tailored  clothes,  the  grip  which  hinted  at  near-adult
strength beneath that deceptive layer of baby-fat.
As Ben had pointed out, men did tend toward new goals,
and most malesand females, at least of Deymorin's per-
sonal acquaintancerarely waited for legal endorsement
before exploring those not-all-that-adult goals. Certainly
Deymorin had not: another fact Nikki well knew. And
Nikki  knew where  he'd  gone  for that  eye-opening
experience.
While Nikki knew those worldly goals well . . . from his
endless consumption of theater and poetic nonsensicals, if
nothe thought of that less-than-innocent farewell kiss
from real-life practice, he had never tempted Nikki, not
with Tirise's, not with any Outside establishment. He'd
learned years ago that another man's virginity was his own
damn business, and a painful lesson it had beenfor all
parties involved.
Still, he sincerely doubted Nikki had ever taken it fur-
ther, being Mikhyel dunMheric's younger brother, and so
fully cognizant of the laws regarding premature pro-
creation.
As if there were something magical about a seventeenth
birthday that made a boy ready to be a father.
Nikki knew the legal consequences of breaking that law:
Hell's Barrister Mikhyel had made certain of that years
ago, damn Mikhyel's prudish soul, anyway. Mikhyel had
swallowed the whole insane line of illogic right along with
the rest of Rhomatum, and in the first of his patented birth-
day lectures had given a twelve-year-old Nikki nightmares
for a week with his horror stories of what happened to such
children with children exiled forever from the City.
Fabricated stories, all of them. Deymorin knew most of
those exilesthe Outsiders took good care of them, and
after the first year or so, it was the rare couple who ex-
pressed regret for that exile.
Perhaps the lesson had been necessary: Nikki had been
of that age when experimentation statistically (rings, that
word again) began, but a gentle warning would have suf-
ficed for the socially underdeveloped and hypercooperative
child Nikki had been at the time.
Regrettably,  gentle  wasn't  in  Mikhyel's  barrister
vocabulary.
However, Nikki had survived his nightmares, and Nikki
certainly wasn't socially inept now ... tonight's perfor-
mance notwithstanding. And while he was certain there had
been other lectures, Nikki had never complained, had
laughed and brushed the lessons off as justified when
Deymorin found him unusually quiet and asked why.
Funny, though, how the need for Mikhyel's reprimands
always seemed to arrive when elder-brother Deymorin was
Outside and Nikki was in the City, alone with Mikhyel.
Obviously, gentle, bookish Nikki had a dark side he kept
buried when elder-brother was in town.
On the other hand, elder-brother would never have
thought to look at Tirise's, so where did that place elder-
brother Deymorin's cleverness?
Confused and worried, that was where.
It was possible this escapade was simply Nikki's way of
expressing personal independence. Perhaps it truly marked
the end of his childhoodand the little brother Deymorin
had loved so well.
Depressing thought, that.
But if Nikki was claiming an adult's independence, he'd
have to learn adult responsibility and adult caution as well,
in a sense that had nothing to do with careless repro-
duction.
Over the years, he'd tried to make a game of self-defense
with Nikki, trusting the boy's responses would, with time,
become automatic, and that he'd never be forced to explain
the reasons for such precautions in detailremembering
too vividly, perhaps, those childhood nightmares. Or per-
haps just to avoid coming to blows with Mikhyel over the
issue of safety in his precious city.
Mikhyel had limited Nikki's exposure to the Guard to
head-sessions with theoretical tacticians of an army that
hadn't taken the field in two generations.
Nikki's arms practice had been likewise theory without
substance, save for time in the salle with aDeymorin
kicked the footrest impatientlycrippled sibling. Or so
he'd believed: one had to admit, the lad hadn't done all
that badly tonight, considering.
But how all those games he and Nikki played fit together
... that, he'd never quite gotten around to explaining to
Nikki, and if this independent, unannounced foray into un-
known areas of the City, and that' unlocked door in the
brothel were any indication, he might h~ve run out of time.
He feared that tonighttomorrow at the latesthe'd have
to give his first, and hopefully final, surrogate-father lecture
to the boy.
There had been attempts in the past, even within Mikhy-
el's precious law-abiding City, on the lives of the House of
Rhomandi. Nothing Deymorin couldn't handle: a dispos-
sessed, disgruntled farmer, a cutpurse with delusions of ran-
som, a zealot with dreams of reinstating the priesthood . . .
a Pwerenetti with delusions of blackmail; attempts about
which the Barrister, cloistered safely in his Tower strong-
hold, knew nothing, even though two of them had been
attempts on Mikhyel's life, not histhe would-be assassins
having mistaken their brother.
Not that he hadn't tried to warn Mikhyel; Khyel just
wasn't about to listen, and after a while, a man just lost
interest in trying. If only Mikhyel didn't take it quite so
personally when he suggested perhaps precious Rhomatum
had a flaw or two and the Rhomandi brothers might do
well to be prepared.
But if tonight's fiasco was any indication, these new and
pending relationships with Mauritum could be adding a
whole new element to the potential risk.
Not from any City I know . . .
Part of the Tower Guard training was learning to recog-
nize accents, to know city and district from a handful of
words. That Ben had not recognized the accents, when Ben
did recognize accents of every district, of every city and
province in Rhomatum's primary web, suggested that what
might be sneaking into the City in these deceptively peace-
ful times did not bode well for the continued safety of
Rhomatum streets or its treaty with Mauritum.
He should have settled this with both brothers years ago.
Dammitall, he didn't want to lose either of them. Perhaps
some good could come out of this evening, after all.
"Deymio?"
"Hmmm?"
"Thank you."
"For what, brat?"
"For not tr-treating me . . . like . . . kid. For letting me" A
pause for breath. "handle it myself."
His throat spasmed again. He coughed it loose and said,
"Sure, fry." And on a rueful afterthought, thinking of the
dinner party they were both certain now to miss: "Happy
birthday."
interlude

A wave of yellow glee fluttered through the leythium
chandeliers.
Mother liberated the storm, letting it snap like a released
bowstring, right into Anheliaa's lap.
Another blinding flash sent a shivering ripple through the
veil to break like an ocean wave upon the crystalline cloud
that was Khoratum Node; Mother laughed and thrust a fist
in the air, her long sleeve flying up, then drifting in an
unexpected draft, a draft that set the veil's crystalline fibers
to singing, a quivering musical hum within the cavern.
"Mother," Dancer asked, concerned for the veil's deli-
cate structure, "isn't it enough? Can't we let Rhyys win
now?"
"Win?" Her sibilant hiss seemed a part of those same
currents. "Rhyys can neither win nor lose. Rhyys hasn't
the ability. Anheliaa chose foolishly: Mother must remind
Anheliaa of this fact." Her wide grin glittered even from
Dancer's obhque vantage. "Constantly."
This was a new wrinkle in Mother's reality.
"Foolishly?" Dancer asked. "What do you mean?"
"You need ask? You, who should be ringmaster of
Khoratum?"
"I? Never! I don't even wish for it."
"Never? How strange. I thought all humans wished to
be ringmaster."
"Not this human."
{Then I've reared/raised/trained a fool.}
Mother's reversion to the internal voice made communi-
cation at once clearer and more confusing, stretching con-
cepts beyond simple, singular human words.
Impossible, sometimes, for a mere human to comprehend
Mother. Dancer had learned long ago to deflect rather than
try. "Mother, much as I love you, you didn't raise me. You
endured me."
{I'm crushed/distraught/disgusted/amused that you should
think so.)
"You sound crushed."
Ears ringing from a well-deserved mental boxing. Dancer
asked far more soberly:
"Mother, you've never expressed an interest in my life
above. What's this'all about?"
{You should have been ringmaster.)
Stubborn insistence: Mother at her most single-minded.
All this time, Dancer had assumed it was the Khoratum
rings in general to which Mother objected. This newest
t\kist implied it was Khoratum's master, not the rings.
"But I was only seven when Anheliaa chose."
{Anheliaa should have waited.)
"She didn't know. Couldn't have. I was down here
with you."
{Anheliaa should have known. Anheliaa should have
waited.)
Dancer, helpless in this battle of Motherly absolutes,
shrugged and reminded her: "But I don't wish to be ring-
master. I want to be the radical dancer. I've always wanted
to be the radical."
{Bat's poop.)
"Well, almost always." The Khoratum dance rings had
only been constructed twelve years before. "At least, since
I wanted to be anything."
And to this day. Dancer could remember lying on a cliff-
edge hidey-hole, watching the foreign workmen raise the
enormous structure, and the foreign dancers testing the
equipment. Could remember watching the novices practice,
preparing for years for the Khoratum Tower inauguration
festivities.
Could remember praying to Grandmother's gods to be
one of them.
Mother's slim shoulders hfted in a sinuous shrug, as if
dismissing that artistic ambition as inconsequential.
"I'm a good dancer. Mother." Somehow, despite one's
best efforts, one's insecurities always seemed to surface at
the worst times.
{Good? Humanity's hell, human-spawn, you're the best/
master/mistress/talent-elite.}
"How would you know?" And those insecurities found
voice in unexpected bitterness. Mother was the only real
family Dancer had had for years, and Dancer knew Mother
didn't truly care, never had cared enough even to ask how
practices went.
Now, in one of her quicksilver shifts. Mother swirled
about and glided across the pulsating stone. Behind her,
the veil fluttered and drifted, settling quietly as the storm
began to follow its natural course toward Rhomatum. Stop-
ping in front of Dancer, she stared down from her chosen
lofty height.
Mother's clawed hand lifted, caressing. Face . . . chin . . .
hair . . . and her wide, pupilless eyes grew soft and tender,
losing the leythium-fire gleam.
And suddenly, her gown's semi-sentient folds floated
around Dancer's shoulders, creating a safe, warm cocoon,
unknown for years, but dear and alive in memory, and her
sibilant whisper answered from close overhead:
"I named you, didn't I?"
Chapter Four

Lightning spasmed a continuous chain of fire that encircled
the City as they stepped free of the floater and onto the
Tower dock.
Above them, through the rose-covered trellis, there
were stars.
Before them, leylight from the foyer chandelier traced
rainbow patterns along bevelled-glass seams as the huge
doors swung open with frustratingly massive deliberation.
Nikki swayed.
Deymorin dropped his cane to steady the boy with both
hands; had to shift his hold to ease a stitch in his shoulder,
and his stance to ease an ache in his leg.
Fine pair they were.
With luck, they could make their entrance undetected
save by servants, who knew better than to ask unsolicited
questions. He'd get Nikki to his room, clean them both up
enough to escape particular notice, then sneak back down-
stairs to find Diorak and to make Nikki's excuses.
Without luck
The door opened wide, a shadow fell across the threshold
and their feet.
Words suggested themselves; Deymorin swallowed them
and biinked sweat from his eyes.
Planted dead center of the foyer's patterned tiles, arms
akimbo, Mikhyel appraised them like the king of Mauritum
himself surveying a pair of recalcitrant hounds.
Nikki's breath caught, a quick, gasping inhalation, and
he made a shuddering attempt to take his own weight, an
effort that succeeded only in throwing them both off-
balance.
"Easy on, Nik, old man, I've got you." Deymorin stead-
ied his brother and drew him inside. The door closed be-
hind them with a soft thump, and a light shwip announced
his cane's entry into the stand by the door, before the door-
man melted blank-faced into his shadowed nook.
Mikhyel stepped into their path. Curious how their rather
undersized brother managed to look down his thin nose at
two men taller than he.
"Drunk," Mikhyel pronounced, and Deymorin swal-
lowed his resentment, seeing no reason to correct Mikhyel's
supercilious misapprehension, drunk being easier to explain
than the truth.
"Get out of our way, Khyel."
"The City's misfortune is your salvation," Mikhyel said,
at his most abrupt and pompous. "Anheliaa's still in the
Tower: the storm in the mountains, as I understand. Dinner
has been delayed." Without ever really looking at Nikki,
he dismissed them both with a nod toward the stairs. "Get
him bathed and sober. If you hurry, she'll never know."
Deymorin snorted. "Not until it's to your personal ad-
vantage to inform her."
Mikhyel's brows tightened, his lower lip, so very like
Nikki's despite his attempts to hide it under hair, pouted
ever so slightly, the autocrat Mikhyel had become vanishing
behind the defensive younger brother he used to be., "I
won't tell"
"No?" Deymorin asked dryly.
The hand clutching his arm squeezed a warning.
"Th-thank you, Mikhyel," Nikki interjected softly. "I-l'll
hurry."
Deymorin bit his tongue on a protest; if ever Nikki's ears
needed boxing . . . but he was much too weak at the mo-
ment. Mikhyel didn't have noble motives, as Nikki should
have figured for himself by now. But Nikki didn't care
about that. Nikki just hated arguments and came between
them now to stop one developing, for which he was sure
he should feel thankful and instead found himself resenting.
Peacemaking was Nikki's besetting weakness: a good
dose of outrage might just get them up those cursed stairs.
"Don't delude yourself, boy," Mikhyel said, that damned
sanctimonious stranger driving Iris vestigial brother out
again. "It's for Anheliaa's sake, not yours. It would hurt
her terribly, knowing what an ingrate she shelters beneath
her roof."
Nikki's knees  buckled;  Deymorin swore  softly  and
counterbalanced at some cost to his own knees.
"Mikhyel Rhomandi dunMheric,"  he said through
clenched teeth, "either you move your pompous ass out of
our way this instant, or I'll move it for you. Take your
anger out on me, not the boy. I'll even make it easy for
you. I'll get Nikaenor settled, then meet you in the library,
since I doubt you'd care to settle our differences in the
fencing salle or the ring."
A muscle twitched in Mikhyel's jaw. Then he jerked his
head toward the stairs and moved aside. "I'll wait for you
in the Blue Salon."
Distrustful of so easy a victory, Deymorin dipped his
head in wary acknowledgement, and said, "C'mon, Nik old
man, almost there. Have to take the stairs, we will, but"
"Is that wool""
Deymorin swore again, not so softly. "The boy's not well,
Khyel. One time"
"Drunk or no," Mikhyel's claw-fingered hand grasped
Nikki's shoulder and pulled him around, "he's not wearing
that up those stairs. Especiallynot" Mikhyel jerked at
the cloak-collar, seeking the clasp, his violence setting Nikki
to coughing helplessly. "tonight."
"I said," Deymorin hissed, "leave the boy alo"
The cloak fell free, revealing Nikki in all his blood-
stained, shirt-bandaged glory.
Mikhyel's lip curled. He stepped back, two-fingering the
cloak to the footman who materialized beside him. "Get
him to his room," he said coldly. "I'll send Diorak up.
And understand me, Nikaenor, you will be at dinner.
Diorak will see to it. We'll say nothing of this to Anh-
eliaa. You were at the library, lost track of time. Deym-
orin had to fetch you. Understand?"
Nikki biinked confusedly.
"Dammit, Khyel, the boy needs rest\"
Ignoring him, Mikhyel grabbed Nikki's chin, his fingers
pressing the flesh white, demanding the boy's attention.
"Doyouhearme?"
His own fingers itched to give Mikhyel the thrashing
he deserved, but the Barrister's harsh grip was already
squeezing tears from Nikki's eyes, and it took all Dey-
morin's fading strength to hold Nikki upright.
"I hear you just f-fine, Mikhyel." Nikki's whisper,
though hoarse with exhaustion, and mumbled past Mikhy-
el's  hand-clamp,  came  out  utterly  calm  and  collected.
"But unless you let me go, I'll have to dine as I am.
Would you prefer that?"
Not exactly a peacekeeper's line, but it stopped the
Barrister in his black-booted tracks.
Bravo, fry, Deymorin thought, and dropped his head
to Nikki's shoulder, burying his triumphant grin in the
golden curls, feeling quite magnanimous, now Nikki had
won the round.
Deymorin had been right to insist they take the stairs
with Anheliaa still in the Tower, there was too much
chance they'd intercept her at the lift doorbut how ,he
ever made it up a staircase that had acquired a disturbing
tendency to bend and twist, turning in on itself while
curling up overhead, Nikki would never know.
Khyel had been right to yell at him and force him to
answer to stop his drifting. He knew that. It was Dey-
morin who took it wrong. Mikhyel knew he'd float off
and forget all about what was important, like Anheliaa
and the party and not making Anheliaa angry.
If  only  he  weren't  so  cold,  which  he  hadn't  been
before Mikhyel had stripped the cloak away, and he
hurtgods, how he hurt. But Mikhyel was right in that,
too: one wore cotton or linen or smooth leather in the
Tower, and the Tower included all the Family suites.
Sparks threatened the rings.  He'd known that rule
since childhood.
So had Deymorin. It wasn't Deymorin's fault he didn't
reahze it just mattered more now than in past years
especially on a night like this when the lighting was
flaring out of control. In-house reports of near disasters
with the communication rings came with disturbing fre-
quency these days, and Anheliaa warned of explosive
consequences if they weren't careful. But Deymorin never
heard those reports and warnings, coming to Rhomatum
only for Occasions, the way he did.
No, one couldn't blame Mikhyel, certainly one couldn't
blame Deymorin, which left ...
He sighed, and Deymorin paused to ask if he was all
right, which of course he was; he was bloody wonderful,
except he'd made a fool of himself in front of Madam
Tirise and Mistress Beauvilliaand Deymorin.
Wonderful, except he had a hole in his side because
he'd been an idiot and let that old lightwatchman's pres-
ence distract him for an instant.
In front of Deymorin.
None of which would have happened if only he'd
behaved as he should and been at the Tower to greet
Deymorin when he arrived, which he would have been
had the ladies not gone on and on about his poetry,
which he knew was short of perfect, but still it was nice
to have someone say it wasn't.
But he didn't say any of that to Deymorin. He
squeezed Deymorin's hand, and said I'm fine, thanks,
and lifted a dead-feeling foot to the next step.
Deymorin had been right to wonder why he had gone
to Madam Tirise's alone. And he'd have explained, will-
inglyif only he'd known the answer himself. That igno-
rance was the source of his anger, not Deymorin or
anything Deymorin had said or done, which he'd tell
Deymorin, if he could answer the other.
It  wasn't  a  matter  of manhood.  Hadn't  been  at  the
timenot really. He hadn't consciously set out to prove
anything to anyone. All he'd wanted ...
His toe caught on a stair that surely must be higher
than the others.
All he'd wanted, tossed from the library prematurely
on the verge of monumental personal discoveryfilled
.. . well, almost ... for the first time with adult purpose
and adult direction, was something ... different.
He'd suddenly really realized it was his seventeenth
birthday, supposedly the day a boy became a man, and
doomed to be like every birthday before: dinner with
his immediate family, a new perfectly hideous coat from
Anheliaa to join the others mouldering in his closet
because he didn't dare give them to the poor, sweets from
Nurse he'd have to sneak out to the stable-boys so as not to hurt
her feelings . . .
A lecture from Mikhyel on his newest responsibilities . . .
An I.O.U. from Deymorin who wouldn't have found just
the right present, and who'd forget, after . . .
Always presupposing he'd bothered to showwhich, ob-
viously, he had after all, but he hadn't known that at the
time.
He'd just wanted something . . . more.
This  time,  he  managed  to  swallow  the  sigh  that
threatened.
And look where that More had gotten him: half-naked,
with an endless climb up a swaying staircase, and his broth-
ers arguing over him.
Arguing. Again.
Mikhyel's temper should fall on him, not Deymorin.
He knew Deymorin was going to take the blame; had
known Deymorin would somehow instantaneously arrive
even from far-off Darhavento rescue him if anything had
gone wrong.
As (he had to admit) it most certainly had, and (he also
had to admit) Deymorin had.
He should have said something, should have made cer-
tain Mikhyel realized it w.as all his doing, not Deymorin's,
would yell that downstairs now, if only Deymorin would
turn his face downstairs instead of up. Which he tried to
ask Deymorin to do. But Deymorin only shushed his pro-
tests, told him not to worry until the words and arguments
he would have used with Mikhyel grew confused, twisting
like the staircase.
He didn't deserve a brother like Deymorin. He wouldn't
blame Deymorin in the least if he chose to drop him right
here on the stairs and leave Rhomatum forever, brother or
no, party or no, birthday or no.
But Deymorin didn't drop him. Deymorin was there,
solid support on his left (though, from the way he took the
steps one at a time, Nikki could tell his leg was bothering
him), murmuring a steady stream of encouragement, and
trying so hard to protect the wound from jarring, he would
die before telling Deymorin that with each uneven step the
skin pressed up under the hasty bandage, squeezing an
ever-widening band of damp warmth around the wound
and sending a tickling trickle toward his cummerbund.
A wound that wasn't Deymorin's fault any more than it
was Mikhyel's fault when Mikhyel lost his temper the way
he had downstairs. Mikhyel had pressures on him, pressures
Deymorin couldn'tor wouldn'tcomprehend. Pressures
Deymorin didn't deal with, cloistering himself off in the
country the way he did.
Like Anheliaa's increasingly ill temper. Downstairs, just
now, Mikhyel had been like that because he was worried
Anheliaa would find out. He wanted them both at dinner
so she wouldn't. He knew that. Knew Mikhyel had run
interference for him for years and years. Had seen Khyel
come out of a session with Anheliaa white-faced and shak-
ing, and taken the back of Mikhyel's hand and counted
himself lucky.
But Deymorin didn't know that. Deymorin thought Mi-
khyel and Anheliaa agreed on everything, which he might
not think, if Mikhyel wouldn't act like a stranger every time
Deymorin came home.
Except (he sniffed: reaction to the change in humidity,
he was sure) it wasn't Deymorin's home. Not anymore.
He'd come in late beforeeven staggered in drunkand
Mikhyel would just shake his head and cover for him, and
tell him poetry was easier on a man's head the next morn-
ing; but now, possibly just because Deymorin had been with
him, Mikhyel made an issue- of it, evidently feeling the need
to show himself the disciplinarianas if he felt that other-
wise Deymorin would blame him for their youngest broth-
er's idiocy.
(Sniff.)
Deymorin couldn't know, as he did, that Mikhyel hadn't
dared to look at him at first. He'd seen the laughter brewing
behind the Barrister fa~ade, knew it would shatter the in-
stant their eyes metwhich Mikhyel couldn't let happen in
front of Deymorin; and if only Deymorin had kept his head
up at the last, he'd have seen Mikhyel's fleeting grinwhen
Mikhyel finally did look at himthe look that assured him
Mikhyel was sorry he'd yelled and sorrier if he'd hurt him
and relieved he was all right and confident Nikki would be
able to come to dinner, if only he'd keep his wits about
him, which made Nikki determined he would and could.
But Deymorin hadn't seen that look, so Deymorin didn't
know. Somehow Deymorin never saw that side of Mikhyel;
Mikhyel made certain of that, consciously or not.
Somehow, it was a given: whenever Deymorin and Mi-
khyel met, sparks flew. Nurse said it hadn't always been
like that, that as youngsters, they'd been as close as two
peas in a pod, which made him wonder if it might not have
been different, better even, if he had never been born.
But then, of course everything would have been different:
Mother and Father wouldn't be dead, and Mikhyel would
have gone to Darian Lyceum or maybe Bernoi Judiciary
Academy rather than spending his whole young life
shunted between tutors and Council offices, courts of law
and judgment chambers, and Deymorin might not have
spent all his time at Darhaven and of course, there'd be no
Nikki to argue about.
Brothers....
He heaved a sigh, felt Deymorm's arm tighten solid-
tously, and pressed himself into that extended warmth that
was Deymio.
. . . Sometimes, they were very difficult.
The doorway to his apartments loomed before them, a
dark mouth in the cream-painted, leylit hallway that swal-
lowed them up, surrounding them with familiar shadow-
shapes, one of which was Jerrik, whose presence was reas-
suring, but Deymorin sent Jerrik to find Diorak, and then
he was sitting on his own bed, still in the dark, with Dey-
morin's stern threat: "Fall over, fry, and I'll thump you,"
ringing in his ears, while Deymorin propped him up with
pillows and pulled off his boots.
And then there was light. And Diorak. And (rings save
him) Nurse.
And Deymorin was asking Did he want him to stay?
after they'd worked the bandage free and stopped the
bleeding, and Diorak pronounced the wound a long way
from his heart, which made him laugh because that was
what the Darhaven farrier told the recalcitrant horses when
they leaned on him and jerked their feet away, and laugh-
ing made his side hurt, so he objected to them all, wanting
only a bath and sleep, but he couldn't sleep: Mikhyel had
said he had a duty to Anheliaa, which he hadn't forgotten,
he'd just thought he'd get back in time, but he'd lost
track...
And it was his birthday. And he did want his party. So
he said to Deymorin, "I'm fine." And he said to Nurse,
"I'm fine." And he asked them both to go away and leave
him with Jerrik.
Deymorin did, with a final, encouraging grip of his hand.
Nurse didn't, and pinched his cheek and called him her last
chick, and said she wasn't about to leave him in his moment
of need, and then smiled knowingly over his head at Diorak
and asked Had he had a good time, which drove the shivers
away in a hot flush of embarrassment and suddenly clear
thinking.
They'd probably deduced where he'd been. Likely Mi-
khyel had as well. Knew what had happened, in the way
of adults. They wouldn't have been caught reading medio-
cre poetry in a high-priced brothel. They probably knew
exactly what went on in such places.                     -
Well, he knew, after a fashion. Deymorin would never
have let him get this old without a basic understanding. But
he didn't know.
And after tonight's fiasco, he doubted he'd ever care to
go back and find out.
"Arm, boy," Diorak's crusty voice ordered.
He sighed and lifted his arm obediently (never mind the
movement sent a jolt clear to his toes), then lowered it
again (very carefully) as Anheliaa's hawk-faced physician
muttered ominously and began pulling bottles and arcane
equipment from his scuffed and scarred leather bag, arrang-
ing them on the small bedside table. Among the last was a
very ordinary looking, if somewhat small, curved needle.
Stitches? With mixed feelings, he raised-his arm again,
trying to assess the damage, which act gained him a light
head and an abrupt chastisement to Keep still.
He cleared his throat, and asked, as steadily as Deymorin
himself might have done: "How many?"
Diorak glanced at Nurse, who patted his hand and said
gently, "Don't worry, lovie. Two. Maybe three. It's a very
small opening, and he'll leave the back open for drainage."
"B-back?"
"The blade went clear through, lovie. But don't worry;
you should be feeling quite the thing in a day or two."
"Will it leave a horrible scar?" he asked anxiously.
"Certainly not!" Diorak answered for himself this time,
and Nikki slumped with a disappointed, Oh.
He'd never had stitches before. Never had a scar. Never
broken a bone. Never done so many of the things most
young men had accomphshed by their seventeenth year.
All of which made it very hard to feel like an adult (espe-
cially when one's childhood nanny was sitting there patting
one's hand, and telling one to Be a brave boy) never mind
what the calendar read.
He sighed again, and endured, with no more than a bit-
ten lip, the physician's probe and the dabbing of strong-
smelling, stinging substances over his person.
Then Diorak muttered something about Time and numb
and your brother (which made Nikki wonder which
brother) before he disappeared out the door, taking Nurse
with him, leaving that needle soaking in some brown-colored
liquid right there on the table . . .
He swallowed hard, and folded his hands in his lap ...
and waited.
If only he had someone to talk to. Not about politics and
history, for that he had Mik~yel and tutors, like he had
Deymorin to explain about horses and farming and the
Facts of Life.
He needed someone who understood the really im-
portant things, like brothers, and family. Bertie had broth-
ers, but they were all younger, and besides, Bertie was a
bit silly. Phell was far more sensible, but he only had sisters,
except for one baby brother, so he wasn't much more use.
Besides, he needed someone who understood that being
born into the Rhomandi family meant more than money
and social position and private tutors. It meant Responsibil-
ity, and responsibility sometimes made people act . . . oddly.
For instance, one couldn't, it seemed to him, blame
Deymorin for rebelling against Anheliaa's attempts to cut
his youth shortand that's what she'd done, when Mheric
died. She'd tried to force Deymorin into assuming the polit-
ical responsibilities he had inherited as the head of House
Rhomandi even before he reached the legal voting age of
twenty-four.
According to Mikhyel, Deymorin had claimed at the time
that Anheliaa wanted him stuck presiding over the Rhoma-
tum Syndicate, the Rhomatum City Council, and the High
Court so that she wouldn't have to. Which was probably
right, but when Deymorin openly defied Anheliaa and took
up with his wild set, Mikhyel had felt compelled to fill
the void.
Poor Khyel (safe to think of him that way here, beyond
pride's reach), he had accepted those rejected duties when
he was only thirteen, still, by any reckoning, a child. Mi-
khyel had never told him exactly why he'd stepped in, but
as a younger brother whose recalcitrant rear Khyel had
covered more times than he cared to count, Nikki could
well imagine Mikhyel protecting Deymorin from his own
foolhardiness, just because that's what brothers did.
How else to explain the fact that for four long years,
while Deymorin caroused the streets of every node city in
the Rhomatum Web, Mikhyel had attended those meetings
and functions and court sessions, sitting in respectful,
enforced silence while the Rhomatum leaders discussed
City needs and Syndicate representatives argued rights and
responsibilities.
When at seventeen, Mikhyel had been allowed at last to
voice the opinions he'd been hoarding for those four years,
he'd had to fight daily to gain the respect the inherited
positionand Anheliaa's aggressive backinghad theoreti-
cally granted him. From the transcripts, Nikki knew just
how hard a battle that had been against the staunch conser-
vatives, who resented so young a voice, and the more lib-
eral councillors, who resented his views.
That fight had left its mark, both in Mikhyel's black
moods and in his appearance.
One of Nikki's earliest clear memories was of Mikhyel's
public induction into Council. He could remember sitting
alone in the front row of the first balconythe spot re-
served for the family of the inducteetrying not to swing
his legs. Alone because Deymorin had been confined in
hospital following "The Accident no one had ever, in all
these years, explained to Nikki, and Anheliaa had been
part of the ceremony below.
And that swearing in had been in the spring session fol-
lowing Mikhyel's seventeenth birthday.
Hard to identify that somber image and responsibilities
with himself, and he wondered, now he'd reached seven-
teen and knew how little different it felt from sixteen or
fifteen, whether he could have done as Mikhyel had done,
and stood, alone and on display, the sole inductee that year,
before an embarrassingly thin Council, his very presence in
that hall the center of a highly controversial vote during
the previous session.
Having reached his first majority, Mikhyel had been
sworn in ostensibly to fill Deymorin's empty chair: an un-
precedented move forced through the Council by Anheliaa,
tempered only by the Council's insistence it be a speaking
seat only, without voting power. Even so, it was a decision
(Nikki knew from Mikhyel's onetime drunken indiscretion)
to which Mikhyel had acquiesced out of sheer terror.
But one would never have known from outward appear-
ances as he stood before Anheliaa and the High Council
taking the oath, in a voice that neither cracked nor stut-
tered. Slender, of little more than average height, dressed
entirely in black, his now-signature beard and mustache,
grown the moment his body cooperated, making him ap-
pear at least slightly older than he was, his sleek black hair
fashionably long" but severely contained, he'd been awe-
someat least to his seven-year-old brother.
In almost ten years, Mikhyel had never changed that
image, never worn anything but black, never made a move
(at least in public) that wasn't carefully contained and ele-
gantly choreographed.
Deymorin resented what he called Mikhyel's attitudes.
Deymorin (on a good day) called him Hell's Barrister.
What Deymorin called him in private, Nikki could only
guess.
But Deymorin just didn't understand how much pressure
their brother operated under day in and day out. Dey-
morin, who by his own admission refused to assume the
Council seat he'd inherited because of a temper he felt
would prove counterproductive, had never seen Mikhyel
control a temper to match Deymorin's own to manipulate
that stubborn Council, nor chanced to be in the way when
that temper inevitably blew in private.
But Khyel always apologized after and talked the reason
outconfidences which had given an acting princeps'
younger brother a political savvy well beyond his peers
and the bruises came only rarely these days, and never
without provocation.
Though Mikhyel had never mentioned it, he suspected
Mikhyel felt deserted, perhaps even betrayed, by their
older brother. And perhaps Deymorin had been irresponsi-
ble, once, but if so, he'd paid for it when he'd tried to
assume that council seat he'd abandoned to Mikhyel.
Deymorin had never mentioned the circumstances which
had led to his self-imposed exile; when he'd asked two
years ago, Mikhyel had insisted he read the debate tran-
script and draw his own conclusions.
Mikhyel had been nearing his voting majority when he
and Deymorin finally went head to head before Council;
his future had hung in the balance, the compromise which
had prevented him voting coming under fire, splitting the
Council down the middle.
The now-historic debate had centered around Anhehaa's
addition of Khoratum to the Rhomatum Web which had
extended the Tower's power umbrella, absorbing what had
been, for generations, prime farm land.
Mikhyel had argued the farmers had been more than
adequately compensated, since the price of City property
far outstripped that of mere farmland. Deymorin had
fought against that expansion, argued that, at the very least,
they must make the transition slowlyover as much as a
generationand aid the displaced fanners to relocate to
businesses in keeping with their accustomed lifestyles.
Mikhyel had argued Khoratum was an accomplished fact.
Deymorin had argued what had been done, could be
undone.
But Deymorin's interest in the family business had come
too late. By that time, his reputation had undermined any
force his words might have carried. Mikhyel's arguments
had carried the day and secured his position in Council.
And alienated him from Deymorin forever.
When the vote went resoundingly against him, Deymorin
had officially relinquished his seat on Council to Mikhyel
as proxy, privately consigned the lot to the eighteen hells
above Rhomatum, and retired permanently to the Rho-
mandi Outside holdings, where he began expanding the ex-
perimental farming and breeding programs their father had
dabbled in.
Though few people would ever know, Deymio being
Deymio and not inclined to flaunt his deeds, Deymorin had
used that newly acquired passionand no small portion of
his personal inheritanceto effect his proposed relocation
of dispossessed farmers quietly and on his own.
"And what's bothering the little man now?" A hand
pinched his cheek. "Such a melancholy look. Give us a
smile?"
Nurse had returned.
He forced the requisite smile, and she laughed and patted
his cheek.
"That's my little man. Don't worry, sweet, it'll all be
over soon."
As if he needed the reassurance. To Nurse, he was a
child, would always be a child.
And not just to Nurse. They all interrupted him when-
ever he was thinking Important Thoughts, then argued over
whose fault it was Nikki was upset.
If his family and the household at large had its way, he'd
spend the rest of his life smiling; his teeth would dry out
and bugs would stick to them and the lizards would cling
to his nose to lick them off and . . .
Diorak returned with one of the Tower Guard in tow. A
big, burly man. In case they needed to hold him steady, he
suspected, and swallowedvery hardand determined the
man's presence would be superfluous.
More poking and prodding, this time to skin gone numb
with Diorak's mysterious medicines. Or perhaps he just no
longer cared, since not even Nurse's deft threading of the
dreaded needle roused more than passing awareness.
Diorak said not to worry, that the medicine would let
him sleep for a short time and he would wake perfectly
well enough for dinner so long as he used his head.
Which was all Nikaenor ever did: sleep and use his head.
Nikaenor slept and read the histories. Nikaenor slept and
listened to the merchants in the streets, Nikaenor slept and
studied with the best military strategists and.armsmasters
the Estate could provide, but all Nikaenor dunMheric had
personally accomplished in seventeen years was a stack of
bad poetry and a hole under his arm from a singularly inept
cutpurse, and a rift between his two elder brothers.
Not a very impressive resume for a meaningful career as
ambassador to Mauritum.
He sighed a third time, and nerved himself against the
approaching needle. Diorak's forceps lifted the skin. Dior-
ak's needle pricked, pressed, and popped through the skin.
He felt it, heard it, and imagined that .tiny point piercing
his skin, the red blood seeping around it, forming a gleam-
ing drop that slipped slowly along the thread . . . then the
image faded into inviting black.
"What would you have me say, Khyel? I'm so sorry,
Papa? I'll never do it again. Papa?' Well, you're not my
papa, boy, I'm not sorry, whatever it is you think I should
be sorry about, and if it's given you apoplexy. I'd do it
again in an instant, believe me."
"Oh, I do, Deymorin. I do believe you."
Mikhyel controlled the urge to steady the bud vase on
the sitting room mantle; it was his imagination Deymorin's
deep voice rocked, not the crystal. Instead, he cupped the
half-furled rose it held and inhaled slowly, deeply, deter-
mined not to show his trepidation.
A shame, really, that his older brother avoided his right-
ful place in the council chamber: with that voice, no one
would dare cross him.
No one except someone with a lifetime of carefully fos-
tered immunity.  By the time Deymorin's voice had
changed, Deymorin's brother had had no doubt Deymorin
was a force to beware, and had modified his actions
accordingly.
A lifetime had taught Mikhyel how to hold his ground; it
could do nothing to dim the internal impact of his brother's
presence.
As for the other ... He'd seen what it meant to be a
father, and he had no desire to be Deymorin'sor anyone
else's for that matter. But for Nikki's sake, to save sweet,
gentle Nikki from the fate Deymorin would hand him, wit-
tingly or not ... To save Nikki from that, yes, he'd be
Mheric himself, if that was required of him.
The meeting was following what had become an all too
familiar pattern over the years. A pattern that led inevita-
bly to shouting and arguments and ultimately to one or the
other of them storming from the room before they came
to actual blows, and lately with Deymorin leaving the City
altogether, deserting the problem. Escaping to Darhaven
the way Mheric had always done rather than face Anhehaa
head to head.
At least Deymorin hadn't sons to drag off with him.
It was a pattern he refused to allow this time, regardless
how Deymorin provoked him. Too much was at stake.
While Deymorin was bathing their youngest brother's
blood off his hands, Mikhyel had received Diorak's prelimi-
nary evaluation: Nikki had received a knife wound,
annoying but not serious, while walking Beliard Cross-ley,
in the vicinity of Gartum Ley. Adding Deymorin's pres-
ence, it hadn't required a genius to fill in the details.
Feeling temper and disgust rise, he traced a fingertip
through the carving in the mantelpiece, seeking spiritual
control within the elaborate stone curves and whorls. He
couldn't afford to lose his temper, couldn't let disgust cloud
his thinking, and most of all, couldn't let Deymorin win
this particular battle: it was Nikki's hfe at stake.
And he had a promise to keep.
This morning, Nikki's future had been assured. Protected
from criminal elements, his income secure for life, of tem-
perament, appearance, and breeding to choose a wife from
the best families, Nikki should have been free to pursue
his scholarly activities, free to develop into the loving hus-
band and father he was meant to be, to have the life their
mother would have wanted for him, the life she'd have
provided him had she survived Nikki's birth for more than
a few pain-ridden hours.
And now, in one night, Deymorin, with Deymorin's di-
sastrously forceful personality and zest for adventure, had
placed that entire vision in jeopardy.
Deymorin, the ever strong, ever wonderful, ever care-
freeDeymorin, the ever absent, who by the time their
mother died had already defected to Mheric's deadly life-
style, forcing their mother to settle on second best.
Perhaps Deymorin knew what their mother had asked of
him in those final moments, perhaps he didn't, but Mother
had had that promise of himnot Deymorin. It had been
into his care, not Deymorin's, she had placed -NikkL
Not that it had taken much persuasion. Nothing would
have induced him to leave that mewling little curly-topped
bundle of not-quite-humanity alone in the Darhaven nurs-
ery. Not then. Not for years after, though Mheric had ac-
cused him of cowardice and worse for remaining so long in
the child's safe world.
Safe. That's what Mheric had called it, and that's what
he had tried to make it, for Nikki.
Unfortunately, little brothers didn't stay forever in the
nursery, and adolescents were in perpetual need of heroes.
He had no illusions about himself: he was not the stuff of
which heroes were made. Deymorin, also unfortunately,
was.
Seventeen today. Hard to forget when piles of presents
had been arriving from all over the web for the last week.
Particularly difficult when those pileshidden from Nikki
until this morning and now artistically displayed on several
tablesdominated the far end of the Blue Salon.
"What I want, Deymorin," he said at last, "I can't possi-
bly have. I want you to stay away from Nikaenor. I want
you to stop dragging him off to Darhaven and encouraging
him to risk his neck on those half-wild ... creatures you
favor. I want you to stop racing and gambling and whoring.
I want"
"Me to stop? Spinning a bit beyond your orbit, aren't
you, Barrister?"
"Yes, damn you!" Despite his efforts, his fist clenched,
his voice broke as he realized, suddenly and quite painfully,
that it wasn't just Nikki's soul he was fighting to save. And
knowing how that presumption would appear to Deymorin,
he forced his hand to relax, and likewise controlled his
expression and voice before facing his older brother. "I
want you to grow up, Deymorin, for Nikki's sake. You're
a bad influence on Nikki and all his friends. You legitimize
their fantasies. If you can't see that, you're the only one."
Deymorin's dark brows rose. "Because the lad visited a
perfectly legal brothel, something his friends undoubtedly
do on a regular basis. I'm a bad influence?"
"Brothels. Races. Midnight hunts and gambling. Your
reputation fascinates him, and he simply can't compete. No
sane man would try."
"No sane man? Oh, dear, brother-mine, what does that
make me?"
"Damn it, Deymorin, don't joke about this. He already
flirts outrageously"
"Meaning he smiles at the young ladies in the opera
balcony."
"He fights mock duels with his friends"
"As long as they're not in earnest"
"With untipped steel?" That, at least, caused a faint
pucker between Deymorin's brows, and he pressed further:
"When will it be enough? Would you have him dueling in
earnest with angry husbands before he's old enough to
marry?"
The line deepened, but in contempt, not concern. "Give
your outraged morals a rest, boy. The girl was a profes-
sional."
"That makes a difference?"
"To your proposed premise, yes. Beyond that premise,
Nikki is of age, in case you hadn't noticed." Deymorin
threw himself into a chair and lifted his leg to a padded
stool with a grunt of pain.  "Besides, you prudish old
woman, nothing happened. Flattery expanded his poetic
ego long before it expanded anything else."
"Expanded? . . . Oh." Curves and whorls pressed into his
back, holding him firm against equal measures of embar-
rassment and guilt. At times such as this, he suspected his
elder brother of deliberately invoking both emotions, which
was damned . . . unsportsmanlike, to his way of thinking.
Guilt for the leg that pained Deymorin constantly: he'd
acknowledged his responsibility for the accident when it
happened, and had that apology thrown in his face. The
 other: if he was a 'prudish old woman,' he had ample
reason.
"And the knifeman? Was he a professional as well?"
"Khyel, I" The faint line appeared again. "I'm hon-
estly not certain."
"Not certain." A chill twisted his heart. "Is that meant
to be humorous?"
The line vanished. "Come down from your lectern, Bar-
rister. Diorak's pronounced him fit for your damned dinner
partyfueled by one of his noxious potions. Nikki got a
much needed lesson in real life and acquitted himself quite
handily, I might add."
Near Deymorin's hand, a small tray table supported wine
and two goblets. Deymorin filled one for himself, offered
the other with a grossly over-polite flourish. He refused
with a single abrupt jerk of his head, wanting it to steady
his hands, needing a clear head worse.
Deymorin shrugged and sat back.
"What did or did not happen is irrelevant," Mikhyel said,
doggedly returning to his original premise, "You had no
business taking him to that place."
"PI-l-lace," Deymorin repeated, putting on an exaggerat-
edly thoughtful face. "Whorehouse, you mean? Cathouse,
maybe." His face hardened. "Whatever you call it, taxman,
you should love it."
Taxman. Mikhyel thought of Nikki and the need for
calm, and raised his chin, refusing to take offense.
"As always, older brother, your assessment of my work
isenlightening. What I think of Tirise romMarinni's es-
tablishment in any sense is not the issue. Your taking a
childthere's no other way to describe him, regardless of
what the law claimsinto that section of the City, is."
"I see. And what makes you so certain I took him
there?"
"We both know what you consider an ideal coming of
age present."
"Unlike some people, I learn from my mistakes."
"Which simply means you made a fool of him at Ma-
dame Tirise's rather than in his own bedroom."
Deymorin snorted. "No one makes a fool of someone
else, brother-mine. The fact you had a problem figuring
what end to do what to, doesn't mean the rest of the family
suffers a similar confusion."
"You, of all people, should know better than to accuse
me of that."
It was bitterness speaking, unthinking, immature self-
defense, immediately regretted when Deymorin responded
with:
"No, I suppose I can't."
Laughter coated the edges of that statement, faint echo
of remembered laughter. Laughter from the hallway out-
side his bedroom door. Laughter that drowned out the soft
moans emanating from the woman whose skill drew him to
a destiny not even that laughter could forestall.
His hand blindly sought the whorls' solid marble reality,
and as soon as he could trust his voice, he said firmly, "All
of which is irrelevant. Nikki"
"wouldn't have reacted to his natural tendencies like
a cloistered virgin."
"Dammit!" He whirled, and struck the mantel, then
slowly opened his throbbing fist savoring the incontroverti-
bilily of pain. "Just once, can't you admit that maybe, just
maybe, you were wrong?"
"Possibly. When you admit it was nothing but a harm-
less joke."
"Joke? Harmless?" He resisted the temptation to turn
and glance at Deymorin's leg; they were both painfully
aware they'd left the topic of Nikki far behind them. "Is
that what you call it?"
"That's what it was, boy, as you'd realize if you'd ever
bother to admit you're the only one who even remembers
that day."
At times, Deymorin could say the stupidest things.
Deymorin remembered with every limping step, every
throb of his leghow not? Certainly Deymorin's ex-cohorts
among the Guard, or the devil-may-care toadeaters he'd
collected during his years on the town would not agree with
that assessment. Some took care to remind him daily he
was not fit to fill Deymorin's well-polished boots. Or Mher-
ic's...
A man had to wonder, sometimes, just where he fit into
the scheme of things. If Nikki provided him a daily re-
minder of the beauty and the sweetness that was the es-
sence of their mother's memory, perhaps (he considered
the idea in a macabre instant of personal evaluation) he'd
- always wished Deymorin would fill Mheric's void in simi-
lar fashion.
If it were possible to miss such a narrow-minded, self-
centered void.
But Deymorin, for all he'd inherited Mheric's size, Mher-
ic's temper, and Mheric's politics, wasn't Mheric. Deymorin
was wild and daring in his sporting interests, but Deymorin
had never, to Mikhyel's knowledge, raised a truly violent
hand to anyone. Deymorin arguedgods knew he ar-
guedbut never with the irrational rage that had character-
ized Mheric's anger. He had frequently wondered what it
would take to rouse the Mheric he feared was lying in wait
within Deymorin.
One undeniable difference: Deymorin sincerely cared
about Nikki, which was more than one could say about
Mheric, who had died for lack of a wife rather than live
for his three young sons.
All of which left him . . . where? As some unfinished sack
of human flesh, neither father nor son, child nor adult . . .
Certainly he was far more crippled in his chosen life's work
than Deymorin had ever been. The one thing he truly,
deeply cared about had slipped from his control years ago.
He faced about wearily, vaguely surprised when Dey-
morin's hard expression wavered.
"Don't you see, Deymio?" he pleaded, hoping to take
advantage of that softening. "Nikki idolizes you, and if you
don't mend your ways, his attempts to emulate you could
lead to far worse ends than tonight's. One day, you won't
be there. Whether it's Madame Tirise's, or a cutpurse, or
a hunt course Would you have him end up with a broken
neck like"
He broke off, but not soon enough.
"Like Father?" Deymorin finished coldly, the softness
vanishing. "Get it through your head, brother-mine, our
father chose that death above other, less romantic, alterna-
tives. He was out of control of his life. He wanted to die.
Grant him that dignity, at least."
"You count it dignified to runaway from your responsi-
bilities?" Which heartfelt, double-edged cut gave him the
vague satisfaction of seeing Deymorin's eyes narrow and
his suntanned brow tighten.
"I count it his choice, brother, for his reasons, and count
that enough. He's responsible to whatever gods he believed
in at the last, not me. Or you. Or anyone else. He was my
father, and I was sorry to lose him. Beyond that, my life
continues, and I live it responsible to myself, not Father."
. . . and not you, was the unspoken end of that statement.
Mikhyel looked away, afraid if Deymorin realized he did
not share that regret the discussion was doomed before
he'd even broached his point.
A point from which they'd strayed wildly.
"We're not speaking of Mheric, we're speaking of Nikki
and his obvious desire to emulate you."
"That's the second time you've said that. Emulate? Me?
Interesting. I don't recall spending hours in the library, but
if you say so, it must be true."
"Don't make a mockery of this, Deymorin, I beg you."
"Beg? Again, you amaze me, Barrister. Whence this
new humility?"
"Dammit, Deymio!" He caught himself, wondering what
sort of man allowed such paltry taunts disturb him so.
When his blood had cooled: "I'm worried, Rhomandi. I'm
worried about Nikki, and I'm worried about the Estate."
"I'd hardly equate the two."
"Well, perhaps you should, for once. Nikki spends a
small fortune every time he visits a tailor, has no sense
where it comes to buying gifts for his friends . . ."
"A tragedy, certainly."
Mockery continued to fill the air. He refused to look at
Deymorin, refused to let that mockery dissuade him from
his course.
"More than that, he's begun ..." Mikhyel found his
voice failing, belatedly realizing he'd missed his mark, that
Deymorin was incapable of seeing the matter his way, and
seeing no possible means to backtrack. ". . . he's begun in-
curring . . . debts . . ."
"Gambling? Nikki?" Deymorin's bark of laughter was
all he'd feared. "Small worry there, Barrister."
"Small? Perhaps now, but"
"All right, brother, all right. I'll take the brat out while
I'm here. Introduce him to"
"Deymorin, no\" tie turned back in time to see Deymor-
in's lightly amused look turn dark, and sought desperately
to explain. "What about when you're gone? What will hap-
pen if he continues your pattern and chooses to follow you
into those Outside gambling hells of yours as well? You
- know the sort who'll surround him there, once you've re-
treated to the safety of Darhaven and left him alone with
the sharps. What about the personal dangers? What about
the losses? The Estate can't support two of you."
"The Estate could handle a dozen of us without a hic-
cup." Deymorin's voice was as cold as his face.
"Because I put limits on your spending."
"You?" Deymorin's foot hit the floor with a thud. An
instant later, his hand clamped Mikhyel's arm hard enough
to make a larger man wince, but Mikhyel clenched his
teeth, refusing his brother the satisfaction. "Get it through
your head, boy. You don't control any pursestringsyou
never have. I inherited the Estate. I am thePrinceps. You
'rule' by proxy, boy, and never forget it. Any time I choose,
I'm back on the Council."
"Good gods, Rhomandi, I know"
Deymorin's hold on his arm tightened, Deymorin's voice
hissed through clenched teeth. "/ set those limits on myself,
long before you even thought to try. I like to have a good
time. I like to treat friends to a good time. I gave Rymarik
leave to place those limits' on the books when you raised
the issue, mainly to keep you quiet, but I can break them
any time I please. I don't please. I've enough for my needs,
and no interest in running the Estate into bankruptcy."
"I never said"
Fingers twisted, biting deep into muscle, and for a mo-
ment, it was Mheric's eyes that glittered between narrow
slits. "It's not that I don't know the numbers. Not that I
don't understand them. It's that I don't give a damn."
"I never doubted it."
Level black brows twitched: a hint of puzzlement, gone
in an instant. Deymorin dropped his hold and turned away,
deserting him, ignoring the real problem.
The way Deymorin always had.
"As for Council," Deymorin continued lightly, the back
of his hand flipping a nonchalance, "you seem to enjoy
battling the old fools; overall, you do a good job. Why
should I argue? In the arbitration court, your judgment has
proven equally sound; I skim the transcriptswhen I've
nothing better to amuse me. I know what you're doing.
Like the numbers, the court bores me to distraction. But
I'll stretch those purse limits and I'll override those deci-
sions when and where the urge takes me."
"Yours or your parasites'," he said, stupid in his bitter
anger, though his blood froze as Deymorin pivoted slowly,
and it was more than Mheric's eyes facing him this time.
"Mywhat?"
"Parasites." He spat the word out, defying his own vis-
ceral terror, and dodged Deymorin's backhand.
Too late. He staggered backward, caught himself against
the mantle, morbidly certain he'd roused that shadow of
Mheric at last. But he didn't care. Couldn't. Or perhaps,
he thought, as the once-familiar taste of his own blood
seeped across his tongue, he did care, and wanted the truth
he'd feared out where he, at least, could face it, once and
for all.
Obstinately, past a numbness in his lip, he pursued the
point; "Those ... creatures you call friends, who hover
around you waiting for the next hand"
He gasped as Deymorin's strong fingers again cut deep
into muscle . . . twisting . . .
"out."'
"I don't give handouts, boy. I give credit where it's due.
Call it ... redistributing the wealth, in the only way the
system allows. The families I aided were cheated out of the
most valuable farmland in the valley by those friends of
yours on Council. I gave them the dignity of a new life"
"They were well compensated for the loss. More than
sufficient to relocate"
"To where. Barrister? Bogs and granite? That's what
Council never got through their thick skulls. There is no
replacement for what you stole from them."
"No one stole anything."
"Rather well depends on which side the lawmakers are
on, doesn't it? You don't compensate for generations of
family history and devoted land management with money,
Barrister. These were proud people, accustomed to hard
work and a unique sense of accomplishment a man gets
when the sweat pours down his face at harvest time. A
feeling you'll never share."
"Thank the gods."
"No doubt. The choice you and your coconspirators gave
them was no choice at all: a life of eternal idleness in the
City with no legacy for their children, or land so remote
and barren it would take yearsperhaps generationsbe-
fore they turned a profit. All I did was give them a dignified
--option, the only one that same stinking system allowed me
to offerand I'll continue my own brand of economics
until someday, someone, dissolves the stinking system."
"You sound as if you'd like that."
A frozen, timeless pause, during which he stared defi-
antly at the angry face swimming beyond pain-watering
eyes. That biting, localized pain surprised him, threw a man
off his balance, who'd expected violence.  He'd" never
pushed Deymorin this hard before. Never dared, knowing
the man whose temper Deymorin had inherited.
Or so he'd always believed. This control was not Mheric,
was nothing like Mheric.
Then the pressure was gone, the anger was gone, and
Deymorin's  hand  fell  away,  leaving  him  strangely
anchorless.
"Maybe I would," Deymorin said slowly, not looking at
him.
"Your parasites might object," some perverse idiot inside
him muttered, while he rubbed his arm against the tingling
of renewed circulation. "They'd lose their free ticket." That
same idiot continued pushing against this unknown limit,
trying to force the Deymorin he knew existed into the open.
"Your terms, brother, not mine." Deymorin sounded . . .
old. Tired. "They pay their way in this world."
"Now."
"Their ancestors were criminals, Khyel, not them."
That wasn't entirely true. Since the Founding, repeat of-
fenders had been exiled to remote city-owned land where
they were taught the basics of subsistence, then given a
small plot of land, there to subsist as they could, any enti-
tlement to city revenue they might have had reverting to
the community share, there to be held in reserve for noncit-
izens who earned the right to citizenship.
He'd personally consigned no few to that Outside exis-
tence. But those were not the folk to whom Deymorin re-
ferred. He knew that, and was sincerely shamed to have
unconsciously equated them.
"What would you have us do, Deymorin? Reinstate
them? The city property isn't there. The shares aren't. Who
would we exile or impoverish for their sakes?"
"Impoverish? We've personal holdings in fifteen of the
satellite nodes.  The previous hard-working owners now
work for us. Why? Because they owed the Estate taxes that
they couldn't pay. Hell of a deal, brother, buying a business
to pay the taxes that provide you the money to buy the
business."
"Those 'businesses' were barely surviving. Our fore-
closure has given them the backing they needed to thrive.
Those previous owners are much better off than they
were."
"Like the farmers, is it? We rob them of their indepen-
dence, and they're supposed to smile and say thank you?"
"They're not complaining."
"What good would it do? You haven't done anything
illegal. What recourse have they?"
"So why don't you take your seat and do something to
change the law?"
Deymorm's dark gaze made a deliberate rise and capture
of his.
"I tried that once."
"And gave up at the first hint of opposition."
"Is that what you think?"
In the face of that dark-eyed challenge, all he could do
was raise a hand, then let it drop helplessly.
"Not really. But, Deymorin, every new member has a
difficult time being taken seriously. Rings, if you knew what
I"
"Oh, poor, poor Barrister. Shall I call out the mourn-
ers? Difficult? You don't know the meaning of the word.
You've had Anheliaa backing you every step of the way
since you were twelve. You've had the Council's own ava-
rice. Who and what did the farmers and those ill-fated
shop-owners have?"
You, he longed to say, but couldn't, he who had led the
attack against his own brother, thinking naively that by
meeting Deymorin on these grounds and winning he stood
some chance of winning his brother's respect at last, of
gaining some sign of approval of his efforts, some mote of
appreciation for his sacrifices over the years.
He'd realized too late he'd tried so hard for so long that
he'd lost sight of what he truly wanted and instead, with
that final confrontation, had driven Deymorin permanently
into  the  arms  of  those  people  he'd  so  passionately
represented.
"You talk as if the Councillors are ogres, Deymorin," he
said quietly. "They're just businessmen, looking for answers
to benefit the greatest number of people."
"They're hawks circling for the kill."
"They've achieved their position because they knew how
to make a profit, and are using that expertise to benefit
the Citizens."
"Easy to become rich when you make robbery legal."
"Dammit, Deymorin, there's no reasoning with you!"
"No? I suppose not. But then, that could just be because
I have a problem with your basic premise. Excuse me,
Anheliaa's premise."
"I resent that."
"Do you? Well, that's a step in the right direction,
anyway."
More than a step, Mikhyel suddenly realized, and the
bottom fell out of his universe.
Until someone dissolves the system. . . .
For at least five years his brother had been working inde-
pendently of Rhomatum Council and Rhomatum funds,
building a network of loyalties beyond the City's bound-
aries, in the mysterious darks between the lines. A network
with an unknown agenda.
The Council knew of his operations, but no one could
ever figure what the goals were, never figure whether he
posed a threat to the City's interests.
He knew, from his own experience, that Deymorin had
powers of persuasion he'd never brought to bear in Council
for the causes he ostensibly supported. That very reticence
was enough to make a Councillor of Rhomatum nervous
and wonder how Deymorin intended to winand what he
intended to win.
If his concerns were as benign as this conversation would
suggest, perhaps compromise was possible. If not . .. until
someone dissolves the system. . . .
"What would you do, Deymorin?" he asked quietly, "If
you were Council?"
"You don't want to know."
"If I didn't, I wouldn't have asked." He crossed the
room, sank down in a chair, and leaned forward, elbows
on knees, the most earnest, nonthreatening stance he knew
short of curling into a ball on the floor. "You said yourself
I'm your proxy. How can I represent you if I don't know
what you'd fight for?"
For a long, silent moment, Deymorin studied him then:
"For starters, turn the rings over to the people."
"The rings already belong to the citizens."
"Not the shares. The rings."
"That's . . . crazed."
"Thought so." A humorless laugh. "Give it up. Barrister.
You're not cut out for subversion."
Mikhyel rubbed his face fiercely with both hands, pressed
his fingers into his eyes to relieve the building pressure.
"All right, Deymorin. All right. We'll play it your way.
But we can't just ... hand them over. For one thing, the
people wouldn't know what to do with them, couldn't possi-
bly maintain them, and the economy would collapse along
with the power-base. For another, the rings are our per-
sonal security. Yours. Mine. Nikki's. And any future Rho-
mandi generations."
"We'd survive without, I assure you."
"We shouldn't have to. The people wouldn't want it
that way."
"The people? Why should they give a damn what hap-
pens to us? What have we done for them?"
"We've given them the rings," Mikhyel stated the obvi-
ous, increasingly perplexed by this highly circular debate.
"We've made Rhomatum's power available to them."
"The Tower has. The ley. Mother nature, not us. The
rest is politically convenient bullshit."
"Without the Rhomandi Family, the Tower wouldn't
exist. Rhomatum wouldn't. The web wouldn't."
"Our ancestor built the damn building, and for that, we
deserve virtual godhood? As I recall, good old Darius went
to a lot of trouble to eradicate precisely such antiquated
notions as you're set on endorsing."
Deymorin was oversimplifying, trying to start a fight, was
as uneasy (Mikhyel, as a veteran of literally hundreds of
debates suddenly realized) as he with this change in long-
established tactics between them.
"He found the node, Deymorin, and set the rings. For
three hundred years, our family has produced the Rhoma-
tum ringmaster"
"Out of a line that hadn't produced a master in five
generations. Darius was the king's bastard, Khyel, or have
you forgotten that little fact? He shouldn't have been able
to make the rings hiccup, let alone establish a whole new
web. Proved them all wrong, didn't he?"
"If he was, in fact, Matrindi's son. We've only his word
on that."
"We know the Matrindi fell from power after the Exo-
dus. That was politics, not Talent or lack thereof."
"Five generations without so much as a single High
Priest of Mauritum Tower would undermine any Family's
power base. Maybe Darius had a personal grudge against
the Rhomandi Family and saw that final announcement as
the ultimate revenge. Perhaps the Matrin-Rhomandi cross
was the key. We just don't know, Deymorin. We do know,
our Family has produced all the Rhomatum ringmasters."
"Because we damnwell keep everyone else out of the
Tower. Rather increases our chances, doesn't it?"
"When was the last time you stayed around long enough
to know what we've tried?"
Deymorin drew back, the merest hint of remorse creep-
ing past the assurance. A hint that vanished in an instant.
"Well, looks like we've finally broken the string this gener-
ation, doesn't it?"
"Have we?"
"Full of oblique answers tonight, aren't you, boy? Tired
of bean counting? Into ring-spinning now? Or is Nikki blos-
soming in other ways than with the ladies?"
"You could replace Anheliaa."
"Hell if." Deymorin fell back a step, caught a heel on a
flagstone and dropped heavily into a chair.
Mikhyel's tenuous control over his temper wavered.
"After all these years, when so much depends on it, do you
still deny your Talent?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Dammit, Rhomandi! You have had since you were
ninemaybe before, for all I know. Why in all the eighteen
chambers of Rhomatum hell do you refuse to act on it?
Are you waiting for the moment Anheliaa's gone? Just
waiting to destroy what you obviously cannot abide?"
Strangely, Deymorin laughed. "Brother, you're crazy."
"Am I?" And his voice shook with the tremors he could
no longer control. Forcing a potential ringmaster into tak-
ing action was a risk, the scope of which he had no real
inkling, but which life with Anheliaa dunMoren had taught
him to fear.
Towers could only be taken from within. Anything else
destroyed the very object of the invader's desire. Deymorin
had kept his secret for years. Even away from the Tower,
he could have been studying how to control the rings, pre-
paring an incontestable takeover, awaiting Anheliaa's inevi-
table death. Possibly even in collusion with one or more of
the satellite nodes.
"I don't know where you got such a crack-brained no-
tion, but"
"I was all of six, Rhomandi, but I remember like it was
yesterday. We snuck into the Tower. I touched the rings,
and fouled the orbits. Do you remember, yet?"
"I don't ..." Deymorin's head swung slowly from side
to side, not seeming to see anything. "I ... recall alarms
... and thinking we'd be flayed alive for sure. But the
alarms quit and we got out before anyone caught us. I
always assumed the damned things fixed themselves. I
mean, they do that, don't they?"
There could be no doubting the innocent ignorance of
that statement.
"Never." He stood up. "You reset them, Deymorin.
All these years . . . have you never realized?"
"Realized? Brother, I never even wondered." Deymorin
pulled back in the chair as if Mikhyel had physically threat-
ened him. "It wasn't me. Couldn't have been. Surely I'd
have known"
Something collapsed inside, somg anger that had sus-
tained him for years, and Mikhyel fell weakly into his chair.
"Dear sweet living gods, brother, all these years, and
that's what's been eating you? Me conniving some mythical
plot against Anheliaa and your gods-be-damned rings'?"
Deymorin seemed about to say more, but then just shook
his head in patent disbelief.
A sphere of nonfeeling surrounded him. Deymorin
hadn't refused responsibility, had not left him to deal with
an aging, increasingly testy Anheliaa on his own simply for
spite. Had not been off preparing a coup. Deymorin hadn't
told Anheliaa because Deymorin hadn't known.
And creeping insidiously into the void, another danger-
ously weakening sense: Hope.
Deymorin, being Deymorin, would do the right thing
if only the brother Deymorin openly despised could con-
vince him of his own Talent. Convince him to help control
Anhehaa's increasingly obsessive notions.
"It was your doing, Deymorin. And don't you see?" he
-pleaded, near choking on throat-constricting desperation.
"The Rhomandi blood does run true. We need your Talent,
your goodwill, here. In the Tower. Not" Outside, he fin-
ished silently, but knew better than to say.
"Talentperhaps, though I've only your say on that,"
Deymorin said firmly, "The willnever."
"Why not?"
"Rings, boy. I'd be incarcerated with Anheliaa for
months, perhaps years learning a trade I despise. Isn't that
reason enough?"
"And for that, you'd condemn the City to eternal
darkness?"
"Melodramatic, aren't we? Frankly, going back to push-
ing plows and living by candlelight might make a number
of citizens I can think of a great deal more palatable. But
that's not even a remote possibility. There are plenty of
lackeys to keep the Tower going. They don't need me and
my mythic Talent."
So much for pleading and reason. Mikhyel rose stiffly
and crossed the room to stand looking down at Deymorin,
who stared stubbornly forward, calmly sipping his wine.
"You might not have any choice, Rhomandi. The Tower
needs a master. There is no one else"
"BuUshit, brother."
"Your tongue becomes increasingly Outside vulgar,
Deymorin."
Deymorin just snorted.
He turned to the fireplace.
"And if I tell Anheliaa what I saw?"
"Rings, boy, you sound like a six-year-old. She'll ask why
you haven't said anything inwhat?twenty years? box
your ears for lying, and send you to bed without supper."
"It's not a joke, Deymorin. I've been waiting to say any-
thing. I didn't realize . . . And if you really were a threat
to the rings, how could I encourage Anheliaa to . . . But if
you didn't know . . . if you still refuse"
"You do realize you're making no sense whatsoever. But
it hardly matters.  She  can't make me do anything.  And
neither, little brother, can you."
Mikhyel lifted a hand in tacit defeat. The most important
negotiation of his hfe, and he'd used the diplomacy of a
breeding bull. "Just think about it, Deymio, that's all I
ask "
"What I think is that it's all in your head."
Mikhyel sighed. "Nikki should be coming down soon.
Let's see if we can manage to be civil, at least long enough
for his party. We owe him that much, poor lad."
Deymorin's sharp bark of laughter held no humor. "You
have the gall to say that? After that reception you gave
him?"
The memory of Nikki's pale face, of his own fingers
pressing into cheeks barely able to produce peach fuzz,
filled his soul and once again, his fingertips sought refuge
in the patterned stone. "I was worried. I . . . overreacted.
I'm . . . sorry for it, Deymio. Damned sorry."
A rustle of cloth, a creak of wood flooring, and Dey-
morin was beside him, and Deymorin's hand was on his
shoulder. He looked up, met Deymorin's eyes in a way
they hadn't managed in years. This time, his brother's touch
was almost gentle, his tone a rueful relaxation of tension.
"Sometimes, fry, I wonder if I'll ever"
But whatever he was about to say floundered and died
in a damnably ill-timed flurry of activity at the salon doors.
Tea tray, first. A second wine tray next. And from the
midst of a sea of attendants surrounding the large-wheeled
mobility chair and its bewigged and painted occupant:
"High time you got here, Rhomandi!"
Anheliaa had arrived.
Time had been it seemed strange to Nikki that the one
night of the year he could be certain the family would dine
alone and in the echoing vastness of the formal dining room
was on his birthday, but over the years, he'd figured out it
was Aunt Anheliaa's way of celebrating while protecting
him against well-meaning reminiscences about the parents
he'd never known.
Of course, neither had his friends known them, but some-
times Aunt forgot about that.
Besides, Aunt Anheliaa's idea of a party would undoubt-
edly include her friends who had known Mother and Fa-
ther, and who would talk about them, and what a shame
they'd died so young, and Nikki mustn't feel that he'd
caused it, which of course, he hadn't. . . .
He shuddered. Maybe family-only parties weren't so bad,
after all.
But tonight he'd have preferred the ballroom itself,
packed wall to wall and floor to ceiling with people he'd
never met and who wouldn't recognize him, so that he
could melt into obscurity rather than sit on display at the
place of honor at a single oval table with Mikhyel and
Deymorin seated to either side and Aunt Anheliaa on the
far end watching every bite he choked down.
Even Anheliaa's attendant . . . Mirym? . . . seemed to be
staring at him. But then, she always seemed to stare, al-
though perhaps it only felt that way, because she never said
anything. Almost two years since she'd arrived, and never
a sound out of her, not that he'd heard. Probably that was
why Anheliaa, who always demanded absolute silence while
she worked, seemed so satisfied with her.
His brothers had arguedhe knew that even without
anyone telling him, and in spite of the cheerful faces they
put on for his party.
Anheliaa seemed very tired tonight, almost fragile. The
arthritis, which had confined her to her mobility chair since
before he was born, was more painful than usual, if one
could judge from the irritation in her tone as she ordered
Mirym to cut her meat or hand her the wineglass. And she
seemed to drift off in the middle of sentences . . . Of course,
Diorak might have given her the same green goo he'd given
Nikki against the pain . . .
Effective green goo. He hadn't felt a thing since he'd
waked up .. . And on a sudden disturbing thought: could
he be drifting similarly? Certainly the pain was gone, but
if he was wandering, and could notice her wandering, might
she not notice him, and if yes, might she not begin to wonder
and ask questions Mikhyel didn't want answered and. . .
Panicked, he made an active effort to join the conversa-
tion, and despite the fact the tension in the air was making
his already queasy stomach churn, he took small bites of
the rich foods and chewed them to liquidity, trying to make
it appear he was eating more than he really was. And he
smiled and said all the right things, and made all the ordi-
nary, inane responses to meaningless, formalized imper-
sonal comments . . . until the talk turned to the rumblings
of discontent out of Mauritum, and the treaty.
"What's Paurini's problem this time?" Deymorin asked,
around a mouthful of spiced beef.
Palev Paurini dunTasrek, Nikki's head wasn't that fuzzy.
Mauritum's Minister of State.
"Not Paurini," Mikhyel clarified, "Garetti."
"Garetti?" Nikki asked. "High Priest Garetti rom-
Maurii?"
Mikhyel shot him a faint nodding smile, the way Mikhyel
would when he took an interest in politics that didn't come
out of a history book, looks that came more frequently
these days ... or, at least, one liked to think so.
"He's complaining about the power differential again.
Claims we're leeching Mauritum Node, and trying to charge
them for the privilege."
"After the way they took advantage of our worst drought
in history and jacked up the price of grain last year?"
Deymorin asked, scowling. "Hell, screw the bastard seven
ways from yesterday and let him howl."
Mikhyel's thin brows twitched. "Grain? How could the
price of Mauritumin grain affect us?"
"Come, come, brother-mine, join the real world, for a
change, will you?"
"But the trade restrictions"
"Trade restrictions?" Deymorin lifted his fork, letting the
light glint off its silver-beaded handle. "Gartum work, is it?
Maybe Horassidumin? And the bauble in Anheliaa's ear?
Obviously Khoratum workmanship. Or, dare I suggest it,
MaurituminT' The fork clattered to the table. "Admit it,
Khyel. The black market is alive and well. Has been since
Darius closed off the legitimate businessmen three-damn-
hundred years ago. What do you expect when half the
damn coastline is within spitting distance of Maurislan?
Last year, we got grain, seed, and the market produce,
wherever we could damnwell find it."
Mikhyel flushed, and the hand that raised his wineglass
shook, spilling droplets over his manicured fingertips. He
drained it in a single gulp. "Who arranged the deal?"
"Who do you think?"
Mikhyel's hand tightened on the fragile-stemmed goblet.
"Khyel, please." Nikki reached across the table and gen-
tly disengaged Mikhyel's fingers, setting the glass aside.
"Dammit, Rhomandi!" Mikhyel jerked his hand free,
swearing at the dinner table, which Mikhyel never did, espe-
cially in front of ladies. "I can't believe . . . Have you the
slightest notion what your little 'business deals' cost us?
The least you could have done is come to me. Asked where
the negotiations stood"
"Come to you" Oh, that's funny, Mikhyel. That's really
outstandingly humorous. What would you have done?
Given the farmers an I.O.U. until you could work their
little problem into the Council schedule? Maybe made it a
part of the overall trade package . . . which still hasn't been
signed? Council would be damned hungry by now, and
blaming the farmers. Shit, Barrister, when have you ever
given a damn about Outside needs? When it's time to plant,
you can't fucking well wait"
Mikhyel hissed. "That's enough, Rhomandi!"
Deymorin scowled, drained his glass and snapped his
fingers for a refill.
For a moment, the tension was stifling, Mikhyel and
Deymorin both militantly avoiding eye contact with any-
one. From the far end of the table Anhehaa surveyed them
all from under hooded, painted eyelids. Little Mirym just
gazed studiously into her teacup.
Nikki coughed discreetly.
Deymorin started and glanced at him; Mikhyel did; then
at each other, and Mikhyel said, past a set jaw: "Much as
I might . . . appreciate . . . the . . . depth . . . of your feelings,
dear brother, kindly leave that language in the stables
where it belongs. Or have you forgotten altogether how to
act around real ladies?"
Which admonition (even though Nikki would swear the
expression Mirym hid behind her teacup had nothing to do
with maidenly shock and everything to do with humor,
while Anheliaa just looked smug) naturally set the previous
subject aside and his two brothers off on one of the thinly
disguised, tediously polite, contests of wills, which they'd
somehow avoided through the first five courses, and Anhel-
iaa, wide awake now and with a sly grin creasing her face,
joined in, adding fuel to their snipes.
Leaving Nikki to wonder, on his own again, and weary
of the battle, about the treaty and the issues they'd forgot-
tenor set aside because of his birthday, so as not to upset
him. What's wrong, Nikki?
Except he wasn't upset. And they were important issues,
especially to someone who hoped one day to be an ambas-
sador to the ancient god-determined city.
God-determined....
"It seems to me," he interjected tentatively into the first
pause for collective breath, "that Garetti is behaving quite
reasonably . . . for a High Priest of Maurii."
The pause became an extended silence.
Anheliaa's expression soured and she was staring down
the tableat him.
His brothers exchanged a look he couldn't read, and he
considered slipping under the table and crawling its length
to the servant's door the way he had as a child when they
served something he didn't want to eat. But he was too big
now, dammit.
Mikhyel raised a sardonic eyebrow at Deymorin; Dey-
morin shrugged, then asked:
"Reasonably? Why do you say that, Nikaenor?"
Nikaenor? Deymorin was mad, or Nikki had been a fool.
Either way, he wished now he hadn't interrupted. His brain
wasn't working: too much wine and Diorak's green goo.
However, having been a fool did oblige one to make the
attempt to dig one's way out of that pit.
"It-it's been three hundred years since we've had direct
trade with Mauritum. It-it seemsto me, at leastonly
natural that the first few years of renewed relations be-
tween our two nodes should be tinged with suspicions."
Another exchanged look; he pushed a bit further: "On
both sides."
Deymorin looked at Mikhyel, and Mikhyel at Deymorin,
but when no one challenged him openly, Nikki swallowed
hard and warmed to his theme.
"Garetti is in a terribly awkward position, don't you
think? I mean, for his entire career, he's had to balance
and direct ley-energy like a farmer budgets water in a
drought, and now, after years of explaining why his gods
favored one company or Family over another, he's got vir-
tually all the power his people needbut he's got to ex-
plain the added cost and why and where it came from, or
cover the difference out of his own profitand that means
his god's profits. And with all that tied up with the religion
he supposedly representswell, it seems to me . . . that . . ."
He'd made himself the center of attention again, exactly
what he'd wanted most to avoid. Anheliaa was staring at
him. Likely he was making no sense whatsoever. She'd
guess about the green goo and Tirise's and the cutpurse
and"Never mind," he mumbled, and took a hasty mouth-
ful of chicken and cream.
"Never mind?" Anheliaa's voice cracked over him like
a whip. "Never mind? The man's whole life is based on a
sham. Of course he's in an awkward position. With luck,
he'll be out of a job within my lifetime and I'll have the
chance to dance on the rubble of his anachronistic church."
"S-sorry." Nikki flicked a glance at her, started to raise
another forkfuU, found he couldn't hold it steady, and, all
too aware of all the eyes following his movements, let it
drop again. "Please, forget I said anything."
But, Deymorin said:
"I think we should let Nikaenor speak his piece."
And: "I agree."
That was Mikhyel.
A confused desperation came over him. Deymorin and
Mikhyel never agreed on anything, particularly where it
concerned him and never in opposition to Anheliaa's
wishes.
"I don't" He couldn't finish. Not with Anheliaa staring
daggers at him.
Or possibly it was Mikhyel who took that glare, because
Mikhyel's eyes dropped, and Mikhyel's fork stirred his
creamed peas into neat rows.
"It's all right, Nikki," Deymorin said, firmly. "You're
seventeen today, after all. You're allowed to have opinions
of your own."
And thus was the secret to his brothers' uncharacteristic
alliance revealed: they were humoring him.
Because it was his birthday.
Nikki controlled the sudden urge to lose the meal he'd
just forced down, and instead of throwing his half-filled
plate at his patronizing brothers, he lifted his full wineglass
defiantly, and emptied it in two very large gulps, which
settled his stomach in a warm, head-spinning glow.
Deymorin's laughter filled the room. His glass lifted in
response, turning Nikki's defiance into a toast, and forcing
the others to match the gesture and call the issue closed.
More wine followed. Lots of wine, and more laughter.
"Everybody has an agenda, don't you see?" Nikki said
then, in a rush of inspired bravado. "Even if they don't
know they have one. It's only human. Everything we think
we know about Mauritum is based on what Darius wanted
us to know, colored by things we can't officially know, and
Darius had his own agenda, and probably Garetti is simi-
larly biased, so of course what we think they think will be
colored by what Darius thought so how can we be sure
what Garetti thinks, or what Garetti's rehgion tells him to
do until we meet him and discuss it face-to-face?"
He paused, breathless. Realized Mikhyel and Deymorin
were staring at each other now, as though they shared
some secret.
"Beral!" they shouted together, and ... laughed. To-
gether.
Deymorin and Mikhyel never laughed together.
Mikhyel spluttered first, being less in practice. Deymorin
eyed him sidewise and placing a hand to his chest intoned dra-
matically: ". . . Maurii lusts after additional followers . . ."
And Mikhyel finished breathlessly: ". . . such is the way
of gods. Oh, gods, Deymio. Seventeen!"
Laughter burst out again. Benil. That was Berul they
were quoting. His Berul.
They knew'.
It was as though some dam had burst. When one would
sputter to an almost stop, dark eyes crinkling at the corners
would meet grey, and laughter would erupt all over again,
and Nikki sank into his chair, wanting to disappear, won-
dering how the market magicians managed the trick.
"Enough!" Anheliaa's voice cracked over the top, and
Anheliaa's hand struck the table, spilling her wine and rat-
tling Mirym's teacup.
Obedient as two recalcitrant children, Deymorin and
Mikhyel dropped their attention to their plates, mouths
pressed tight, shoulders shaking with an occasional spasm.
Then Deymorin reached for his wine, took a sip, and in a
voice that squeaked only slightly said, "Tolerably good vin-
tage. From Tarlisium Valley, you said?"
Tarlisium wine, hell. They'd been laughing at him. And
his ideas. His bookish notions. One might be devastated,
but instead, one found oneself delighted at this new side of
one's brothers one's bookish comments had revealed.
And if the wine and Diorak's goo weren't making the
world seem just absolutely wonderful at the moment.
"Well, Khyel," Deymorin said, "do you suppose the
brat's newly-discovered adulthood is too precious to in-
clude presents?"
Mikhyel seemed to consider the matter, frowning at him.
At least, he thought Mikhyel must be frowning, as he
had to take it on faith that the shadow swimming some-
where down the table was Anheliaa.
"A distinct possibility." That was Mikhyel. "Well,
Nikaenor?"
Nikki grinned at the room in general, since his brothers
were having a tendency to multiply at random, and assured
all of them. "Not a chance."
But when faced with the pile in the salon, Nikki was no
longer quite so certain. Daunting didn't quite cover it.
He wandered between the two tables checking labels,
realizing in something of a daze that fully half were from
people he'd never met, many from people he'd never even
heard of.
"What did you do? Post a notice in the Intemodel" he
asked, half-joking.
"Naturally," Anheliaa said, sounding quite pleased with
herself.
But for him, it was embarrassing, almost like stealing.
Suddenly the glow of laughter and wine that had sustained
him through the end of dinner seemed to disappear along
with the numbing effects of Diorak's green goo- His side
hurt, he was tired, and the presents just didn't seem very
important, coming from people he didn't know or care
about.
"Sit," Deymorin ordered, appearing miraculously at his
side just as the world turned sideways, and guided him to
a chair. "We've all been through it, brat. Part of the dues.
So just open, smile, and resign yourself to thank-you writ-
er's cramp."
And Mikhyel, who had joined them, murmured into his
ear: "White as a chicken egg, fry. Hold another bit, and
you'll be through the worst."
And, Deymorin again: "Old private joke, Nikki-lad. Not
aimed at you. Tomorrow, we'll discuss Garetti and Mauri-
tumeven, Darius save us, Berul."
Mikhyel's choke of swallowed laughter sounded above
his head, and Deymorin tossed a grin upward.
"Whatever you want, Nik," Deymorin said. "Promise."
Nikki smiled shakily; Deymio ruffled his hair and Mik-
hyel pressed his arm; then Deymorin said aloud:
"I'll read the tags, pass the package to you, you open,
and Khyel will write." And with a twitching smile meant
for Mikhyel alone: "Always had the best handwriting of
the lot. Barrister."
Mikhyel's eyes dropped, reasonable enough for someone
settling behind a writing table, but his mouth twitched as
well.
"Got it?" Deymorin asked.
Nikki nodded, basking in this unprecedented united at-
tention, no longer caring if it was just his birthday making
it possible. He swallowed a hiccup, then grinned apologeti-
cally  toward  Anheliaa,  who  was  frowning  at  them:
"Th-think I . . . over-ind-(hic)-ulged a bit, aunt. S-sorry."
"Webs, boy, it's your birthday," she said, acerbically,
then her lips pressed into a tight smile, and she hfted her
own refilled glass. "When better? Just open your presents.
Let's see what debts people figure they owe us, eh?"
Such a lovely way to look at it. He accepted the first from
Deymorin, more reluctant than ever. Deymorin pressed his
shoulder in milte sympathy, then murmured, "Don't let her
spoil it, fry. They're sent out of respect for you and the
Family, despite what she claims."
"Thanks," he muttered.
Thus began the longest evening of his entire life. He'd
never seen so many . .. things accumulated into one spot.
His chair grew deeper and deeper in folds of colorful paper
and ribbonsuntil Mirym slipped into the black comedy.
Sinking to her knees beside his chair, she made bouquets
of the bows and dried flowers used to decorate the pack-
ages and tied them to everything available: first his wrists,
then Deymorin's, then Anheliaa's, Mikhyel's, the lamps . . .
and finally, at his laughing insistence, into her-own curly
tendrils, then she folded the wrappings, separating them
into color-coordinated piles (rings knew why, except, per-
haps, it seemed something to do with them) until somehow,
by the time they'd narrowed the stack to the Family gifts,
the blackness had departed, leaving only the comedy.
More Family gifts than usual, unless his vision and ex-
haustion had combined to make it seem so, and Anheliaa's
taste in clothes for once seemed more in line with his
ownor his with hers, and he wondered vaguely if that
should alarm him; and there was a translation of Berlio's
History of Greater Agoran, so new he hadn't even heard it
advertised, from Mikhyel; and from Deymorin
A large, flat envelope. The annual I.O.U.
He met Deymorin's laughter-filled eyes and asked, "Shall
I make you a wager?"
The laughter escaped. "Don't count on it, fry."
"Not?" Deymorin wouldn't dare lie, not on his birthday,
but if not the I.O.U., what . . . ?
Nikki held the envelope by one corner and at arm's
length in mock terror, then pressed it to his forehead in
mimicry of the leyside charlatans.
"I'm getting an image. By the power of the Lines"
A hand boxed his ears, cutting his act short. He dropped
Deymorin's gift and instinctively covered his head.
"Don't ever mock the lines, boy!"
Through a world suddenly spinning, Mikhyel's eyes glared at
him, seeming, in that spin, to flicker first at him, then side-
ways toward their aunt's profoundly disturbed face. Nikki
bit his lip, using that localized, personally inflicted pain to
settle the outside world's instability long enough to mumble
an apology, then retreated into an unfocussed middle-
ground, not daring to move, not even to reach for Deymor-
in's gift, fearing he would leave his supper on the carpet
beneath his chair.
Shock. Or the wine. The blow, perhaps, or just the wound,
throbbing now past Diorak's medication and the alcohol
and the laughter: any or all were likely culpritsnot that
the source of his sudden desire to die on the spot made
very much difference.
A touch of his shoulder; he biinked up, saw remorse on
Mikhyel's pale face.
From behind him and through the ringing in his ears,
Deymorin's murmur: "Remind me to teach you manners,
Khyel," and saw remorse melt into obstinacy.
A flat package  arrived into his hands, and he heard,
Deymorin again: "Open it, lad," as Deymorin's steadying
hand replaced Mikhyel's and Mikhyel retreated silently to
the cold fireplace, his back to them all.
Nikki wished, then, that he'd thought to request a fire.
He could have, it being his birthday, even though they
didn't need it for heat. Perhaps in a fire's warm glow Khyel
wouldn't have looked quite so forbiddingor alone.
Clutching the envelope to his chest, he biinked his eyes
clear and said shakily, "I truly am sorry, Aunt Liaa. I meant
no disrespect."
Deymorin squeezed his shoulder. "She knows that, Nikki.
We all know that. Mikhyel's just a bit touchy right now."
Beside the fireplace, Mikhyel started.
"My fault, fry, not yours," Deymorin said, but Deymorin
was watching Mikhyel, not him, and Mikhyel's shoulders
straightened, then, and Mikhyel returned to his chair, his
grey eyes blank, if a bit wide.
The hand left his shoulder with alight tap, and Deymorin
said, in a much livelier tone: "Now open your damn present
and say 'Excuse me, dear brother Deymio, for ever doubting
you!' "
Nikki gulped, grinned soggily, and tried surreptitiously
to wipe the blurring tears away, gratefully accepting the
handkerchief Deymorin slipped him.
Young Mirym had retreated to her chair and was staring
studiously at her lap, Anheliaa was looking distracted
again, Mikhyel was scowling at his feet, but Deymorin's
hands gripped his shoulders, shaking him gently to
attention.
"Hurry up, wretch. I want my dessert!"
"All right, Deymio, all right."
Falling in with Deymorin's attempts to salvage the mood,
he ripped the brown paper covering (Deymorin's notion of
wrapping) from two thin sheets of stiffened, beautifully
tooled, brass-bound leather.
He threw a puzzled glance at Deymorin, who had left
his side to lean his shoulders against the fireplace mantle,
arms akimbo, comfortable there, as Mikhyel hadn't been.
Deymorin raised an eyebrow and lowered his eyes deliber-
ately to the strange object.
Nikki flicked the clasp free with a thumbnail . . .
Documents. Transfer papers. The names blurring on the
lines made no sense until he realized they were registered
names, not the Storm and Ashley he knew them by.
"The greysT' He gasped, his head suddenly lighter than
ever the blood loss and green goo had made it.
This time, his brother laughed outright.
"Deymio, you can't be serious!"
"Of course I am. You handled them better than I on
that final leg last month. They like youfar better than
they do me. Who am I to argue with true love?"
"What are you two gibbering about?" Aunt asked; and
Mikhyel interjected acerbically: "Horses."
"Not just any horses, Khyel." He felt compelled to ex-
plain. "The greys."
"As I .said."
"But they're the best. Last month they won" He bit
his lip, recalling too late his next older brother's feelings
on that topic.
Mikhyel's face grew very dark.
Nikki looked an apology at Deymorin. But Deymorin,
chin raised, a slight mocking smile hovering about his lips,
was watching Mikhyel, who was staring at Deymorin.
Suddenly every ache and throb returned in double
measure.
The gift was just one more challenge to Mikhyel. All that
about handling and love nothing more than pretense.
All the laughter, all the pleasantries at dinner and after
. . . all that meant nothing. Nothing was different. Nothing
changed.
Nothing ever changed.
"What's all this?" Aunt asked sternly. "Who won what,
and why are you looking like a thundercloud, Mikhyel?"
Eyes still glued on Deymorin, Mikhyel answered, "A
race through the streets of the City, Aunt Liaa. A race
between my brother"
"Brothers,  Mikhyel,"  Nikki  interjected  loyallyand
fairly. After all, Deymorin had gotten into the race in the
first place because of his bragging about the greys.
Mikhyel's slender, beringed hand waved the air dis-
missively. "I refuse to hold you responsible, Nikaenor."
Anheliaa was watching them all, narrow-eyed and
calculating.
Nikki bit his tongue, uncertain whether standing up for
Deymorin at this point would help or hinder.
"No one was hurt, Khyel," Deymorin said quietly, and
with a glance toward Anheliaa, "It was a wager. Aunt,
nothing more."
But that wasn't all.
"It was the festival race. Aunt," Nikki tried to explain,
"We were reenacting the Transition Day kidnapping."
To which Anheliaa replied calmly, "Well, if that's all . . ."
"It doesn't matter," Mikhyel said, and stoodfor empha-
sis, Nikki knew the routine. But:
"Tell me, boys, which of you played the abducted vir-
gin?" Anheliaa asked, and Deymorin glanced at him, and
it was their turn to burst into simultaneous laughter.
"Aunt, please." Mikhyel's face took on a faint despera-
tionand confusion. "Don't encourage them. If we won't
allow merchants to bring animals within the City limits to
deliver produce, how can we expect them to understand
when their so-called leaders"
"But they loved it!" Nikki cried in protest. "People were
lining the stadium roads, cheering."
"Enjoyed making a spectacle of yourself, did you?" Mik-
hyel asked dryly.
Here it was: Mikhyel's anticipated lecture.
He slumped down, his face hot, his enthusiasm waning,
and with it his strength.
And he muttered stupidly, knowing he was courting di-
saster: "Go to hell."
Which got him (justifiably, he had to admit) the back of
Mikhyel's hand.
Not as hard as he deserved, perhaps, though it felt heav-
ier than usual, but unfortunately rather more than his al-
ready mistreated head could handle. The world began
fading at the corners, and the seat cushions slipped from
under him.
He heard Deymorin shout something, tried to assure
them he was all right, but somehow, the words wouldn't
come, and the floor hit him, and then someone was holding
him and Mikhyel's voicemore in his head than in his
earwas whispering Sweet gods, Nikki, I'm sorry, and he
tried to tell him he was all right, but then someone pulled
him in another direction and Deymorin's voice was yelling
for someone to get Jerrik . . .
"Take your stinking hands off him. You've done more
than enough already."
Deymorin's scorn ripped through Mikhyel's already
shaken nerves and his fingers went numb.
Nikki's limp arm fell free.
Mikhyel caught it before it flopped, eased it to rest on
the boy's knee, and stood up, staggering in mute horror away
from the consequence of his temper. A hard edge struck his
knee; he grabbed blindly at the chair arm and collapsed
numbly into the chair's cushioned seat. Burying his head in
shaking hands shielded him from the visible consequence of
his outburst, but he couldn't wipe the memory of . ..
(Clear, blue eyes, clouded in shock and pain, tendrils of
blond hair, damp with sweat, brushing a braising cheekbone,
soft mouth trailing a thin line of red . . .)
Onlythe blood of Darius curse himthis time, it was
his hand that raised the bruise. His hand created that line
of blood.
And the face was Nikki's, not his mother's.
He'd never struck so hard before, never knocked the
boy down.
He let his hands fall, stared at them, wishing, for a mo-
ment, he could cut them off.
All too often, he'd seen Mheric, in a fit of anger, strike
his mother.
All too often, he'd seen that same, gentle understanding
he saw now in Nikki override the pain and the shock.
The last time . . .
The door opened. Jerrik, Nikki's valet, come to help
Deymorin take Nikki to his room.
The last time, the blow had sent Mama down a staircase.
Jerrik, because Deymorin wouldn't trust him to touch
Nikki.
That had been seventeen years ago.
Deymorin wouldn't trust him; more than that, he
wouldn't trust himself.
Seventeen years ago. . - .
"Nikki!"
He threw his head up; Nikki's eyes met his, blinking,
frightened. He lifted a hand helplessly; the fright vanished
in a gentle, familiar smile before the door closed between
them.
. . . to the day.
"All right, Jerrik," a voice said over his head. "I can
take care of him now. Thanks."
Pillows were at his back and under his elbows, propping
him upright. He was in his bedroom, sitting on a freshly-
made bed that smelled of rose petals.
Something tugged at his hand, that same voice gently
urged him to let go.
He biinked his eyes until they cleared, realized it was
Deymorin doing the tugging, that he was trying to take
back the horse papers he'd somehow clung to throughout.
Nikki bit his lip, fighting not at all appropriate for an
adult tears. He let go of the papers and forced himself to
say steadily, "It's all right, Deymio, I . . ." He looked down
at his empty hands. "I realize it was just to annoy Mikhyel.
1-1 won't hold you"
"Nikki!" Deymorin sounded shocked. "No."
"It's all rightreally."
"It's not 'all right.' " Deymorin's hand gripped his chin,
not painfully as Mikhyel would, urging rather than de-
manding his attention. Nikki looked off to one side, concen-
trating on the grain in the wainscotting, afraid those stupid
childish tears would prevail if he met Deymorin's eyes.
"Look at me, brother."
He swallowed hard . ..
"Please?"
. . . and forced himself to obey.
"I meant what I said down there, Nik. Regardless of
what passes between Mikhyel and myself, those horses are
yours. You were there when they were bornyou know
damnwell they wouldn't have lived, but for your efforts . . ."
That much was true. He'd been all of ten. His first time
to Darhaven; his first real trip Outside; his first attendance
at a foaling
And would have been his last had Gerhard had his way.
The foaling-man had been for putting the twins down.
"... you helped me train them," Deymorin was still
arguing.
Deymorin had given in to his pleas to let the foals live.
"... and last week you proved you could handle them
on your own."
And he'd been right. Lucky, more like, as he'd realized
since.
"This," Deymorin gestured toward the bound papers
lying on the bed table, "was merely a formality."
He wished he believed that. Would, but for the ever-
present dissonance between his brothers.
But Deymorin expected him to accept the gesture, and
he would, until Deymorin changed his mindwhich Dey-
morin might well, once he'd thought better of it, or the
moment someone offered what the greys were worth.
So he smiled and Deymorin smiled and that issue was
closed. But swimming in the darkness behind closed eyes as
Deymorin pulled his shirt off over his head was Mikhyel's
distressed face and he had to wonder what Deymorin
would do once he left this room. He'd sensed the anger in
Deymorin's supporting arm, sensed it still in the tightness
of Deymorin's brow, and the distracted way he dabbed at
Nikki's bruised and bloodied face.
"He didn't hurt me, you know."
"Oh?" A sardonic brow lifted at him. "All an act, then,
is it?"
"That's not fair, Deymorin. I was light-headed before I
ever went down for dinner, and I drank far too much wine.
Diorak did warn me about that."
"And this?" Deymorin lifted the rag.
Nikki shrugged. "I fell badly."
"Like hell." Deymorin's hand clenched on the rag, and
Nikki expected any moment to see it fly across the room.
But Deymorin's hand relaxed, and he folded the rag delib-
erately and set it on the side table. "He was out of line,
Nikaenor, and don't you dare make any excuses for him.
And don't you dare apologize to him, do you hear me?"
"He'd never let me do either of those things."
"How would he stop you? Hit you again?"
That was Deymorin's anger talking, and he didn't bother
answering it.
"Deymio," he asked slowly, "why doesn't Khyel ever
visit you at Darhaven?"
Deymorin gave him a measured frown. "What difference
does that make?"
"Have you . . . Have you ever asked him to visit?"
Deymorin shrugged, turned away, ostensibly to retrieve
his nightshirt from the warming rack.
"Have you?" Nikki persisted, standing only to drop his
pants to the floor, even that small effort enough to make his
head spin, which likely accounted for Deymorin's muffled-
sounding answer:
"Not ... for a long time." And more clearly: "Not that
it's any of your business, young snoop."
"Why not?"
Deymorin's head twitched, swung far enough to shoot
him a look of incredulity. "You don't give up, do you?"
Nikki chewed his lower lip and shook his head. "Not
when it's this important."
Following a frowning, corner-of-one-eye scrutiny, Dey-
morin dropped onto the side of his bed, resting a hand
lightly on Nikki's knee.
"He used to go to Darhaven every fall after the Transi-
tion festivals. You did too, when Father was alive. Don't
you remember?"
Nikki shook his head, a failure which seemed to sadden
Deymorin, so he searched for an image . . . any image . . .
of Darhaven prior to the twins' foaling. But he'd been four
years old when their father died, and all he remembered
of that time was a large, loud, perpetually angry man.
And darkness.
And a whisper admonishing him to be quiet.
But those were elusive images, and likely not Darhaven
at all, even were they real, so he asked:
"And after Father died? Why did he stop going? You
didn't."
"Man can only take so many rejections, fry. I wanted
him to come Outside. Wanted him to know something be-
yond the City. Khyel just . . . wasn't interested, and I didn't
feel it was my place to insist."
"A-and me? Why didn't you ever ask. . . ?" It was an
old pain, one he hadn't thought ever to face.
"Mikhyel was terrified of your going, so I didn't..."
Deymorin's eyes dropped to the papers clutched against
Nikki's chest. "You'll never know what it meant to me
when you asked to come with me that spring. I thought . . ."
"Thought what?" Nikki asked, eager to have this void
filled, to have verbal reassurance of the truths he'd always
suspected: that Deymorin truly loved him and wanted to
be with himand Mikhyel, of coursealways, and that
those forces pushing them apart were superficial, easily dis-
carded once everyone wanted it to be different.
But Deymorin shook his head, grinned tightly, and pat-
ted Nikki's hand. "Never mind. Coming out of this thick
skull, it couldn't have been very important, could it?"
"It's important to me."
"Nikki!"
"All right. All right." He slumped, shivering, tired, and
feeling sorely put upon by self-centered elders unwilling to
explain the important details which one had missed out on
only by reason of being born late.
"Hands up," Deymorin ordered, and slipped the flannel
shirt over his head as if he were a child instead of a newly-
acknowledged adult, which he really didn't mind, since
moving his arm hurt his side and made his head swim.
He suspected, sometimes, that Deymorin secretly pre-
ferred little brothers over adult ones, suspected at times
like this that perhaps Khyel's greatest youthful transgres-
sionthat which had ultimately driven his brothers apart
had been growing up too fast. He didn't know that for
certain, of course, but he wasn't about to similarly destroy
his own relationship with Deymorin.
Emerging from the warm folds, he looked sideways at
Deymorin through his lashes. "So can I ask you some-
thing else?"
Deymorin gave a bark of laughter. "You imp. What
now?"
"Why don't you like Khyel?"
"Why don't I" A startled look flashed at him. "I like
him well enough." And faded into something approaching
wistful. "Hell, you nosy brat, I probably love him, he's my
brother, after all. I just ... I just don't much care for the
factions he represents."
"What factions? He represents House Rhomandi."
"He's Anheliaa's front man."
"That's not fair."
"He pushes through any legislation she requests. Sup-
ports her every power-hungry move and ignores Outsider
petitions."
"Is this about Khoratum again? Deymorin, that's over
and done"
"Khoratum was only the most obvious in an ongoing
series of moves. Council has increasingly ignored Outside
requests and needs, until now the simplest cross-ley road
clearance is nearly impossible to obtain."
"And that's Khyel's fault?"
Deymorin's broad shoulders rose and fell in what might
have been a shrugor a sigh.
"He's the one in a position to stop it. And it's self-
destructive. That's what I most don't understand, what . . .
disturbs me. Khyel is many things, mostly damnably self-
serving, but stupid isn't among them. If he's leading Council
in this direction, it's for reasons I can't begin to fathom."
"Maybe he doesn't see it as self-destructive."
"He should."
"Why?"
Deymorin studied him, frowning.
"I need to know, Deymorin. I've a right to know,
haven't I?"
Deymorin propped elbows on knees, and ran a hand
across his face. "Vou're too young to remember how it
was, Inside and Out before"
"But I read, Deymio. And listen."
"Point to the bookworm. After Mother died, Father had
to spend more time than ever in Rhomatum"
"Why did Mother's death affect that?"
"Hah! My point that time, worm. She was Father's
shadow proxy for years. She attended meetings and debates
and handled all that gods-be-damned paperwork that"
Deymorin's lips pressed into a hard line, and he stared
sightlessly, his color deepening beneath his tan.
"That Khyel handles for you?" Nikki finished softly.
Deymorin shrugged. "His choice, Nikki. It was always
his choice. After Mother died, what had been unpleasant
between Anheliaa and Father before turned into all-out
daily warfare. Especially at dinner. I learned more over
those dinner table 'debates' as they called them, than any
hbrary could possibly cover. They were both stubborn, pig-
headed fools, but between them, there was nothing, no pos-
sible argument for either side, overlooked."
"And was Khyel at those dinners? Did Khyel hear those
... debates?"
Deymorin shot him an enigmatic look. "That's the crux
of the question, isn't it, worm? No, he wasn't. He ate in
the nursery, avoiding the controversy."
"In the nursery. With me? I would have been there,
wouldn't I? Maybe he wasn't avoiding anything. Maybe he
didn't want to leave me all alone."
Deymorin's enigmatic look deepened. "The point is, he
never heard those arguments, and when I was trying to
make up my mind, when I wanted to discuss an issue with
him, hewasn't interested. If it was Father's arguments I
repeated, he wouldn't even listen. After Father died ...
well, by the time Khoratum became an issue between us,
Anheliaa had long since instilled her insidiously biased
ideas firmly into his head."
"Why? What is it Anheliaa wants?"-
"That, dear worm, is beyond my meager comprehension,
but I strongly suspect she won't be content until she rules
the world."
"That's silly, Deymorin."
"Is it?"
"She's too old. What would she do with it if she got it?"
Deymorin's grim look broke on a shout of laughter. "Oh,
my dear worm, that's youth talking for certain. It's the
ultimate legacy. The greatest mark inhistory since Darius
himself."
"But" He blushed, thinking about his own, somewhat
less ambitious, desires that afternoon in the library. Anhel-
iaa wasn't the only one interested in leaving a ... mark
in history.
"She's obsessed with something, Nikki. She's been Rho-
matum ringmaster longer than anyone since Darius himself,
and in all that time, in her eyes, she has only one significant
accomplishment: capping Khoratum. All her other petty lit-
tle experiments mean nothing to her. They were all to ac-
complish that one, single goal. And what did that gain
her? Power. More power in a day than Rhomatum uses in
a year. More power than the web uses. And from her com-
ments tonight, I begin to suspect that her real goal is top-
pling Garetti."
, "Garetti?"
"Or whoever happens to be in control in Mauritum when
she decides to make her move. I think she wants to bring
Mauritum to its knees, and she doesn't care who or what
she sacrifices to do it."
"But Khyel"
"Will back her, just like the Syndics back her, because if
she wins, their coffers grow."
Nikki was silent a moment. It made sense, in a way, but:
"Khyel's four years younger than you, Deymio. Those
years you spent listening to Anheliaa and Father around a
private dinner table, he spent at Council meetings and pub-
lic debates.  He's grown up surrounded by that Council,
Deymorin. He's never known anything else. Won't unless
you explain to him."
"Do you think I haven't tried? He won't talk to me, boy.
He listens only to Anheliaa these days."
"That's unfair, Deymorin."
"Is it? Perhaps. But in Mikhyel's eyes, I'm a mindless
wastrel, without the sense the gods granted a newt." And
then a strange look crossed Deymorin's face.
"Deymio?"
Deymorin biinked, then, and with a wry laugh: "Some-
times, I think maybe he's right."
He said it like a joke, but drooping shoulders said
otherwise.
Nikki reached a hand, hesitantly covered Deymorin's.
"Deymio, sometimes ... sometimes I think you don't un-
derstand him at all."
A faint smile, a gentle hand exploring his bruised face
and cut lip. "And you do, little man?"
He frowned and pulled away from that exploring hand.
"Stop it. I'm not a child anymore. And I'm not talking
about this stupid birthday. He does talk to me, Deymorin.
And Khyelhe respects you, Deymorin, more than any-
body. He..."
But he couldn't say what he wanted to say: that Khyel
loved Deymorin as much as he did. He didn't know that
was true. Couldn't. He only hoped.
"He what, boy?" Deymorin's voice had gone cold, as if
he was intruding where he wasn't wanted.
But he had his own wants, and he was tired of Deymorin
and Mikhyel fighting, tired of Mikhyel's temper and Dey-
morin's absences.
"He wants you to take your place on Council."
"Little chance of that." A distinct flush darkened Dey-
morin's face. Still, he seemed to relax, as if he'd thought
Nikki was going to suggest something quite different. "I'd
kill them all in an hour. I don't do negotiations. I can't
deal with people bent on their own convenience above
other people's necessity, and immediate capital gains over
long-term economic vitality."
Nikki stared at the transfer papers, balanced between
desire and pride, and . . . need.
"Here." He held the papers out. "I want a trade."
Deymorin looked hurt and confused, and ignored the
papers.
"These" He set the papers in Deymorin's lap. "For
one day: tomorrow."
Confusion grew into a wary frown.
"Promise me you won't run off, that you won't let Khyel
run you off, until we've had a chance to talk."
"We?"
"You. Me. Mikhyel."
Deymorin's chin lifted.
"Deymorin, I just ... I love you. I love Khyel. Maybe
that means I'm a fool, but I want us to... at least to try,
Deymorin. Please?"
Deymorin frowned. Deymorin didn't like being forced
into anything. Realizing suddenly he was risking every-
thingDeymorin's love, what family he did have ... the
horses ... Nikki felt his resolve waver, and cried, before
he could change his mind:
"I don't want horses, Deymorin. I want my family"
The frown deepened in the direction of the papers and
Deymorin brushed them with nervous fingertips. Then he
looked up, and the strain of embattled hurt and anger was
almost more than Nikki could bear.
Almost. He lifted his chin, in his best imitation of Dey-
morin's own obstinate look.
"Deal?"
Deymorin's fingertips moved from the papers to his
cheek, a gentle touch that traced his jawline. "Stubble.
Dammit, fry, when did you get so old?"
He just bit his lip, afraid to look away. Afraid that if he
did, Deymorin would escape.
Finally, Deymorin shook his head slowly.  "No deal,
Nik."
Nikki's heart sank.
"You keep the greys." A slow grin broke through the
thunderclouds. "But somewhere in here, you've a stack
ofwhat, ten, now? Eleven?I.O.U.s. I'll stick around
until . . . until, by the rings, you've got your family, if such
a miracle is possible, or until you cry 'yield.' Then we'll
call it even." He stuck out his hand. "Deal?"
Suddenly, the world seemed bright again.
"Deal." Nikki grasped the hand briefly, then, as the
weight of anxiety lifted and fatigue set in hard, he reached
for a not very adult hug and whispered in Deymorin's ear,
"Thank you, Deymio. I'll take good care of them, I
promise."
"See that you do, fry. And remember" Deymorin
pushed him back, eyeing him sternly. "The next time you
run off at the mouth, it'll be your job alone to make good."
And somehow he was certain Deymorin wasn't speaking
solely of the greys . . .
. . . any more than he was.
Deymorin took the steps back to the salon one at-a slow
time. Nikki's deliberately calculated challenge had left him
shaken, and he wanted time to gather his wits before facing
Anheliaa and, especially, Mikhyel again.
Nikki's attitude toward their middle brother confused
and disturbed him. He'd known Mikhyel had raised his
hand to Nikki more than once over the years since Nikki
had entered the difficult age of pubescence and beyond.
(Never before, or Deymorin would have taken Nikki per-
manently to Darhaven and damn the consequences.) But
Nikki had never shown the slightest fear of Mikhyel, in-
deed, he'd preferred, overall, to live in Rhomatum, and
since Nikki had rapidly outsized citified Mikhyel, Deymorin
had never really worried, never interfered.
Besides, so had Mheric struck themhimself and Mi-
khyel. They'd survived, and Mheric's hand had been infi-
nitely heavier than Mikhyel's.
But this time . . . The boy had already been dangerously
weakened, had been holding up bravely all evening. Mi-
khyel had had no right to raise so much as his voice; and
Nikki had not only accepted the unwarranted chastisement,
he begged now for some sort of reconciliation.
He wasn't sure he was ready for that. Wasn't sure the
better choice still might not be to haul Nikki off to Dar-
havenat least until the boy was independent enough to
give Mikhyel back some of his own. But, for the sake of
his promiseand for the sake of the glimpses he'd had
tonight of the brother Mikhyel had once beenhe'd hold
his peace.
For now.
His leg having grown to a constant ache again, he
stopped at the entry foyer to retrieve his cane. The sheath
slipped as he pulled it from the stand, and as he refastened
the safety, he was forcibly reminded of the matter of the
attack on Nikki tonight. The more he thought on it, the
more convinced he was it wasn't a simple cutpurse, that it
had been aimed specifically at Nikki for reasons perhaps
dangerously unknown.
. . . Not from any city I know . . .
Unknown, at least to him. Definitely, Mikhyel needed
to know.
Tomorrow. Now did not seem the optimum moment to
bring the matter up. Better for them all to wait until Nikki
could get Mikhyel more receptive to reason.
He'd been a fool not to mention it earlier, had put his
own pride before Nikki's safety. If anyone could trace those
cutpurses down, Anheliaa could, that near-mythic power of
the rings being one of her true rumored abilities, and Khyel
was the one to convince her to commit the time. If Garetti
of Mauritum was getting nervous, and if strangers from one
of the Mauritum nodes were getting past the wall's gate-
posts and making attempts on Rhomatum citizenry, it could
put a whole new slant on further negotiations.
He'd make it part of this . . . talk . . . he'd promised the
boy. Put Khyeland through Khyel, Anheliaawise to the
real implications of Nikki's evening escapade when Nikki
was there to avert all-out warfare, and maybe, just maybe,
they'd do something about it.
From the look Anheliaa cast him as he limped into the
room, Mikhyel had explained everythingfrom his own
unique perspective.
"Is what Mikhyel tells me the truth?" Anheliaa barked
before his foot cleared the door.
With his promise to Nikki still fresh in his mind, Dey-
morin set his teeth and muttered, "Close enough."
Mikhyel flashed an enigmatic look his way, but Deymorin
ignored it, and strangely, after that initial flare, Anheliaa
didn't seem angry. Her silver-haired head swung slowly
back and forth, and her face stretched in a disturbing,
vaguely obscene smile. "Never mind. Boys will be . . ." The
rest of the sentence floated into obscurity; she shook her
head as if to clear it, and continued: ".. - But that's why
I've taken steps . . . His age made me realize . . . It was to
be part of his birthday . . ."
"Anheliaa," he began, keeping a suspicious eye to Mi-
khyel, lest his civil query inspire yet one more attack on
his neglected so-called responsibilities here in the City. "Is
everything all right? Are you all right?"
"Time to get down to business ..." Having finished
whatever line of thought she'd been following, Anheliaa
biinked up at him somewhat dazedly. "Of course, Dey-
morin. Why wouldn't ..." She shook her head, and or-
dered, in a voice much more typical of the aunt he'd grown
up with: "Help me, boys. I must get to the Tower. I've
something to say, and it's better said there. No, girl," she
snapped at her mousy little attendant. "The boys are all I
need, and Leanna will care for my needs later, as always.
Go to bed. Off with you."
Not a thank you, not so much as a kind tone: typical
Anheliaa. The mousy little female dipped in a mousy little
curtsy, first to Anheliaa, then to Mikhyel, lastly to himself.
As she straightened, her eyesher one significant fea-
ture, large and a gentle, warm brownflickered over his
face and settled rather anxiously on Nikki's empty chair,
then travelled up toward the ceiling and back to him in a
surprisingly clear question.
"He's fine," he said, smiling down at her, wondering was
she mute or simply shy. When his reassurance failed to lift
the anxious look from Miss Mouse's face, a wicked spark
prompted him to say. "I'm sure he would appreciate a bit
of Ceidin brandy to help him sleep. Why don't you take
some by his room on your way to bed? Check him out
for yourself."
"Deymorin!" Mikhyel's exclamation made the girl's eyes
flicker like a startled deer's.
"Don't be silly, Khyel." Deymorin put a reassuring arm
around the girl's shoulders, and walked her toward the
door. "She's practically one of the family."
Mikhyel stepped in front of them, and pulled the girl free
of his hold. "You don't even know her name, Deymorin.
Leave her alone."
A wave of remorse hit him as he looked into her doe-
soft eyes. Mikhyel was right. He didn't know the girl's
name, didn't know a thing about her. He was using her for
his humor, as cruel in his way as Anheliaa.
But below those doe-eyes her mouth was moving, a
soundless communication directed only to him, and of a
sudden he realized:
"Mirym, Khyel."
She smiled faintly, revealing, in that mischievous quirk
of the lips, a second noticeable feature.
He grinned back. "Her name is Mirym." And meeting
Mikhyel's angry gaze: "And I don't think she minded my
suggestion at all."
A second of those faint smiles confirmed that notion, and
he winked at her.
"Let her go, boys," Anheliaa said firmly. And to the girl,
"Go, go, go. If you want to look in on the boy, do so. Tell
him you're checking for me." She chuckled suddenly, a
little-used grating sound, and sent a wicked look toward
Mikhyel. "Just make certain to knock first."
Mirym bobbed again, and flitted from the room; Mikhyel,
the color rising above his dark beard, closed the door si-
lently behind her, the set of his narrow shoulders and his
overlong delay at the door betraying the depth of his
mortification.
Cruel of Anheliaa, to remind him of that particular night
under these particular circumstances. Almost as cruel as
she'd been on the night in question; the night she'd quite
deliberately thrown the door wide on Mikhyel and his
birthday present.
Without knocking.
"How will she tell him anything?" Deymorin asked, to
draw attention from Mikhyel's tense back. "Can she
speak?"
"She has her ways." Anheliaa's smile widened; and
Deymorin's skin crawled, never having had Anheliaa and
such pleasant, earthy matters collide in the same thought
before.
"And what about Nikaenor?" Mikhyel asked harshly,
still  with  his  hand  clenched  on  the  doorlatch,  then  he
turned, shooting an accusatory gaze at Anheliaa. "What if
Nikki doesn't want a strange girl mooning over him in his
own bedroom?"
"Then he'd better enter the Harisham priesthood and
wear a bag over his head, Mikhyel," Anhehaa hissed, which
made him regard his aunt in a whole new lightsomething
of an accomplishment after thirty years. "He's a handsome
young man and had best learn to handle such situations. If. . ."
her mouth twitched in a not-quite smile, "... he hasn't
already. That is the whole point of tonight's fiasco, isn't it?
Now..."
She tapped the chair wheels in silent command and Mi-
khyel obediently fell in behind her. As she rolled through
the door and toward the Tower lift, she cackled again and
said over her shoulder to Deymorin: "I still want to know
which of you played the abducted virgin . . ."
Nikki closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and twisted
the key another fraction ...
It would be nice if he could get the guitar in tune. He
was wide awake again, despiteor because ofDiorak's
goo and wine and brothers, and he didn't want to think
about Diorak or his brothers any more tonight, didn't want
to read or think or do any of those other things one inevita-
bly ended up doing when one was being ignored because
one was supposed to be sick and falling asleep.
So if he could just get Barney in tune . . . just for a song
or two. One couldn't think of brothers and stitches when
one had to concentrate on one's fingers.
"C'mon, Barney, give me onemore"
With a singularly appropriate twang, the string snapped.
"Shit." The word exploded out of him. Disgusted. Satis-
factorily wicked...
And safe, here in his own room.
So he tried it again: "Shit. Shit shit shit shit "
The entry bell chimed.
Shit.
Face burning, he set the guitar in its stand beside the
bed, winced as the move strained stitches, and pulled the
covers straight, praying it was Jerrik, or Deymorin . . . any-
one but Mikhyel.
"Come," he said, relieved when his voice didn't break,
more so when Jerrik opened the door.
But: "The lady's compliments, sir," Jerrik said, and
stepped aside, making way for
Smiling to mask his utter humiliation, Nikki said,
"Hello, Mirym."
His voice squeaked.
Anhehaa's tiny attendant, anxious eyes barely visible
over a large tray filled with a wine carafe, a glass and a
huge slab of holiday-cake dripping with raspberry liqueur,
dipped gingerly into a curtsy.
Keen to help, Nikki threw the covers to the side and swung
his feet to the floor, but bare knees and a room that whirled
madly reminded him why he was in bed at this hour, forcing
him to concede and tuck his feet back under before he
embarrassed himself further.
But once she'd safely negotiated the distance to the bed-
side table, Mirym's anxiety disappeared. She sighed in exag-
gerated relief, the first sound he'd ever heard out of her,
as her triumphant grin was the first smile he recalled seeing
on her face. Not even the nonsense with the presents had
managed to lighten her perpetually somber expression.
An answering smile stretched his own face, and before
he thought to stop him.-Jerrik (the traitor) had closed the
door again, leaving him alone with the strange young
woman.
His face went stiff around the smile, and he stammered,
"Miss Mirym, I must apologize . . . Why Jerrik let you carry
that tray, I cannot imagine, but I'll . . ."
She patted his hand, then turned to the tray, and poured
him a careful measure of brandy into the pewter goblet
reserved for the evening's finale: the coming-of-age toast.
How appropriate a launch into his singularly empty fu-
ture: a mute girl mouthing birthday blessings as she handed
him the goblet as he lay on his sickbed.
He sighed and took a large gulp before asking: "Did-did
you hear . . ."
Her grin widened.
"l'
She tipped her head in gentle mockery, then cut a gener-
ous slice of cake and held out the plate to him, her compo-
sure reminding him suddenly of her mild reaction to
Deymorin's comments at dinner. Relieved, secretly de-
lighted, he chuckled and dipped his head, accepting the
plate, playing her game quite willingly.
Giving the tray a quick survey, he asked, "Where's
yours?"
Her head tipped again, this time in confusion.
"I see cake enough here for five, a carafe of wine, which
I'm sure is far more than Diorak would want me to have,
but only one fork, one plate, and one glass." On a sudden
whimsical inspiration, he shouted: "Jerrik!"
She jumped. Shook her head, mouthing no, reaching des-
perate little hands to stop him.
But he ignored her, except to pat her hand, and yelled
again for Jerrik, ignoring the bell-pull, which Jerrik refused
to answer anyway. This was his birthday, and he wanted a
party. His own party with guests of his choosing.
Feeling suddenly quite merry, having sent Jerrik off to
fetch glasses and plates for himself and Mirym, he pointed
to a small package still resting on the tray. "Is that for
me?"
Mirym stared at him for a moment, brown eyes narrpwed
and calculating. Then her expressive brows raised, her eyes
widened innocently, and she shrugged.
Laughing, he held his hand out imperiously. "Well, we've
a mystery, then, haven't we?" She handed it to him, and
he turned it this way and that, pretending to look for a tag.
"It's got flowers on it." He looked up at her, batting his
eyelashes exaggeratedly. "Very pretty flowers, too. Must
be for you."
She blushed faintly, and pushed the package back at him,
nodding to it and then to him.
"So it is for me."
She nodded.
"From whom, I wonder."
Her blush deepened, and all at once he wasn't in quite
so teasing a mood.
"From you?" he asked softly; and at her shy nod, "Why
thank you, Mistress Mirym. Thank you, very much."
The girl sat down on the edge of the wing chair's deeply-
cushioned seat, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fol-
lowing his every reaction. Suddenly self-conscious, he care-
fully freed the blossoms from the ribbon, setting them to
float in the lemon-scented finger bowl, then peeled the gilt
paper back.
"Strings!" He smiled in real delight, and recognizing the
packaging: "Fredriri's! Wonderful. His are the best. How'd
you know?"
She dipped her head shyly, then, in one fluid movement,
brushed her ear, gestured toward himself, and then to the
guitar.
"You heard me?"
She nodded.
"Lord, playing? I hate to tell you, but that wretched
sound had nothing to do with the age of the strings."
She shook her head, hiding a smile with that small, grace-
ful hand, and glanced toward the ceiling.
"You heard me tell Aunt."
She nodded.
"Well, thank you. Thank you very much."
She shrugged. Then pointed again to the box.
"More?"
Another nod.
"Honestly, Mirym, you shouldn't ..." He lifted out a
layer of tissue and underneath found a guitar strap, hand-
stitched in an exquisite design of red flowers and grey
horses on a deep indigo background. He stared a moment,
open-mouthed, looked up to find those large eyes anxious
again.
And he thought of Anheliaa in the Tower and in the
.sitting room, and her silent brown shadow, always with her
needlework, something different at each station about the
house, which he'd never bothered to notice, nor anyone
else to his knowledge, and in which she took an obvious
pride.
"You made this yourself?"
This time, the quick dip of the head was unquestion-
ably shy.
"Mirym, 1-1 don't know what to say. It's"
A knock rescued him: Jerrik, with a second tray, and he
found refuge in the wine, the cake and Jerrik's familiar,
cheerful presence.
The earliest Tower lift had been servant-powered: one
stout man whose sole purpose in life had been winding the
wheel that turned the gears. The modern platform operated
on steam from the boilers buried deep within the leythium
mines, and, for access to the ringchamber itself, a lock de-
pendent upon Anheliaa's own mind.
Beyond the hft's bentwood safety-grill, a stairwell of an-
cient stone, sole remnant of the original Tower, entwined
this modern convenience in stately elegance. It was the
means by which most mortals traversed the Tower floors.
Not so Anheliaa; not even when she was physically able;
in recent years, this lift had become the only real access to
the  ringchamberexcepting  the  Guards'  emergency
hatcha precaution Anheliaa had deemed vital ever since
two small boys snuck up and fouled her precious rings.
For his part, Deymorin was just happy to balance on one
leg and the cane and let steam do all the work.
Past Anheliaa's private apartments, past the communica-
tion levels where single-ring technicians, each linked to a
different node, sat in isolated cells sending and receiving
encoded information, and finally past the Tower Guard
floor to the ringchamber itself.
As the platform rose into the chamber, flickers of green
and gold, bright red and green-blue leapt and pattered over
and around each other, scattering from the rising grillwork.
Lizards. The ubiquitous pets of the City.
Mikhyel, with the sure touch of experience, geared the
lift to a smooth halt, set the anchor pin, and opened the
grill, all without a word. Likewise silent, Deymorin pushed
Anheliaa's chair into the glass-enclosed room.
A man in Tower Guard blacks stood at attention outside
the lift door, dipped his head at Anheliaa's signal, and took
their place inside the lift. Then, with a wheeze of escaping
steam, a condensing puff of venting air drifting spiritlike
outside the windows, the lift sank slowly back into the floor
until its ceiling became an indistinguishable part of the
floor's tile pattern.
Presumably, the guard would remain on that lift indefi-
nitely, awaiting Anheliaa's pleasure. And sealing them in
here with her. How utterly lovely.
Keeping his back pointedly to the centrally-placed rings
on which Mikhyel and Anheliaa set such importance,
Deymorin made a slow turn about the chamber. He couldn't
remember when he'd last entered this sanctuary for the
rings of Rhomatumpossibly not since that time Mikhyel
had recalled for him earlier. Whenever it was, he'd been
somewhat shorter at the time. And with a child's lack of
true appreciation.
This clear-sided marvel was more to be admired than
feared, the furnishings of wood, gold, and crystal (all ley-
inert materials) were elegant, if somewhat spindly and or-
nate, in keeping with Anheliaa's aesthetic taste, and a small
stone waterfall and pool, a ... lizard-salon, added a wel-
come natural counterpoint to the otherwise unnatural
setting.
He moved closer to the high, arched windows and gold-
leafed sill. Directly below, the rose garden fountain spar-
kled in constantly shifting moonlit patterns that were lovely
enough from ground level, but which were obviously de-
signed for viewing from this vantage. Gravel walkways and
courtyards glowed about the Tower complex. Beyond the
Tower wall, the roofs of the City expanded outward, con-
centric rings of ice-blue tiles, the silver-lit leys forming eigh-
teen not-quite-even, not-quite-straight spokes.
Lights stopped abruptly at the old wall, resumed to the
new, that double demarcation the visible artifact of the
damned Khoratum additionmore shops, more housing,
and two incredibly expensive private gardens.
The lighted leylines extended beyond the City palisade,
cutting through night-dark fields until they disappeared into
the forests and foothills. One, the newest and brightest,
extended toward distant Khoratum, where yet another
storm was in full flower.
Even as he watched, a streak of lightning arced overhead,
over Rhomatum itself, paralleled that Khoratum line, and
struck dangerously near Khoratum peak.
No wonder Anheliaa had been distracted all night.
"Deymorin!"
Mikhyel's voice, demanding his attention. He biinked
himself back into the ringchamber, where Khyel was trying
to help Anheliaa make the transition between her chair
and the adjustable console couch that provided the only
substantial piece of furniture in this otherwise spindly-
furnished room.
He set the cane down on the sill and crossed to Mikhyel's
side, but Anheliaa cursed them equally and waved them
away. Edging across in her own manner, she settled herself
into the cushions with audible groans of relief, somehow
managing at once to assert her independence and make
them feel like incompetent boors.
Or at least he did. Mikhyel's blank face lent no clue to
his thoughts.  Whatever renewed brotherly relations  he
might have sensed below vanished in this, Anheliaa's realm.
Anheliaa leaned back into the cushions, eyes closed,
while the sectional couch slowly contorted, configuring to
her express needs.
He'd helped his father build that couch, years ago. Even
then, Anheliaa had spent most of her waking hours in this
room and the chairs she had had 'made her old bones ache,'
so her nephew, his father, had spent weeks designing and
building a couch that, within the confines of this room,
could respond to her every wish.
At the time, he hadn't wondered at the strangeness,
hadn't wondered why someone of his father's importance
had undertaken such a menial task, or even at the chair's
engineering. By his way of thinking at the time, Family
did things like that for each other, out of a strange thing
called love.
Like the rocking horse he'd made for his new brother
the day he'd learned to pound nails. Of course, baby Khyel
had taken some exception to the gift when it collapsed un-
derneath him, but Mama had always insisted it was the
thought that counted, and his thoughts had been utterly
pure.
Well, mostly. Pure thoughts hadn't stopped him from
laughing at baby Khyel's indignity.
Now, he wasn't so certain. He knew now that no one
came into the Tower who wasn't cleared by Anheliaa
firstrarely anyone not directly related or a member of
her personal retinue.
Ex-clu-sivity. Control. Anhehaa's hallmarks.
On the other hand, one had to admit, who had instigated
that long-ago infiltration of the precious room, perhaps her
act had been sheer self-defense against childish pranks.
"Don't hover." Anheliaa waved her hands irritably at
the room in general. "You're spoiling my concentration."
He stationed himself gingerly on the only other margin-
ally sturdy piece of furniture in the room: an exceedingly
uncomfortable footstool. Mikhyel, more daring (and thirty
pounds lighter), settled into one of the spidery chairs, and
crossed one elegantly tailored leg over the other.
Flaunting his comfort, damn his grey eyes. 
Or damn Nikki's blue ones.
As Nikki had pointed out, the Tower and City politics
were their middle brother's life. He couldn't blame Mikhyel
for feeling at ease in this place. If the Tower and the rings
disturbed him, it was a direct result of his willful, lifelong
avoidance of the place, and that was his own choice, no
one else's doing.
Thanks for the insight, little brother, he thought rather
sourly.
In the perfect, geometric center of the room, where mem-
ory and knowledge placed the rings themselves, a shimmer
filled the space between floor and ceiling. That shimmer
was definitely not a part of his memory of this place, and
he found that difference uncomfortable in its implications.
For two generations, Anheliaa had been free to experi-
ment with the Rhomatum rings without a check rein, so
long as the power-flow continued uninterrupted, and exper-
iment she had, without, following Mheric's death, benefit
of backup, lacking even an apprentice to attend the rings
as she slept. A confidenceor arroganceonly the Rhoma-
tum ringmaster could afford.
As he'd told Nikki, he believed Anheliaa to have had
one end only in mind, but this shimmering barrier, a side
benefit Anheliaa would undoubtedly consider a parlor trick
was, like the mental locks on this room, disturbing to any
sane man.
And Khyel spent all day, every day, in Anheliaa's dis-
turbing company.
Of a sudden, the shimmer evaporated, and Deymorin felt
a slightly off-target deja vu. The rings he recalled filled his
mind's eye, to the periphery and beyond, but while this
gently swaying silver structure unquestionably dominated
the room, the Cardinal Ring was only slightly taller than he.
Most Cityborn children asked their parents how the
lights worked and got Tamshi stories of magic and strange
creatures, and underground rivers of lightand the Rho-
matum rings. Few ever saw the real thing, only the enor-
mous duplicates in outdoor stadiums erected for festival
dances. Or the miniature versions: the clocks that ran the
city and every citizen's life, whose cardinal ring (properly
aligned,  of course)  synchronized  with  the  Rhomatum
Cardinal, kept everyone in absolute synchronicity.
Rhomandi children, on the other hand, learned about
The Rings. For Rhomandi children, there could be no ro-
mance, no mystery. He'd been taught the leystream was a
source of power, tappable as the power of an Outside water
stream was tappable to turn a grinding wheel. At six, he'd
been taken on a tour of the original mines, where the natu-
ral ley still struggled, the crystals regrowing with painful
deliberation that which had been stripped away.
And he'd seen the growth chambers, where humanity pro-
vided ideal conditions for leythium seed crystals to mature
into the tiny webs used in the bulbs and heaters. Web-filled
lights glowed when aligned with that stream; web-filled
heaters that likewise tapped that powerstream created the
lift for the floaters, the heat for giant boilers that provided
steam to kitchens for cooking and heating or to the pipe
organ in the ringstadium.
But those were recognizable, understandable phenom-
ena. These solid rings of silver and leythium alloy, each
several times the weight of a man, floating freely in that
powerstream, defied logic, and made a practical man . . . ill
at ease.
Even less logical was their slow change of momentum
until the chaotic swings became orbits, taking on a pecuhar
rhythm, a rhythm you sensed, but could not define . . .
Until only the radical streamer, warping and stretching
its mysteriously  unpredictable  course in  and  around the
other rings, made, in its very irrationality, any sense
whatsoever.
Ah, that's better," Anheliaa said, soundingabruptly
stronger, clear-headed.
Spooky, that's what he called it, this symbiotic relation-
ship between the rings and their master. A relationship he
wanted nothing to do with, thank you anyway, brother
Mikhyel.
On the other hand, as frail as Anheliaa had appeared at
dinner, this disturbing symbiosis might be all that kept her
going these days. Despite the disbelief of the Pwerenettis
of the City, Khoratum had cost her dearly, the capping
itself leaving her in a comatose state for three months. Ac-
cording to Diorak, only the rings had kept her alive during
that crisis.
Personally, he would wager it was Anhehaa's own per-
verse nature.
"Well, hello there," Anheliaa said softly, and leaned
over, stretching a hand to the floor.
A small green and gold streak flitted up her sleeve to
perch expectantly on the chair arm, its tiny reptilian tongue
flickering in and out, tasting the air.
"And where are your friends?" she asked conversation-
ally, and reached again, this time for a container sitting
conveniently on a side table. She dipped a finger, stiff and
crooked with arthritis, lifted it covered with a red paste
that flickering tongue seemed to find delicious.
As if in response to a silent alert, several more tiny heads
appeared from the fountain's stony recesses.
He resented her deliberate enticement of the lizards, as
he resented this venue. He'd learned the year his voice
changed the City's lizards were not for him. His tones were
evidently too deep, too resonant for their ... delicate
sensibilities.
Anheliaa wanted to keep him quiet and off-balance.
Two other creatures had joined the first, possibly a dozen
more roamed the room at will. Leypower attracted bugs,
one of its less romantic aspects, in particular, a rather nasty
little spider these creatures favored. As a consequence, and
since static-generating furalive or otherwisewas legally
banned from all but the outermost sections of the City,
these tiny reptiles had become more common than flies in
a barn.
In areas of the City where rats were a problem, they
cultivated snakes.
Ten foot long snakes.
Tiny feet skittered over his hand and up his arm, and
launched a tiny body from his head over to Anheliaa's
chair.
He preferred the snakes.
"Nikki's birthday has forced me to face my own mortal-
ity," Anheliaa said, in that same gentle voice she used to
the lizards. "I can no longer put off the question of my
successor."
"Planning on leaving us soon?" Mikhyel asked, his voice
carrying a teasing lightness he had heard Mikhyel use only
to Anheliaa. He'd never questioned that difference, had
always assumed Mikhyel simply liked Anheliaa's acerbic
company. Now (Thanks ever so, Nikki-lad.) one had to
wonder if that lightness hid a very real concern for the
future of the City, or even, considering Anheliaa's actions
at dinner, a gut-deep fear of upsetting Anheliaa.
"Well, no." Three tongues gathered about Anheliaa's
finger, flicking the paste away a granule at a time. She
chuckled softly. "But I tire quickly these days. I'd hoped
Nikaenor would prove proficient, but ..." She shrugged.
And winced. "Even with Talent, a real master requires time
to mature, and I've decided I can wait no longer to locate
a meaningful apprentice."
Mikhyel's grey eyes turned to him expectantly. Waiting,
undoubtedly, for him to leap up and declare himself and
his mythical Talent. Well, Mikhyel had a long wait coming;
personally, he did not give a damn who replaced the
woman, as Anheliaa well knew, and Mikhyel, by now,
should.
Anheliaa's announcement did, however, make a man
wonder if Mikhyel hadn't known about this meeting all
alongwonder if he had staged that business before the
party precisely because this meeting was scheduled.
He returned a senior-brotherly dare you to say anything,
raised-brow challenge. A challenge the disappointment he
sensed in his brother's eyes in one blink made him regret
in the next.
But the moment had passed, the look was gone, and
Mikhyel was asking Anheliaa soberly, "None of the moni-
tors have shown promise, then?"
"The web won't disintegrate because Anheliaa Rho-
mandi dunMoren passes from it, if that's what you're wor-
ried about," she said dryly.
Mikhyel made a sound of protest, swallowed it at her
lifted finger.
"If not, you should be. You take too much for granted,
Mikhyel. I've six aides who cover for me at need, and there
are eighteen monitors running shifts below us, and three
times that number on inter-tower communications below
them. Any half-competent controller can keep Rhomatum
attuned to the leys now; with Khoratum capped" She
threw an archly triumphant look past Mikhyel to him.
"it practically monitors itself, and storms slide right past
the Zone. But I intend to leave a worthier legacy than that.
I built Rhomatum Tower into more than a simple leysta-
tion, and I won't allow it to -wither into mediocrity."
Another flickering glance from Mikhyel. "Does this sud-
den urgency have anything to do with those messages we've
been getting out of Mauritum?"
Anheliaa said, showing none of Mikhyel's reticence,
"Garetti is an irritant, nothing more. He resents my cap-
ping of Khoratum. Likes to claim it undermines his avail-
able powerclaims that's why he can't give his people all
we have. Says we've used it to force them into the trade
agreement."
"Why doesn't he simply disconnect the Rhomatum con-
nection, then?" Deymorin asked, keeping his voice low for
the damned lizard's sake.
"He's already got one radical line he can't possibly cap
not unless he learns to breathe saltwater," Mikhyel ex-
plained, his voice lacking the contempt it usually conveyed
on such occasions. "If he releases Rhomatum, it means re-
leasing Persitum node. He won't affect us to speak of, Per-
situm node would still be capped and allied only with us,
but creating a second uncapped node would cut Mauritum's
power in half, since Persitum is the complement of the radi-
cal node."
"Don't bother, Mikhyel, dear," Anheliaa sneered. "Your
brother is incapable of understanding."
Mikhyel's cool glance drifted from Anheliaa to him, ex-
pecting some sort of rebuttal, but Anheliaa could insult him
all she wanted. She was, after all, the one who had invoked
the lizards, thus setting the parameters. He might even sur-
prise her and abide by those rules, say nothing, and get out
of here without argument.
"Is it our doing?" Mikhyel asked her, finally. "Has he
any legal stance whatsoever?"
Anheliaa sniffed. "Mostly, the man lacks Talent. But the
fact is, even if he could successfully manipulate that much
ley, it would require more power than Mauritum node can
supplypower he'd have to get from Rhomatum, and he
doesn't want to pay for it."
"And if he decides to come and take what he doesn't
want to pay for?" Deymorin asked, regretting anew missing
his earlier opportunity to discuss Nikki's attack with Mi-
khyel in private.
A faint smirk played over Anheliaa's lips.
"That is a concern, of course. It would be difficult, but
not impossible, once I'm gone. Too many unsuccessful, but
marginally competent and thus purchasable, trainees who
could be placed in control here, however disastrously for
our web. As I said, Rhomatum is virtually monitor free for
normal use. I'd like to see stronger ties between Rhomatum
and our satellite nodessomething more permanent than
economic ones. We've grown far too insular in the past
century. . . . But I get ahead of myself. I've been searching
for an apprentice."
"Searching?"
A regal tilt of her bewigged head toward the rings. "I've
located possibilities. Several of them female and quite
personable."
Mikhyel biinked and shook his head confusedly. "Fe-
male? Why is that significant?"
"I also want to assure the line before I die," Anheliaa
explained, delicately, for her.
"Assure it how?" Deymorin, unlike his naive brother,
had no doubt as to her meaning and meant to force her to
say it outright.
The lizards flitted over Anheliaa's arm and out of sight.
She swore softly, then raised a disapproving brow at him,
making him feel like a recalcitrant child.
He started mumbling an apology, caught himself and re-
peated the question instead. But she'd won a round, making
him feel that way, and her faint smirk reflected that victory.
"After all your practice? Mheric's son, I'm ashamed of
you." And in a sudden, all-business turning: "Now, I've
been searching, and the rings have conjured any number
of likely prospects..."
"Pros-pects?" Mikhyel repeated softly.
Deymorin glanced toward his brother, seeking outrage to
match his own, but Mikhyel's face displayed only studious
interest and puzzled curiosity.
"What she's saying is," he said, ruthlessly clarifying for
his biologically backward brother, "we're to set up a stud
service."
"Deymorini"
His backward brother picked the damnedest times to
take offense.
"Wake up, Khyel. No verbal dressing will change what
she's proposing."
"I'm suggesting" Anheliaa remained the picture of se-
renity, not even going through the motions of considering
their feelings, or of granting them a choice in the matter.
"you get married and see to your civic responsibility."
"Civic?" He choked on surprised laughter. "Is that
what they're calling it these days?"
"Deymio," Mikhyel broke in softly, his reaction masked
behind lowered eyes, "Let her finish."
But his voice was unsteady, a point he was damned An-
heliaa would make off him.
"Hell,  brother,  I've  done  myresponsibility.  Long
since."
"She means legitimately."
"I've acknowledged them."
"Them?" Anheliaa asked, with some interestthe first
she'd expressed in his affairs in years. He responded with
bitter lightness:
"A boy and a girl. Their mothers are quite happy, thank
you. Married, now, and doing fine."
"Where?"
"I'm taking care of them, thanks all the same," he said
coldly, wanting none of her interference in his children's
upbringing.
"I don't mean now. I mean where were they conceived?"
"Anheliaa, really" His brother's face had gone bright
red and Deymorin, having no real desire to embarrass Mi-
khyel, prepared to drop the subject.
"Hush, Mikhyel." Anheliaa had no such reservations.
"It's important. Deymorin?"
He laughed harshly. "I really couldn't tell you."
"Frequent meetings, then?"
"Very," he answered dryly, and in a stage whisper to
Mikhyel: "Patience, brother. I'm beginning to perceive a
warped humor here."
"I had no idea." Anheliaa was paying little attention to
them, staring instead at her gods-be-damned rings. "Any
possibility they were conceived here?"
"In the City?"
"In the Tower."
"Oh, well. Sorry, Auntie Liaa, dear. None whatsoever."
The intensity vanished. She waved a hand in dismissal
and sat back in her chair. "They are of no consequence,
then."
"Charming, Aunt. I thought you wanted grandchildren
or whatever our offspring will be to you."
"Not at all. I want an heir. Quite a different thing. And
it must be conceived within this Tower, on women of Sha-
tum or Giephaetum Nodes."
"What?" This time, he laughed in genuine amusement.
"I've a friend you simply must meet, Anheliaa. Crazy old
loon, and he breeds terrible horses, but you'd love compar-
ing breeding theor"
"Don't mock me, boy. I believeno, more than that, I'm
quite certain conception is the key."
Her face took on a passionate glow; behind her, the cen-
tral ring's spin-rate increased.
"I was, you see. Your father, both of you, were conceived
_ elsewhere. Nikki, at least, started within the City, but
Mheric had that wife of his off in the mountains, totally
away from ley influence, when you happened, and look
how you turned out. We were all born within the Tower
excepting Nikki, of course, which could account for his in-
ability. According to tradition that's the critical factoryet
none of you are even remotely facile with the rings. Not
that I would neglect that; it could well be significant, and
I do think the proximity of and similarities between Shatum
and Giephaetum Nodes can't be ignored, thus the ladies
must come from there ... or, of course, Rhomatum, but
that would defeat our other purpose."
"In other words," he interrupted abruptly, "we are to
take part in a biological experiment in orderpossiblyto
' provide you with a proper ringmaster and a comfy political
alliance, at once legitimate and functional. How romantic,
Aunt. And efficient, too."
The passion dimmed to cold practically; the silver blur
of the central ring gained shape and a regular beat. "Ro-
mance is hardly a necessary aspect of marriage, certainly
not of offspring production, and when it does enter in, it
usually interferes with rather than promotes a healthy Fam-
ily. Just look at what happened to your own parents. They'd
have been far better off to be more friends and less lovers."
"Mother died in childbirth, Father in a fit of temper."
"Grief."
"I was there, woman. / know. / took the back of his
hand, one last time. / heard him berate my dead mother
for leaving him with three ungrateful brats, one last time.
And then I saw him push a fine horse too hard one time
too manythat's what killed him, not this mythical pining
for Mother."
"Deymorin, please," Mikhyel interrupted, and the unex-
pected pain in that quiet plea proved more effective at
cooling his temper than any blow.
Deymorin bit his lip, shutting off the flow of bitterness.
With a slight nod, Mikhyel asked, "Liaa, are you certain
this is the only way?"
"For the love of Darius, Khyel, you're not seriously con-
sidering"
"Please, brother, for once listen first. Anheliaa, there's
more to this than you're saying. You've run three appren-
tices out already. Why?"
"You weren't interested."
"I wasn't whatT'
"Actually, neither of you were. While they were possibly
Talented enough, someone with the talent and the desire
to replace me isn't enough. I need someone to act as .a
repository for everything I've learned until the child I've
foreseen comes to power."
"Foreseen?" Deymorin repeated slowly, an ominous sus-
picion growing in his mind.
"Yes, Deymorin," she said, all triumph and eagerness
now, "I've conquered time with the rings. I can predict
the future."
He laughed harshly. Here it was at last. Proof positive.
The rings had warped all their minds. "And you sat there
while Mikhyel chastised Nikki."
"I'm no charlatan, boy. I know what I'm doing. There
will be a child, the ninth generation of Darius on a nine-
ley node, and that child will be a ringmaster such as the
world has never known."
"Really?" he sneered. "Boy? or girl?"
"Idon't know."
"Perhaps Tamshirin?"
"It was human."
"Well, that's a relief. I'd hate to be crossed with some-
thing else. Give over. Aunt. It was a dream. A nightmare,
,if you want my opinion, which likely you don't, but I'll give
it to you anyway. You want grandchildren, tell him" With
a jerk of his head toward Mikhyel. "to get to work on
figures that have nothing to do with numbers and leave
Nikki alonehe's getting along just fine. You have to lay
your bets and take your chances hke everyone else, Anhel-
iaa. Every good breeder knows, you can breed two champi-
ons and get a slug, and two mediocre parents can create
singular perfection. You can better your odds with con-
trolled breeding, but nothingnothingis a sure thing
' and certainly not in humans who have the spiritual capacity
to expand beyond innate talent."
"Or ignore it," Mikhyel murmured.
"Deymorin, sit down and lower your voice; you're scar-
ing Ohtee."
"Forget the damn lizard! I'm talking about my life,
woman. And Nikki's. If Mikhyel wants to go along with
' your crazy notionsRings! let him, I don't give a damn.
Give him the whole fucking Estate for a wedding pres"
Pressure inside his head. Pressure that sent him to his
knees with the pain, hands clasped to his ears. A buzz that
might be in his head, and might be the rings, whose gentle
rotations had accelerated to a silver blur against the night
sky.
It was Anheliaa causing that pressure; he knew that as
surely as if she'd said itcould almost hear her voice order-
ing capitulation. Anger filled him, and he fought that pres-
sure blindly, saw a break in the silver blur and laughed,
hard and bitterly, as if that sound alone could further dis-
rupt the blur.
He felt the pressure waver, saw lightning flash in the
'""distance, or perhaps it was a ring or two as separate edges
within the blur, and forced himself to his feet. There were
hands on him, pullingMikhyel. He tried to thrust his
brother away, but Mikhyel held firm: support, that was all,
and he clung to it blindly, then, and heard Mikhyel shout:
Dammit, Anheliaa, stop!
Alliance from Mikhyel. That confused him. His anger
wavered. The rings blurred; the pressure increased ....
"Anheliaa," Mikhyel again, softly this time and at a dis-
tance. And Mikhyel's support had vanished. "Release him,
Aunt, or I will." And a moment later: "So help me, I'll do
itand to hell with the consequences."
The pain stoppedso abruptly, he staggered, and would
have fallen again had not Mikhyel's arm caught and stead-
ied him.
"You're a fool, Mikhyel," Anheliaa's voice said.
He felt Mikhyel shrug, felt pressure behind his knees and
sat, his eyes clearing on Mikhyel, settling again in his spindle-
legged chair.
"You'd have lost the arm," Anheliaa said, cold and
uncaring.
"I'd have stopped you." Without a tremor.
And then he realizedwhich realization sent sickness ris-
ing in his throatMikhyel had threatened the rings. A
touch of a hand would have sufficed, but at the speed
they'd been spinning . . .
"Rings, Khyel," he said, his voice coming out a thin
croak, "I didn't know you cared."
Mikhyel glanced at him, lips tightened into an unreadable
line. Then, he looked away. "She was angryas you were.
I knew she wouldn't risk the rings. Not for simple pique."
Another undecipherable glance. "Neither would you. Now will
you hear her out?"
"Brother," he said carefully, "Much as I appreciate your
thoughtfulness, nothing1 repeat, nothingwill induce me
to accept a wife of that female's choosing."
"Nothing?" Palpable anger again filled the room, the
rings began to swing.
Mikhyel cursed softly, and dropped his head into his
hand.
Ignoring him, he shouted, over the rings' shrieking hum:
"Nothing! I'd rather a common shepherd's daughter."
"Then you shall have your wish!"
And the silver blur expanded, consuming the room, the
stars overhead, and somewherea lonely, human sound
within the hum of the ringshe heard his brother call his
name.
Interlude

"Mother?"
Dancer called out before the shimmer of transfer had
dissipated. An elbow stung, warning of careless coverage.
"Mother?" Dancer called again and staggered to a ley-
Ibium pool, haphazardly anointing the elbow before run-
ning into the chamber where the inner Sense professed
Mother to be. A small antechamber to the world-cavern, a
recent budding Dancer had never before entered.
And she was there, calmly watching a pattern forming in
the veil; a pattern that was the source of the disturbance
that had reached all the way to Dancer's surface bedroom
and into Dancer's disturbed, kaleidoscopic dreams; a pull
so strong, it forced transfer, unthinking and half-asleep, and
inadequately oiled.
A pull so terrifyingly insistent in this pattern's presence
it constricted Dancer's throat, making it nearly impossible
to ask:
"Mother, what have you done?"
A calm turn. A glow of satisfied purple illuminating the
new veil.
{What had to be.}
He was falling.
Father's laughter rang in his ears. "Balance, fool! Expect
the unexpected."
Rule number one: Never anticipate. Never lean into a
jump . . . lead with your chin . . . parry a blade not yet com-
mitted . . . or pressure a woman.
Horse, man or woman: which had outsmarted him this
time?
"He left last night, Nikki."
"L-left?"
Mikhyel pushed the heavy drape aside and stared out the
window and across the sun-gilded rooftops of Rhomatum,
needing the bright light, as he needed the hard wood of
the window seat pressing into his back and legs to keep
him alert and focussed on the difficult conversation that
lay ahead.
"Without saying good-bye?" Confusion. Betrayal. Un-
derstandable in a sick child awakened too early from fe-
vered dreams.
rr, answered with a noncommittal shrug. Coward, he ac-
cusS&- himself, but he could think of no words to explain
Deymorin's absence that wouldn't send Nikki off in a blind
rage. He needed time. Time to explain, time to think ...
to plan.
Time fate wasn't likely to grant him. Fate had given him
last night, and he'd wasted it all, staring at Deymorin's
empty bed, his mind numb and blank.
The drape fell, shutting out all but a single shaft of the
morning sunlight. That single band of brilliance split the
room in half, cutting a vision-hazing swath between his win-
dowseat and Nikki's bed.
"Where'd he go?" Nikki pursued. "Darhaven?"
He lifted a hand from his knee. Helplessly.
Cowardperhaps. But he'd never deliberately tied to the
boy before. Found it nearly impossible to do so now. But
if he told Nikki the truth . . .
"Damn him!" Nikki's light voice broke, but not for nor-
mal, pubescent reasons.
Disappointment. Betrayal. He'd expected both, but
aimed at himself, not Deymorin.
"He promised me he wouldn't!" Nikki exclaimed, and a
soft fwoosh that might be a fist burying itself in a pillow.
"Wouldn't what, Nikki?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Leave, may Darius curse his hypocritical tongue."
Mikhyel flinched, safely obscure behind the sunbeam.
Unfair, considering. But Nikki couldn't know that consider-
ation. Not today. Perhaps never. Better, perhaps, for him
to feel himself deserted. It wouldn't be the first time, and
was a safer interpretation than other options.
He drew a resolute breath and at last shifted around on
the window seat.
Nikki, hair tumbling wildly about his shoulders, eyes red-
rimmed and puffy, was struggling to sit up. Mikhyel crossed
the light beam to steady his brother, adjusting pillows to
prop him upright.
"All right?" he asked, laying his hand lightly on Nikki's
shoulder, unable to resist a momentarily overwhelming
need for solid reassurance of this brother's presence.
Nikki nodded, but grasped his wrist when he would have
moved away again.
"Please, Khyel, sit here." Nikki released him and patted
the bed. "I" He chuckled ruefully, sweeping his bn"
back, and giving bloodshot eyes a vigorous rub. " ~n't
see that far this morning."
He settled where Nikki asked, because Nikki asked, yet
not certain he really wanted to be that close, distrusting his
own thespian talents.
"Good time last night?" he asked.
Nikki started to nod, apparently thought better of it and
settled for: "Ithink so."
Mikhyel picked up the decanter, sniffed and raised his
brows, but said nothing. Going to tilt the ring, might as
well do it on quality. And, casting a marked glance at the
tray: "Company?"
"I" Nikki's eyes closed as if he were painedor dis-
tractedby the light. "Uh, Jerrik. I invited Jerrik to stay.
And .. ." His brow puckered with effort. "F-Flowers . . ."
He biinked in the direction of his guitar, whose top string
waved softly in the breeze from the window. "Strings.
Aunt's maid . . ."
"Mirym?" he supplied, already knowing the answer, and
hoping he was wrong. But:
"That's her name, thanks. Nice girl. Gave me a present.
Guitar strings. Nice of her." Nikki's voice faded; his face
turned wistful.
So, a present. Strings. Nice girl. A brother could relax
on that score.
"He must have said something, Khyel. Done something,
before he left."
Deymorin again.
Mikhyel clenched his teeth.
"Did you two fight?"
He brushed last night's party crumbs off the sheets and
into his hand and wiped them onto the tray, not so much
avoiding Nikki's eyes as just not meeting them.
"We always fight, Nikki, nothing new about that."
"But this time it was about me. And Tirise's."
A light touch to his wrist forced him to look up.
"Wasn't it?"
There was a bruise on the rounded cheek. He'd put it
there, with a hand made heavier by the very control he'd
exercised all night. He'd struck a sick boy out of fear, fear
of the flux he felt, the shifting of power that might eliminate
him forever.
*-. Or include him. He wasn't altogether certain which was
tht -more terrifying possibility.
"Khyel?"
"Only indirectly."
"My doing, Khyel. Not his. All my fault."
"It wasn't the brothel, boy." He only wished it were
that simple.
"Then why are you being so evasive? What happened,
Khyel? Where'd he go?" And a bit plaintively: "Why?"
(Deymorin's clothing lying in a pile in the middle of the
Tower room.
Empty.
"Where is he, Aunt? Where'd you. send him?"
"I've no idea . . .")
Anheliaa's look had frightened him, more-even than his
brother's clothes, suddenly bereft of support, crumpling to
the floor. He'd seen men disappear from that room before;
he'd never seen that look. Cold. Uncaring. Triumphant.
Anheliaa had evinced more interest in the criminals she
had similarly exiled than for her own nephewshe'd at
least been curious where they'd been thrown.
He hadn't challenged Anheliaa further. Hadn't dared,
lest she send him after Deymorin. Now, he felt the coward
for that failure. He should tell Nikki what had happened,
warn him against Anheliaa's encroaching insanity. But he
feared Nikki, in blind love for Deymorin, would pursue the
issue and damn the consequences.
"Khyel?"
"He justleft, Nikki, that's all. Anheliaa made a request
and he . . . needed time to think about it, I suppose."
"What kind of request?"
"Actually, she made it of all of us." He shifted about on
the mattress. The shaft of sunlight burst over his shoulder;
Nikki winced as it struck him full in the face. "Too bright?"
He stood up, eager to restore distance between them.
"Would you like the drapes"
"It's fine, Khyel." Again Nikki's hand grasped his, a sur-
prisingly strong grasp that belied his seeming infirmity.
"Please, what did Anheliaa want?"
Short of hurting Nikki, he couldn't break that hold. He
sank reluctantly back to the mattress.
"She's feeling her age, Nikki." That, at least, was truth.
"She wants to leave the rings in good hands. She's found
likely candidates, but she thinks it would be best if they
were part of the family, so to speak."              I
"So to . . . I don't understand."
"You must understand, Nikaenor, she wouldn't ask this
if it weren't important. Very important."
"Ask what, Khyel?"
"She's found a number of young ladiesthrough the
rings, you understandthat would make suitableeven
outstanding"
"Wives, Khyel? Is that what you're trying to say?"
"Well, uh, yes. I"
"I'm not nearly so naive as you and Deymorin would
have me," Nikki continued earnestly. "If Aunt Liaa thinks
they're suitable . .. well, I suppose it's as good a reason to
marry as any. Though I had hoped . . ."
Nikki's eyes dropped, his shoulders heaved, and Mikhyel
could well imagine the essence of that wish. Nikki, the ro-
mantic, had wanted to marry for Love, the sort of Love
the poets eulogized. And because his fondest dream had
always been to see Nikki happily established, he wished he
dared counsel against Anheliaa's tyrannical plan.
But he didn't dare. To counsel against Anheliaa was to
risk exile or worse. Besides, he had no right to counsel
anyone. Not any more.
Nikki sighed again, then asked, "What was Deymorin's
problem?"
"You need to ask?"
"Not really." Nikki's finger dug through a hole in the
crocheted bedspread. "I just wish I'd had a chance to . . ."
His eyes slipped around to the bedside table, where the
transfer papers Deymorin had given Nikki last night were
propped against a lamp. "He's not stupid, just stubborn.
He knows how important these things are."
"Of course he does, Nikki." Amazing how easily the lies
came once begun. "I'm certain he'll come back as soon as
he's had a chance to think about it."
Nikki's forlorn little laugh suggested Nikki believed that
about as much as he did, though for vastly differing
reasons.
But Nikki's eyes at least were clear when they shifted
from the bedtable to meet his.
"So," Nikki said, with forced cheerfulness. "What about
the girls Aunt has conjured up? Are they pretty?"
"And then, m'lady, you slide this over and" The boy's
face shone in light golden as the morning sunlight filtering
through the windows of Mauritum Towerand yet emanat-
ing from a bulb quite similar to a common silver leylight.
"Y' see? Totally misaligned, but it still works."
"Interesting," Kiyrstine romGaretti commented as she
circled the table, examining the boy's magic box from a
safe distance. It was a plain, green-painted wooden cube,
with leather strap-handles on either side. On top was a
quite  ordinary-looking bulb socketexcept it  had no
swivel-joint, no lever to attune the bulb's positioning within
the leyflux, nothing to turn it on, except a tiny sliding
switch. "But the color is strange. . . ."
"By yer leave, lady, th' wire insideth' part what
glowsit ain't leythium."
She leaned forward, taking a closer look at the bulb,
which was similar in shape to a leybulb, but contained a
thin wire rather than a lacy leythium web.
"And you say this works even beyond the node's
umbrella?"
"Aye, lady." The boy's long topknot flopped forward
with the energy of his nod, partially obscuring his bright
dark eyes. "Even better in th' betweens."
Likely that was pride talking. Even so, if just what he
had here was real and not some sort of trick . - . in all of
Mauritum, she'd never heard of such a wonder. Trust
Garetti to throw the greatest possibility of his tenure out
the door without a first glance, let alone a second.
She turned the entire unitsurprised at its weight and
wondering if this undersized youngster had brought it here
himselfbut the light didn't flicker.
"This is th' little 'un, lady, wot runs on alchemies. I had
f leave th' big 'un wot works on metallurgies Outside 'cuz
I couldn't get dis-pen-sa-shun f bring th' cart 'n' mules into
Mauritum, but it c'n run a whole cross-ley worth o' lights."
She found, to her annoyance, she was twisting a curl
around one finger. It was an old, old habit, long since eradi-
catedor so she'd believed. Garetti, who despised what he
termed childish aberrations, would be incensed if he caught
her at it.
In fact, he'd be far more angry at his wife's unseemly
reversion, than at her tete-a-tete with the boy he'd just
thrown out of the audience hall.
She dropped her hand, inadvertently pulling the curl and
painfully endangering her maid's entire elaborate coiffure.
Her maid's, not hers. The rings would stop before she'd
claim it, regardless of whose head it perched upon.
Her hand crept back toward the curl as if with a mind
of its own. She stopped it, then defiantly turned it loose to
infiltrate the red strands.
It helped her think.
She'd been in the audience chamber on her regular in-
spection tour when the youngster had presented his case,
and been outraged when Garetti had denied the child so
much as a demonstration. She'd felt sorry for the weary
child he'd appeared, and intercepted him in this back pas-
sageway of the Temple of Maurii, thinking to give him a
few coppers for his trouble, perhaps to send him to the
kitchens for a cake or two.
On closer inspection, she'd found him perhaps four years
older than his size would indicate, and articulate, in a third-
level node way. In addition, what had appeared a rather
clumsily constructed toy at a distance, was proving far more
than merely curious.
"And you are responsible for thisley-by-artifice?"
A shy duck of the head didn't quite mask the blush that
rose over his childishly rounded cheeks. "Not me, m'lady,
no. I ain't even an apprentice, properly speakin'. More a
fetch 'n' carry, if ya knows wot I means. My masterhe's
the one wot discovered this 'un. Though I" His chin lifted
ever so slightly, and his voice assumed a note of youthful
pride. "I did help with this 'un's makin'. The other scuts,
they's scared o' it. Says as how it's evil magic. But I knows
better. Anyways, the other one, the one wot uses lode-
stones, that was this other feller's, my master's friend's,
idea."
"And these two friends' names?"
"They, uh, tol' me not f say, if it pleases yer ladyship."
"Well, it doesn't please me. Why should I believe you?
Perhaps you simply stole the device, and left the poor in-
ventor lying in some ley-side ditch."
"I ain't no thief!"
"I've only your word on that. Perhaps I should call the
guard."
The round chin jutted forward, all hint of shyness gone.
"Go ahead 'n' call 'em."
She laughed at that defiance, honestly delighted. His
mouth twitched, and she half-expected him to join her, was
disappointed when good sense triumphed, and his eyes
dropped.
"All right," she said, sobering, "Say I beheve youfor
the present. Why did these two clever friends trust their
marvels to an apprentice who is not really an apprentice?"
"It were my idea to bring 'em to th' City."
"To solicit funds?"
He nodded. "That, and the Tower's end-endo-" His
smooth brow wrinkled, his lips tightened as if determined
to remember a word clearly not his own. Then, trium-
phantly: "endorsement. And we needs land. A place t'
test th' machines."
"So, now we have it: you desire property within
Mauritum."
Surprisingly, he shook his head. "Wouldn't be any use,
anyway, begging your ladyship's pardon. Like I says, works
better between. Just needs a place closer to a metals
manufactory."
"Oh?"
"Parts, mistress."
"I see."
Practicality. She hadn't expected that, not of the boy's
masters. In her experience, such requisitions generally came
from those seeking Mauritum's distractions rather than a
node's benefits. One had to wonder if it was the master or
the boy's own native wisdom speaking.
"And why did your master wish anonymity? Surely this
is a magnificent discovery."
"They says as how I ain't got a chance in hell, that
Garetti don't want no competition." His mouth twisted, and
the bitter glance he sent down the long hall toward the
double-doorway entrance to Garetti's receiving hall, held
little of youth. His fresh face darkened further with anger
and resentment. " 'Pears they was right. Ignorant old . . ."
His voice trailed off to something not quite audible.
Crude, from what little she detected.
"Do you reference, by any chance, my husband?"
Bright eyes shot back to her, wide with terror. "M'lady,
forgive1 didn't mean no"
"Disrespect? He hardly granted you any in there." She
gestured toward the double doors. "Now did he?"
"Nor should he, lady." His voice cracked with barely
controlled fear. "I'd no right f saywot I said. I am sorry,
lady. Truly."
She shrugged. "We're not speaking of him, now."
The lad needn't have worried; she'd called her husband
far worse, though she vented those thoughts in private
these days. Personally, she respected honesty, and a spirit
not yet cowed, as she'd tell this lad frankly, if she could
trust the shadows' apparent emptiness.
"You say you want funding? Support?"
He nodded eagerly.
"I'll see what I can do, boy. Mind you, I promise nothing,
but I'll talk with my husband. Failing him, well, I've some
money of my own, and I know a few others who might care
toinvest in the future. Don't get overly hopeful, but don't
despair, yet. Where are you staying?"
"At th' road-camp beyond the Coronum market."
"Outside?"
The boy nodded.
She was appalled. No cabby would have taken such a
ragamuffin aboard, whether or not he'd had the fare. It
must have taken him hours to walk to the Tower, and car-
rying that ponderous thing all the way.
"You'll stay here. In my apartments."
"Oh." The lad's voice shook now and his eyes dropped
to where his hands twisted his cap into shapelessness. "If
'ee please, lady, thank 'ee. But best I seek help elsewhere."
"Your virtue is perfectly safe with me, boy," she said
sharply. "I simply want you where I can reach you easily
and quickly."
His face, what she could see of it, turned bright red.
"Sorry, m'lady. I meant no"
"Disrespect." She laughed shortly. "I begin to see you
speak your mind first and consider the consequences only
when disaster is imminent. Well, I can't fault that. It gives
greater credence to your claims."
Another twist and already stressed seams gave, leaving
the cap a shredded, useless mass of cloth, his distress mak-
ing plain he was fully aware of the Tower administration's
reputation. He wouldn't be the first homeless child to disap-
pear forever into the Halls of Maurii.
Not that he was a particularly pretty child, having fea-
tures more to be grown into than admired in adolescence,
but he was alone, and with that ingenuous remark, had
made it clear no one would note his disappearance. Some
within Garetti's circle would claim the boy had come look-
ing, not for patronage, but a keeper.
She felt something tight give in her chest, and she
reached a hand to cup his rounded chin until his eyes lifted.
Somehow, she didn't think so.
"Please, child, let me rephrase the invitation. You're
tired, and it's a long trip back. Stay the night."
If possible, the flush deepened. "Th-thank 'ee, lady. But,
rings' truth, I can't leave th' big 'un alone Outside. Th'
man wot I paid f watch it1 only had coppers enou' fer
th' day. My camp ain't hard f find. I'll go back there 'n'
wait. Stay till I hears from 'ee, one way or t'other."
"Fair enough. Perhaps I'll send someone for a demon-
stration of this ... big 'un. You can find your own way
out? Off with you, then."
She turned abruptly, heading for the west garden,
fighting the dangerous softness the boy roused in her. He
seemed so determinedly hopeful. Maurii save her, had she
ever felt that way? About anything?
Behind her: a scrape. A thud. And a horrified gasp.
She turned to find the boy kneeling on the floor, franti-
cally checking his machine.
"Is it all right?" she called from her safe distance.
He jerked upright, tugging his tunic straight, but when his
eyes landed on the table he'd used for the demonstration,
composure deserted him completely. He reached a trembling
hand to smooth the surface, and she thought for a moment
that he'd bolt, even if it meant leaving the machine behind.
Then 'his back straightened, and though he shook head to
foot, he waited, head bravely upright, as she approached.
There was a long deep scratch on the table. His eyes
were filled with tears, but they were not overflowing and
they met hers without flinching.
"Why didn't you run?" she asked at last, that curiosity
the only important one of several that occurred.
Confusion mingled with surprise and fear, and he rubbed
a wrist turning an angry red.
"You were about to run. I couldn't possibly have caught
you. Why didn't you?"
"B-Because," he said, his voice a whisper, but steadying
with each word, "I done it. It were my fault."
"An honest man in a child's coat. Interesting." She
looked pointedly at his wrist. "What happened?"
The wrist disappeared behind his back. "N-Nothing."
"Answer me, honest man."
Teeth closed on a childish pout, then: "I thinks mebbe I
did 'er in on th' way here, lady. Honest, I didn't know 'til
I tried t'pick 'er up. It's heavy, don't ye see? And when I
tries f lift 'er, 'er slips, and then I tries t' catch 'er, an'
that's when"
"When it scratched the table?"
For a moment he seemed tempted to deny it, then, he
shook his head miserably. "I don't make no excuses,
m'lady. Twere my fault. Shouldn'ta tried ifn I couldn't
manage." The last took on the singsong quality of an oft-
repeated lesson.
Gesturing toward that hidden wrist she asked: "May I
see the damage?" And as she examined the bruise and
probed lightly at the rising lump, she murmured: "On the
other hand, honest man, if one doesn't press those limits,
how does one know where, precisely, they are?"
His mouth tightened into a sulky scowl. "Tha's wot I"
Bright eyes flickered, and he swallowed the rest, but he
watched her with a new calculation, and the rest of that
sentence was easy enough to fill in. This was a boy with
ambition. The constructive sort. The sort that made an
eager boy into a self-motivated, honorable man.
She pressed his injured wrist lightly, then let him go.
The table in question was light, easily carvable wood;
terribly delicate, in its own way, undoubtedly expensive
probably overpricedas were all the innumerable too-
ornate creations that littered the rooms of the Temple
palace.
"Honest man?" she said quietly, "There are times one
can be too honest. Times when people with power can
make the wheels of justice run a bit more smoothly for
honest men who will accept their help. Will you accept
mine, honest man?"
Confusion covered his face, and a hint of fear. But be-
neath it all, a wicked little glimmer of anticipation.
She grinned conspiratorially, picked the small table up
by two legs, and giving a single, practice swing, flung herself
around, slamming the thing into a stone pillar with every
bit of muscle and weight she could muster behind it.
The shock reverberated up through her elbows to the
base of her skull; the table splintered in her hands. She
tossed the two remaining intact legs to the floor, and, lifting
her massive, still-swaying skirts, she planted her foot
through the top twice for good measurediscovering, after
two years of suffering their discomfort, a use for her shoe's
fashion-dictated platform sole.
It was one of her noisier tantrums. Within moments, a
startled palace guard appeared at the antechamber door,
pausing uncertainly at the obvious calm within.
"Ah, captain." Her hands still tingling from the highly
rewarding impact, Kirystin smiled blithely, and brushed her
hands free of splinters. "My young visitor here is returning
to his encampment. Help him out with his machine, and
see one of the palace cabs conveys him safely to the City
gates."
And in a much lower undertone to the open-mouthed
boy: "Can you manage from there, honest man?"
The boy nodded wordlessly, his wide eyes taking in the
smashed table, her face, and the guard's tacit oblivion
toward the table's condition, the bright mind behind those
bright eyes obviously at work. He bowed, a deep bend at
the waist that never took his eyes from her face. "Thank
you, lady."
"You'll be hearing from me." And to the footman who
had followed the guard into the room, and was trying not
to stare at the ruined table: "Clean that up, will you?" She
glided again toward the west garden: "I always did hate
that thing. . . ."
The Cardinal Ring sliced its hypnotically regular path
through the leylines. The nine inner rings' tranquil, ran-
domized movements gained momentum and purpose; silver
flickerings achieved & rhythmic blur.
Following two false starts, the radical streamer, inner-
most of all at the moment, chose its own dangerous course,
becoming one with the silver haze surrounding the central
sphere.
Beyond that haze, a glowing sphere ... an image that
shimmered . . . and stabilized.
A face. A woman's face. Pale blonde hair, large blue
eyes ... features some would consider beautiful. But of
infinitely more interest  than the face  (or so Anheliaa
claimed) was the aura of power that radiated from the
sphere, touching the inner haze with a delicate spring-
green, proof (also according to Anheliaa) of her candidate's
latent Talent.
"That's her?" Nikki leaned forward in his chair and
stared. Finally, eyes wide, he turned to Mikhyel, and as if
seeking confirmation of his observation: "She's pretty."
"Did you think otherwise? The rings provided multiple
options for each of us; why should Anheliaa choose other
than the best?"
"M-Multiple... ?"
He laughed as Nikki's rather dazed expression slid past
him to Anheliaa.
"You're certain she's the best?" Nikki asked shakily, and
Anheliaa laughed merrily, obviously finding his younger
brother's complacency to her liking.
"Greedy, aren't you?" she said.
"No, Aunt." Nikki leaned forward earnestly. "At least,
I don't think so. I just want to be sure. Mikhyel said we've
got to make a good matchfor the Tower's sake. I-I'd
nope to become . . . fond of the woman I marry. I'd like to
be certain I won't have to give her up, that is, if she didn't
work out, for another . . . after . . . you know."
"The probabilities are equally compelling for each of the
young ladies, Nikaenor. The search parameters I estab-
lished were for biological viability and compatibility with
both you, personally, and the Rhomatum Node. There can
be no assurance one is better than another in that sense.
Of the four possibilitiesfor you alone, darling1 chose
Lidye dunTarim as the most attractive, both physically and
by birth. Her brother is Shatum's third-ranked ringmaster,
her father is a fourth term Shatum Syndicand doesn't
look to lose an election any time soon. He also recently
purchased controlling interest in the Shatum Tower."
"Shatum Tower?" Nikki turned a puzzled look toward
Mikhyel.
"She means" he began, broke off at Anheliaa's glare.
"I told you to explain all this," she snapped.
"On the contrary. Aunt," he returned, "you said to bring
him here."
"Oh, for" She slumped back on her couch, thrumming
her fingers on the chair arm. The image and the sphere
wavered and dissipated.
Uncertain what she expected of him, Mikhyel waited for
some sign, keeping his face blank, despite his growing
inner turmoil.
Finally, Anheliaa cast a hand in the air impatiently:
"Welltell him. Tell him, so we can get on with it."
He dipped his head in silent acknowledgment.
"Diplomatic relations," he said succinctly, to the accom-
paniment of Anheliaa's thrumming fingers, knowing that
Nikki, being no fool, would fill in the blanks, and some
bitterness  within  prompted  him  to  add:  "Dynastic
linkages."
However, Nikki, being also a student of history, asked:
"With Shatum Tower? Would Darius"
"There's nothing within Darius' laws prohibiting formal
alliances between nodes," Anheliaa said patronizingly. "He
was concerned with a priesthood, not the sort of necessary
understanding one must achieve with one's neighbors if one
is to tell Mauritum to go to hell."
"I . . . suppose."
But Nikki still sounded dubious, and to prevent his dig-
ging himself deeper into Anheliaa's bad graces, Mikhyel
said:
"We have no choice, Nikki. We need a ringmaster, there-
fore we must proceed along the course most likely to pro-
vide one, and that, according to the rings, is cross-breeding
with Shatum. Three of the four ladies the rings suggested
for you were from that node."
"Oh, I see." Nikki sounded relieved; Nikki hated dis-
agreements, which made him disquietingly susceptible to
Anheliaa's brand of pressure. For Nikki's safety, Mikhyel
argued Anheliaa's side, however, seeing the woman Anhe-
liaa had chosen for his young brother, Mikhyel was less
and less certain he wanted any part of that plan.
Anheliaa said suggestively: "Lidye's cousins threw her a
majority ball here in Rhomatum last year. I thought, per-
haps, you might have met?"
"I . . ." Nikki blushed, and stared at his hands.
"Anheliaa," Mikhyel intervened, daring her wrath a sec-
ond time, "he just turned . . ."
She glared at him. "I know that. What do you think I
am, senile? Did you think I'd forgotten?"
Which meant, of course, she had forgotten. But:
"Of course not," Mikhyel acquiesced, but he was silently
appalled: Shatum's majority was twenty-two. This Lidye
woman had to be nearer his age than Nikki's.
"Yes, well," Anheliaa continued archly, "The girl is quite
bookish. I thought Nikaenor might have met her in the
library, or at a bookseller's. But since that is apparently
not the case, if you'd care to see the others. . . ."
She said, who clearly didn't want one of the others. She
clearly wanted this Lidye.
Damn her.
"N-No. I'm sure she'll be ... f-fine," Nikki stammered
uncertainly, and what more could the boy do, but agree?
What more, at Anheliaa's dissatisfied scowl, than amend:
"I meant wonderful, of course. Aunt Liaa. Thank you."
Nikki's brilliant blue eyes shifted back to him, a desperate
appeal for rescue. "What about Nethaalye? She's from Gie-
phaetum, not Shatum."
He forced a smile. "She . . . passed the compatibility test,
if you will."
"I'm glad. You must be relieved."
He supposed that emotion lay somewhere within him.
But his family's twenty-year understanding with the Gie-
phaetum heiress' family would not have been intotal jeop-
ardy in any case: multiple spouses, while not common and
certainly not a possibility he'd ever considered for himself,
were hardly illegal. However, marriage being something of
a theoretical necessity in his mind, he had welcomed the
simplicity of Anheliaa's choice for him.
All of which didn't make it any easier to force his forced
smile to remain steady. "I'll simply marry her a bit sooner
than planned."
Never mind Nethaalye had planned the wedding five
years ago.
He didn't know why he'd kept putting it off. He liked
her well enough; bright, good looking in a quiet way, well-
mannered and accomplishedshe was all any sane man
could want in a wife. Certainly he sought none of the com-
plex emotional ties Nikki craved. He suspected it wasn't
the fact of being married he avoided, but the bedlam of
getting married.
"Sooner?" Nikki echoed, "How soon?"
Anheliaa said, "Once you two have formally extended
the proposals to the families, we'll have the ladies to the
Tower. If all goes as planned ... well, the sooner you're
married, the sooner we'll have offspring, won't we?"
"Offsp .. ." Nikki swallowed visibly. "Of c-course. But
what do you mean, if all goes as planned? All what?"
"If you suit one another, silly goose." Anheliaa was ever
so much happier now she was in absolute control. "And
naturally at least one of the ladies must prove proficient
with the rings."
"I see." Nikki swallowed visibly.  "And Deymorin?
Where does he fit in?"
"He doesn't," Anheliaa said flatly, and Mikhyel winced,
but Nikki said:
"Oh."
And Anheliaa seemed to take that as acceptance of the
situation.
Mikhyel reached for his brother's wrist, where it rested
on the chair arm, and gripped it comfortably. "Deymio
made his choice, Nikki," he said, gently, "No one forced
him. He wants nothing to do with the plan. You know he
doesn't care about the Tower or the Estate"
"But he does, Khyel. If you'd only listen to him"
He withdrew his hand and sat back. "I've spent my whole
life listening to him, Nikaenor. He doesn't understand the
ringsnever has understood the dynamics of City economics."
"He just wants people to be happy, Khyel. Is that so
wrong?"
"A society doesn't function in order to make people
happy," Anheliaa interjected sharply, and Mikhyel said,
hoping to stave off the obstinate look brewing in Nikki's
eyes:
"Happiness is a by-product of an efficient process, Nikki.
Maybe one day, Deymio will figure that out, and when he
does, he'll probably take his proper place at the head of
Council. But we can't put our hves, and the Principality,
on hold waiting for that day."
Despite his efforts, Nikki's jaw set stubbornly, a look
Anheliaa rarely saw. Hoping now to stave off open rebel-
lion, and deflect her attention, Mikhyel asked:
"May we see Deymorm's?"
"Deymorin's whatT' Anheliaa's voice dripped with
impatience.
"I'd like to see the woman you found for Deymorin," he
persisted, his own temper beginning to seethe.
"I said, it makes no difference."
"It might." Nikki leaned forward, eager eyes flickering
in the flash of ring-reflected leylight. "If she's as pretty as
Lady Lidye, perhaps Deymorin would come back."
Mikhyel tilted his head arrogantlya manner he'd
learned from herchallenging Anhehaa, knowing she knew
she couldn't refuse now without alienating them both. "Call
itcuriosity."
Her breath hissed out between clenched teeth, but she
faced the rings, which, upon her release of Lidye's image,
had resumed their seemingly random swings. According to
Anheliaa, those random motions were the rings' response
to the chaotic flux of the leys themselvesall except the
outermost, whose rotation hadn't wavered since the day his
aunt had taken command of the Tower, and the radical,
which hardly counted as a ring at all.
Her expression tempered, her eyes glazed as she ab-
sorbed that randomness and ciphered the probabilities.
Then, without ever moving, she gave the tiniest deflection
to the radical, and attuned the rings to her chosen parame-
ters in one economic mental exhalation.
She'd explained the process to him once, when he'd tried
to emulate her, hoping to find some iota of Talent within
himself, but he'd only managed to frustrate them both.
He'd never repeated the trialand eventually the night-
mares of that failed attempt had faded.
On the central sphere, another face swam into view. Not
one he recognized; not the individual, not the general dis-
trict  from  which  such  features  might .reasonably  hail,
though the set of the mouth held a disturbing familiarity.
Red hair, green eyes; hardly what he'd call stunningly beau-
tiful, and as young for Deymorin as that Lidye individual
was old for Nikki.
"But that's not..."  Anheliaa's voice faded into
uncertainty.
Not what? Mikhyel wondered. Her puzzled expression
gave him neither clue nor reassurance, but he held his
peace, her concentration at this stage far too delicate to
disturb with superfluous questions.
The image expanded, as if the viewer had stepped back
from the young woman. One pace, and a second, back and
backuntil the sphere pictured a slim, athletic figure, a
painted-on costume of silver and black, the metallic gleam
of a counter-balance orbiter, and (another positional reces-
sion) a stone stadium surrounding a multitiered lattice-
work stage.
A ringdancer? He felt laughter bubble in his throat.
"Leave it to Deymorin," he murmured, uncertain whether
that bubble was humor, bitternessor envy.
Nikki raised his chin pugnaciously. "What do you mean
by that?"
"Don't get touchy, lad. I think Deymorin himself would
appreciate the humor. Appropriate that our egalitarian
brother finds his match in a simple entertainer, don't you
think?"
"Hardly simple, Mikhyel," Anheliaa said, and her voice
quivered with excitement. The image wavered; she mas-
tered her emotional flare and the image stabilized. She was
leaning forward in her chair, eagerness and disbelief at war
in her age-crabbed features. "Look at the aura."
The Power radiating from the sphere this time was not
the innocent spring-green of Lidye's, but an intense, almost
blue, green; an aura so strong, so distinct, the rotating rings
glimmered a sympathetic, iridescent purple-red.
In one sense, 'simple' was undoubtedly apropos: the in-
herent (but exceedingly well-compensated) dangers of the
ringdance generally appealed only to the most fiscally des-
perate. But the woman's birth' wouldn't matter, not to Anhel-
iaathat green glow was recommendation enough. Likely
she'd even relinquish her dreams of intemode alliances, if
Deymorin could land this woman.
Of course, first she'd have to bring Deymorin home.
With a grunt that mingled pain and frustration in equal
portions, Anheliaa fell back into the confines of her couch,
still staring at that image, which shimmered and stabilized.
Furtive little Mirym appeared like magic at her side, ad-
justing the cushion at her back without a word.
Again the image wavered.
"Don't touch me!" Anheliaa's temper-flare colored the
ringhaze red; Mirym jumped back, then stood there, hands
behind her back, chin high, defiantly fearless.
Anheliaa's mouth tightened. Her eyes, still on the image,
narrowed to droop-lidded slits.
The red faded; the image stabilized.
Anhehaa murmured a curt Thank you. Mirym dipped a
slight curtsy and returned to her backless stool, and her
endless stitchery. Nikki appeared startled, but Mikhyel had
seen it before, this oddly silent little shadow with backbone
to rival Deymorin's.
But for all her silent defiance, Anheliaa must approve,
since Mirym had been here for nearly two years now,
longer than any of the others since Marta, Anheliaa's life-
long personal companion, had died some fifteen years
agoand only Mirym could imply, as she had now, Anhe-
liaa's malpracticeand survive.
An ability that never failed to rouse a tinge of jealous
admiration in him.
Silence, then, save for the sound of the rings cutting the
air, differential hums that took on a musicahty all their
own. A seemingly endless silence into which Anheliaa
stared with that unfathomable expression.
Suddenly:
"Damn the radical and the chaos it represents!"
The image shattered; the rings spun in sudden mad
chaos.
Mirym reached Anheliaa first, offering supporting hands.
Anheliaa thrust her staggering backward into Mikhyel's
arms; he staggered into Nikki, who held them all upright.
"Out!"
The girl twisted in Mikhyel's arms to look up at him,
seeking guidance.
He released her, jerked his head to where the lift was
rising from the floor in response to Anheliaa's desire to be
rid of them. "Leave. Now."
Still, Mirym hesitated. Nikki reached past him and took
her arm, murmuring: "It's all right," and led her to the
waiting lift, pausing there, his blue eyes questioning.
Mikhyel nodded, a single dip of the chin, and Nikki com-
placently accompanied Mirym through thebentwood grill,
and released the brake. But his eyes never left Mikhyel's
until he disappeared down the shaft and the hatch slid si-
lently between them.
Leaving him alone to deal with Anheliaa.
As they all did. Nikki. Deymorin. Council. Ever since
she brought him here to inform him that she was having
him groomed to take Deymorin's place on Council.
"Anheliaa?" He touched her arm, a light touch, but firm.
He'd been all of thirteen.
They all assumed that he, unlike all of them, was not
afraid of her. That he, unlike them, could sway her to his
thinking.
"Can't trust them," she muttered, still glaring at the
wildly spinning inner rings, her upper lip lifting in a one-
sided sneer.
They all assumed wrong.
"Can't trust what. Aunt?"
"The rings!" she snarled, then caught herself, buried her
wrinkled face in her gnarled hands.
Age. Affliction. The signs had increased of late. Her san-
ity, never incontestable, had grown terrifyingly uncertain.
After last night . . .
He'd covered for her for years, in public and in private,
humored her ever-wilder notions, taking them and trans-
forming them into acceptable proposals for Council, pray-
ing they'd ultimately prove beneficial to Rhomatum and
her people.
There'd been no option. No one else to control the Rho-
matum rings. Except, possibly, Deymorin, and he might
well have proven a worse tyrant with his anti-city notions.
He'd hoped this newest project would make her happy (and
keep her occupied) in her twilight years, while providing
the vital master Rhomatum so desperately needed.
Now
He stood behind her, gently rubbing her knotted shoul-
ders and neck until the fury ebbed and she quit shaking,
wondering would this mysterious dancer destroy those
dreams and set Anheliaa on some obsessive quest for unat-
tainable, perceived perfection.
"Who was she, Anheliaa?" he asked softly, when at last
it seemed safe. "What's wrong?"
Her shoulders lifted wearily under his hands. "I can't
trust them anymore, darling. Sometimes, too often, of late,
the rings have been inclined to reveal more wishes than
fact."
When it became apparent she considered her explanation
complete, he prompted: "And that's what you believe that
woman to be? A wish? Your wish? Why?"
"The rings refused to give details of the city1 have no
idea where she comes from. Maurii's hells, she might not
even exist."
"She's a dancer, that much is obvious. We can find her,
if it's important."
"A dancer. That tells us nothing. Nothing! Every damned
node in the web has at least one ringtheater nowbarbaric
custom that it is. If the woman exists, she's beyond reach."
She shrugged his hands away, impatiently. "Just aswell.
With that chin, she'd undoubtedly prove more hindrance
than help."
"Maybe we should search her out, thenbefore she mar-
ries elsewhere. Set her to taming my hard-headed brother."
She gave a bark of laughter. "That decides it: she was a
figment of an old woman's desperation. We could never be
that lucky." She rubbed her forehead and eyes irritably.
"Damnable boy. I'd never have imagined he had it in him.
I've still got a headache."
It was a moment before he realized the damnable boy
was Deymorin.
He gently pulled her wig free, and ran his fingers through
her thinning hair, rubbing gently in the way he'd learned
the way she'd had him taughtfifteen.years before. "Trans-
porting that overdeveloped body of his a bit of a strain,
was it?"
"Oh-h-h, that's lovely, sweet." Her head drooped back-
ward, her paper-dry hand caught awkwardly at his and car-
ried it shakily to her mouth.
He shivered and conquered the urge to pull free.
She nibbled a fingertip, bit hard enough to draw protest
out of him. Sharpened, polished nails dug into his palm,
preventing his escape. Only after he ceased to pull did she
chuckle and release him, saying, "Wasn't the transport,
darling."
Wasn't . . . He'd seen the disruption of the rings' orbits.
Had that flux been Deymorin's doing? Had she realized
the truth at last?
And one had to wonder how she would react when she
found out he'd known, for years, and had said . . . nothing?
"Why'd you stop, sweet?" Her voice, in repose, was as
thin as her hair.
"Sorry." He resumed the gentle massage with fingers
gone suddenly cold. "If not the transfer, what was it?"
"He . . . Oh, hell. Doesn't matter. Besides, he's gone."
"Not" He swallowed and tried again. "Not for
good... ?"
Silence.
"Surely, he'll be back. . . ." he protested weakly.
And a shrug.
Third Interlude

He was falling.
Father's laughter rang in his ears. "Balance, fool! Expect
the unexpected."
Rule number one: Never anticipate: Never lean into a
jump . . . lead with your chin . . . parry a blade not yet com-
mitted . . . or pressure a woman.
Horse, man or woman.' which had outsmarted him this
time?
The fall took a lifetime ...
A brother's voice, echoing his name.
Black hair streaming, veiled stars and moon above.
His answering cry froze in his throat.
Beyond the shimmer of materialization, one could feel
the crystalline lace opalesce red and orange: subtle betrayal
of latent anger and frustration. Dancer willed those col-
orsand the emotionsinto oblivion before completing
bodily transition into the cavern.
Lest Mother add one more human hide to her oft-referenced,
never seen collection.
Besides, there was no percentage in frustration: Mother
would explain the new pattern in her own time. But she'd
woven Dancer into that patternnothing else could explain
the energy flux Dancer experienced day and night since
the pattern beganand that fact made patience exceedingly
difficult, particularly when that flux pulled one way, Rhyys'
demands another, and the dance itself another still.
Mother (Dancer heaved a sigh of relief) was not lying in
wait. Mother was, in point of fact, nowhere in sight.
Or wouldn't have been, had Dancer's eyes been open.
A tentative tendril of thought sent searching through the
shifting, spongelike maze of stone and crystal located her,
and Dancer followed that perception into the innermost
sanctuary, Mother's personal nest, feeling the warmth of
the leythium flame before remembering closed eyes and
blinking them open.
Mother was there, as the Sense had told Dancer, but so
much a part of the dense veils, actually finding her took
several moments.
She lay motionless on a shelf above the imaging pool,
chin propped on cupped palms, gazing fixedly into the
flaming hquid. Her couch was composed of shifting ley-
thium, her clothing a filmy drape of interlinking leythium
threads; it required a blink of her large, multifaceted eyes
to separate her from the shadows and flickering veils.
"Mother?" Dancer began tentatively. "I'm terribly sorry.
I heard you call, but Rhyys wanted an audience, and I
was the first available victim. It seems Mheric's eldest has
disappeared and"
Those large eyes shifted, and Dancer's voice caught, fro-
zen in that fixed stare.
{I'm supposed to give a storm's hiccup about any of this?}
Dancer smothered comment and thought alike. For
Mother, comment was much the same as thoughtand
vice versa.
{Get over here and tell me what you see, curse these old
eyes of mine.)
Those 'old eyes' could spot a mouse in a field from the
top of a mountain peak, or the dust on the end of her nose,
but Mother liked to think she was dying. Mother had heard
somewhere that human elders used their infirmities to ma-
nipulate the younger folk around them, a concept she found
highly entertaining to emulate, though she'd never admit
as much.
Crossing a filmy stream of liquid leythium (evidence that
elsewhere someone was drawing heavily on Khoratum re-
sources) Dancer slid onto the couch beside Mother and
stared into the flames, seeking pictures in the shadows and
colors that danced across the surface.
Anheliaa: appearing older by far than the ten years that
had passed since Dancer had seen her. For Dancer, it was
a clear, clean image, but Mother might have reason to com-
plain: her own distaste for the Rhomatum ringmaster might
well be clouding her visions. 
{Smart ass. What else do you see?)
A man . . . or what was left of one.
{Deymorin Rhomandi dunMhenc. Mheric's eldest brat.}
"Thank you," Dancer acknowledged the information
humbly, while mentally noting that soon she would be de-
manding the rumors from Rhyys' dinner table, at least as
far as they regarded the man in the pool. "Anheliaa has
leythiated him . . . like the others."
Mother nodded toward the liquid leythium stream. "Rather
more emphatically than the others. Dislikes the lad
intensely."
At least in that, Rhyys' rumors held true. Rhyys had
said the Rhomandi had argued with his aunt and deserted
Rhomatum at last. Evidently, 'deserted' wasn't quite the
most accurate description of this Deymorin's departure.
"What else?" Mother hissed, all eagerness. "Where has
the creature sent him?"
"He's still in transit, isn't he?"
"I asked you. If I knew the answer, would I have asked?"
Dancer grinned, not the least abashed. "Yes."
{Humph.} Mother's thoughts echoed of amusement.
Mother appreciated backbone. {Well, you're right. Given
him quite a send-off. Curse the vile creature, it's getting
better than it deserves.)
"Mother, Deymorin dunMheriche's Princeps of Rho-
matum. Technically, he outranks Anheliaa in the Rhoma-
tum government, for all he's declared his brother proxy. If
she's eliminated him ... there could be a major political
coup in motion."
{Meaning the creature will be completely free to do as she
wishes? That might be fun.)
"Fun? Mother, Anheliaa's an aggressive expansionist.
Rhyys has said Mauritum hasn't the power to stand against
her. If Anheliaa dares move in that direction, there could
be major ramifications."
The veils took on a rosy glow of anticipation. "Oh, good."
He was falling.
Father's laughter rang in his ears. "Balance, fool! Expect
the unexpected."
Rule number one: Never anticipate: Never lean into a
jump . . . lead with your chin . . . parry a blade not yet com-
mitted . . . or pressure a woman.
Horse, man or woman: which had outsmarted him this
time?
The fall took a lifetime . ..
A brother's voice, echoing his name.
Black hair streaming, veiled stars and moon above.
His answering cry froze in his throat.
. . . and an instant.
Sunlight, blinding bright, replaced moonlit black hair.
Not Brandy. Not a horse at all. No jump; no father. No
duel. No woman.
No brother.
"He's aware. Mother." Dancer felt queasy at the
thought. Queasier at the realization of the time Deymorin
dunMheric had already spent in that hazy nowhere, the
limbo of transition: it had been nearly six months since
Mother had last shared her imaging cauldron.
Six months of silence from Mother.
Six months of silence out of Rhomatum.
Six months of growing frustration from Rhyys, whose
plans for Khoratum's future revolved in some significant
sense around Rhomatum's succession. Six months of eerie
quiet, during which one's own plans for the future could
grow and blossom into exciting possibilities, shoving the
fate of the unknown Princeps of Rhomatum into a forgot-
ten mental recess.
Six months during which the insistent pull of the new
pattern had diminished to insignificance, until, of a sudden,
it had returned full force  and more, so powerful, Dancer
had barely had time to escape the practice hall before
something or someone forced transfer to Mother's sanctum.
Dancer suspected someone, but didn't accuse. Not
considering:
"Six months in nowhere. What could he possibly have
done to deserve it?"
(Should I care?}
Dancer looked away from the image of utter help-
lessness, an image that triggered memories of darkness and
blood seeping from stoneand memories of loss.
"Perhaps you shouldn't. Perhaps I shouldn't, but I can't
help it. Can't I do something?"
(Of course you can. But we won't.}
"Why?" Difficult to contain the anguish. Even more dif-
ficult to keep the image clear of the distorting colors of
anguish.
{Because Anheliaa did it. Anheliaa set the trajectory. I
want to see where it ends.)
"She has no control over it, you know that. I know it."
{I should certainly hope you do. And of course Anheliaa
doesn't. Anheliaa's not that good. But the rings do. The ley
does,  and it's  all charted according  to  that creature's
subconscious.}
"And you want to know where that subconscious is send-
ing him?"
{How very clever you are.)
"What good is knowing, if the man who arrives has no
mind left?"
{Did I say I didn't know? Go away. Your childish loyal-
ties begin to pall.)
"My loyalties are not to Rhomatum. Certainly not to
Deymorin dunMheric."
(Where are they, then?)
"To my people."
{Harrumph.)
"That means to you, Mother. You know that. Many of
us remain loyal to the old ways."
Her pink, double-tipped tongue flickered across supplely-
scaled Ups. {That last chicken was . . . delightful. When you
return, tell them their mother loves chicken.}
Dancer laughed, the bad memories and the helplessness
banished for the time being, and bugged her, receiving a
staggering shove for the effort. "I will. Mother. And now,
I must return."
{Haven't you something else to tell me?}
Dancer froze, striving for the anonymity of non-thought
without overmuch success, knowing better than to prevari-
cate. "Ididn't want to say anything until . . . after. In case
I lost."
{You thought I wouldn't know?}
"I hoped you were too occupied."
{Does failure frighten you so much?)
Tears threatened. Childish tears; Dancer knew it, and
still they dripped and clouded inferior human vision. "In
this. Yes."
Mother's scaled fingers caressed Dancer's body, following
muscle contours, tapping at detected weak spots. {Too
much practicing of the same moves.)
"I dance to win. The moves must be those the judges
recognize and understand, those they can compare with the
other contestants."
"You allow this single goal too much power over your
thoughts and emotions, Dancer," she murmured softly: her
human voice, not the sibilant one, not the internal one.
"You are what you are, no contest can change or set a
value on thatwin or lose. You will never dance your best
as long as you dance for those whose standards are less
than your own."
"Time enough for experimentation once I am the Radi-
cal Dancer."
"Even if you win this competition, you will only be the
Radical if you let yourself be."
"You don't understand."
The fingers left abruptly, the voice returned to that inter-
nal chill:
{Don't I? You might well win this upcoming competition
and replace Betania, but if you win under false pretences,
you will continue to dance under them, because you will be
too frightened to try -anything new, too afraid their standards
will not stretch to encompass yours. You will always know
the difference between what you are and what you should
have been, and one day so will the audience, not in the
substance, but in the spirit, and they will know you have
cheated them, and you will know you cheated yourself. Then
where will you be?)
"Mother, you frighten me."
"Good. You need to be frightened. You're too good,
Dancer. You rely too heavily on that ability."
"I practice hard. Harder than anyone."
(You practice conservatism, not art. Tradition, not inspira-
tion; rules, not faith. The radical factor in the ley is rarely
conservative: that's where Anheliaa's greatest errors in judg-
ment lie. The radical dances to the most unusual flux and
designs its own rules, challenging the universe to join it. Until
you gain that courage to laugh in the face of the judges and
dance as you were born to dance, you've no right to win.)
"You ask too much of me. Mother."
"I ask nothing of you, except that you leave me alone."
It was clear dismissal. She turned back to the flame, and
Dancer, left with no alternative, drifted slowly back to the
world-cavern, where transfer to the surface came most
easily.
Aimless.
Liquid leythium oozed between bare toes, sending a pal-
pable, revitalizing, iridescent glimmer through Dancer's
tired body, and trickling from Dancer's eyes.
Alone.
{Unless, of course . . .} Mother's brushing thought tasted
suddenly of excitement: {You care to stay and see where
our favorite Princeps lands.}
"He's exiting?"
{I believeyes, he already has.)
Dancer ran back, as anxious for reinstatement into Moth-
er's graces as for the answer to that six-month-long puzzle.
He was falling.
Father's laughter rang in his ears. "Balance, fool! Expect
the unexpected."
Rule number one: Never anticipate: Never lean into a
jump . . . lead with your chin . . . parry a blade not yet com-
mitted . . . or pressure a woman.
Horse, man or woman: which had outsmarted him this
time?
The fall took a lifetime . . .
A brother's voice, echoing his name.
Black hair streaming, veiled stars and moon above.
His answering cry froze in his throat.
. . . and an instant.
Sunlight, blinding bright, replaced moonlit black hair.
Not Brandy. Not a horse at all. No jump; no father. No
duel. No woman.
No brother.
He struck.
Blinding pain. His leg, and not.
His lungs exploded . . . collapsed.
He gasped, inhaled
water.
"Nikki? Nee-ee-kee. Wait. Oh, please, wait."
Long skirts whooshed softly across the salon carpet. Soft-
soled slippers pitter-pattered across the foyer's patterned
tiles.
Snared.
He should have known his luck would run out.
Stifling a sigh, Nikki paused just short of the Tower's
front door, aiming his frustration at the necessary business
of working driving gloves on over fingers gone suddenly
damp, feeling the complete boor and still wishing he
could disappear.
But if he felt this way now ...
"Oh, Nikki." Lidye's voice was charmingly breathless. "I
feared I'd miss you."
. . . what was he going to feel after they were married?
Nikki pushed the final fingertip into place, and forced a
smile before facing her.
"Where are you going?" Breathless voice. Exertion-
flushed cheeks. She'd dashed all the way across two whole
rooms and was still on her feet. Amazing.
Be fair, dunMheric, he chastised himself, and managed
more warmth in his expression. "Just leaving to pick up
Mikhyel."
He'd had no idea he was such a good actor.
"A whole month already?" Tiny hands fluttered deli-
cately to Lidye's shapely (but all-too-modestly covered)
bosom.
Rings save him, he was thinking more like Deymorin
every day.
"A month and more; he stayed an extra week this time,
you know."
Her long lashes biinkedone, two, three, four . . . then
fluttered, as if the calculation was straining her abilities,
then: "Wait. I'll get my bonnet and cloak"
"No!" The involuntary protest escaped before he could
stop it.
"No?" Her lower lip quivered pitifully, and Nikki stifled
another sigh, and took her hands in his, rather belatedly
attempting to soften his protest.
"Lidye, I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean that the way it
sounded. I'm late already, you see, and Khyel must get
back to the City tonight."
"Tonight?" Her head tipped toward one shoulder and
she biinked up at him. "Won't you have to travel awfully
fast, then?"
He nodded solemnly. "And I'll have to take the open
carriage."
"Oh. Dear." She biinked again.
"It might rain, you know. There could be hghtning."
"Goodness!" Her hands fluttered free again, this time to
land on his elbow.
Sort of like a . . . bug.
"And after last month1 know how much you suffered
and I couldn't bear inflicting such discomfort on you again."
Behind the florid phrases, he berated himself for his lack
of sincerity, but after six months of daily contact with the
young flower he'd dutifully asked to marry him, the per-
fume had gone decidedly stale. His only relief had been
these drives, and recently she'd begun invading them as
well.
Her fingers slid delicately around his arm, her head
tipped shyly to his shoulder. . . .
It was all he could do not to pull away.
"But I so enjoyed it, Nikki. I shouldn't mind the suffering
. . . if I were with you."
Yet another blink, followed by several more.
Made a man wonder (unkind thought) whether she was
nearsighted or just had something perpetually lodged in her
eye. Made a man wonder as well what god he had offended
to make the rings think this was his perfect match.
Her attention safely on his driving coat lapel, he was free
to frown, an emotional release that made it easier to say
neutrally, "But I must return tonight, dearest girl. Khyel
has an extremely important Council meeting early tomor-
row morning, and I simply can't risk a delay at Armayel."
A lace-covered fingertip tremblingly traced his buttons,
and her voice quivered pathetically as she murmured, "And
I was such a hindrance last time, delaying you for two
whole days. I-I'm so . . ."
Three, he thought glumly, but who was counting? He
shoved such uncharitable, unromantic thoughts from his
mind and patted her hand consolingly. It wasn't, after all,
her fault she had a delicate constitution.
Thrusting aside the insidious little voice that asked If not
her fault, then whose? along with the image of her counting
the Armayel silver, he said, "I truly would never forgive
myself if you took ill. It's cold Outside. Colder than last
time"
"Truly? How strange, that spring should be colder than
winter..."
Spring. Bless the rings, it was. Three months since the
midwinter festival.
And nearly six months since his seventeenth birthday.
Her fingers traced the folds of his cloak, disappearing
inside, past his waistcoat to his shirt, stopping just short of
his skin, before retreating. "You're certain you can't take
the carriage?"
"Not and make the time I must." He pulled away, hold-
ing her hands captiveto keep them from creeping over
him againand backed toward the door. "Please, Mistress
Lidye, I must be going."
Her hands withdrew from his, and clasped beneath her
chin. "Then I must be generous and forgo my personal
pleasure, dear Nikki. You will hurry back?"
Only if Khyel holds a gun on me, he thought, smiled
sweetly and escaped out the door.
A breeze drifted across his skin.
Bare skin. Wet bare skin. Cold, wet bare skin.
Deymorin shivered and tried to force sticky eyes open,
decided it required far too much effort, and desisted, won-
dering, for an instant, whether he'd had a good time achiev-
ing this state of mental and physical exhaustion.
He remembered falling . . .
And water. There had been water. Lots of water.
But he was dry nowcomparatively, at least, since it was
air he breatheddry, and lying facedown in (he inhaled
deeply) grass. Outside, to judge from that grass, and from
the whisper of wind in the trees and the chill against his
skin.
Not such a bad situation, especially since his back burned
as if it had been flayed; unless, of course, that flayed feeling
was the world's worst sunburn, in which case, he supposed
he should move. But moving sounded too much like work.
Besides, from the chill, he must be in the shade.
Grass. Flayed back. Sun. Shade. Man had to wonder
where he was, and how he'd gotten here.
And who'd done the flaying.
Memory expanded, lazily filling the blanks. He remem-
bered Nikki's party, the argument with Mikhyel, Anheliaa
and the Tower . . . and her palpable anger, the mesmeric
silver blur, the pain pressuring him to concedeand light,
blinding hght, when he refused.
And falling . . .
Khyel's voice surrounding him; Khyel's hair, streaming
across a night sky.
. . . and water. Drowning. Why hadn't he drowned?
If only he could see.
He tried to rub his eyes, discovered his hand wouldn't
move. Couldn't.
Neither arm could move.
Neither . . . foot.
And his eyes were coveredblindfolded.
He muttered a curse and pulled harder.
He was tied down. He was damnwell tied down. Not pain-
fully, not even totally immobilized, but enough to force him
to stay right where he was, facedown in the grass and
damned uncomfortable, now he thought of it.
Strangely, though his backside was painful as hell, he felt
nothing underneath, only the inward pressure of a sharp-
edged rock against his ribs, the internal strain on a back-
ward-bent knee. His back was on fire, his other side was
... numb.
"All right," he called experimentally, "I'm awake now.
Game's over. What's going on?"
Not so much as heavy breathing answered him.
Immobilization, desertion . . . What had the old bat done
to him?
Damn her.
"Anheliaa?" he shouted. "Barrister! Where the hell
are you?"
Whispers about Tower justice, rumors about criminals
disappearing into the air, never to return. Rumors he'd
laughed away as outrageous exaggerations of Anheliaa's
power, once upon a foolish time, as once he'd have scoffed
at ring-induced headaches from hell.
Somehow, those rumors no longer seemed quite so outra-
geous.
But there was no need (he thought, to calm his visceral
heave) for supernatural intervention. Easy enough, when
you were Anheliaa dunMoren, to blind a man with that
ring-induced lightning, to strike him senseless with ring-
induced pain, thpn spirit him from the City via the arms of
highly substantial Tower Guards, and leave him tied bare-
buck naked for the wolves to devour the evidence.
After that, rumor would do the rest: magic, if you were
Anheliaa. Deceptive, dishonest, and deceitful in anyone
else.
A surge of anger ripped through him, robbing him of
common sense. He fought his bonds, throwing himself
backward, ignoring the pain in his back and wrists, the 
pounding in his skull simply spurring him on to greater
effort.
Thump. One arm flew suddenly free.
He thudded back to the ground, the three remaining re-
straints twisting his limbs awkwardly, crimping his burning
back. A turn of the bound wrist and the unseen rope was
in his grip, providing leverage to haul his aching carcass
upright.
Thump.
He lay still, both arms free, but with his legs turned use-
lessly under him. His thinking, already clouded with pain,
wasn't helped by the fact his head had struck something
exceedingly hard and was humming rather like Anheliaa's
rings.
Suddenly:
"Not real bright, are you?" A harsh, but youthful voice
floated from the darkness beyond his covered eyes.
Apparently, he was no longer alone.
Even as his buzzing' head reached that brilliant conclu-
sion, a hand grasped his elbow and pulled him back onto
his stomach.
"Hold still," the strangely accented voice-out-of-the-
dark ordered.
A third thump.
A leg free.
He waited.
Thump.
Ignoring the objections in every muscle and joint, he
heaved up and away fropi the voice's apparent point of
origin, tearing at the blindfold, convinced he'd have the
advantage on any youth, if only he could see
But his body betrayed him. His knees wobbled like a
newborn colt's, fire shot down his weak leg and it collapsed
under him, and he was falling well before the other's body
struck him down.
A fist slammed him between the shoulder blades. "I said,
hold still, idiot."
Deymorin swore roundly, reared back, and swiped again
at the blindfold. The fist struck a second time.
"It's a bandage, fly-brain. Touch it again, and so help me
I'll knock your fool head in. I didn't haul your ass out of
that damned oversized mud puddle to lose you now."
He grumbled and collapsed into the grass, feeling queas-
ily vulnerable, yet oddly relieved. He'd never been blind
before, and didn't appreciate the sensation now. Liked less
having to lie uncomplaining, without a stitch on, while
strong callused fingers kneaded something cold and slimy
into his burning flesh.
However, Gravel-voice had implied he was in no immedi-
ate danger from that source, and disgusting though it felt
going on, as the slime dried, the pain subsided; reflection
compared the result to his downward side, and he realized
whatever the youth was doing to the back, he'd already
done to the front, and decided he was just as glad he
couldn't observe the damage.
He avoided the question of why his eyes required a ban-
dage. Refused to entertain the mere possibility that that
final blinding flash might have done something permanent.
But if it had...
If it had, Anheliaa was going to pay.
Perhapsanger welled, and he revised the thought
coldlyhe'd collect regardless.
From somewhere (it sounded overhead, which he sin-
cerely hoped was not the case) came the distinctive bleat
of a . . . lamb? Perhaps he was hallucinating after all. It was
fall, much too late in the year for lambs. But the sound
didn't repeat, and he concluded he was mistaken.
"Where am I?" he asked at last, that seeming an innocu-
ous enough request.
"Oops. Missed a spot." The hands left him and more
oil dribbled down his sides. Then: "Where do you think
you are?"
He cursed softly. "Perhaps that's too hard," he said
dryly. "Let's try this one: Who are you?"
The hands' owner laughed. "Does it matter?"
Intellectual debates. Too tired and sore to bother, he
gave up, and let his mind drift.
Wherever he was, whenever, and whoever Gravel-voice
was, Anheliaa was behind his being here.
Following years of living apart, respectfulor at least
tolerantof each other's idiosyncrasies, Anheliaa had
changed the rules of their perpetual conflict without warn-
ing. He probably should have expected it: their differences
were too legion to coexist forever, but now, the padding,
so to speak, had been pulled in an attack he could not,
would not, leave unchallenged.
First, he had to get Nikki out of Rhomatumaway from
Anheliaa's influence. Mikhyel too, if he weren't a willing
participant in Anheliaa's schemes.
As for the several hundred thousand citizens of Rhoma-
tum and her satellites, he had no interest in being either
their conscience or their martyr. He'd tried dealing with
them once before, had determined their priorities and
found themat odds with his own.
Once his brothers were safe, he'd see about arming the
citizens with the facts of Tower life. The means existed:
flyers,  underground  newspapers  ...  perhaps,  given  his
name, the Internode itself would take the risk. After that,
it was up to  them  whether they  allowed Anheliaa dun-
Moren a free rein over their hves or deposed her.
Revenge, however, was another matterundermining
Anheliaa's newest obsession would fill that bill quite nicely.
And since liberating her two remaining studs would go a
long way toward destroying Anheliaa's little breeding pro-
gram, even revenge boiled down to getting his brothers out
of Rhomatum, and out of range of the Rhomatum rings and
Anheliaa's sadistic influence.
She could inflict painto that, he could personally attest.
According to official records, she could track known indi-
viduals within the Cityperhaps anywhere along the nodes.
Which put her about on a par with a good hunting hound.
There were the rumors she could transport people instan-
taneously out of the City, which might be true, rumor also
had her flinging bolts of pure leypower and reading minds.
Any of which, he would concede as possiblenow. He
just didn't know for certain and until he did, he could
hardly plan an effective opposition.
He was willing, under the circumstances, to give Khyel's
theory some credence. He might have some power over the
Rhomatum rings (hard-headed stubbornness, if nothing
else; there'd been a moment, he recalled or imagined, when
he'd almost broken free of Anheliaa's influence) but a
head-to-head contest of wills against a sixty-year veteran of
ring manipulation was not his idea of a winning battle-plan.
First...
In its relentless downward path, Gravel-voice's massage
roused a stabbing pain in his bad leg, and he grunted objec-
tion; Gravel muttered something totally unintelligible, and
Gravel's hands poked and prodded with only slightly more
care, asking Here? and Here? To which he replied in flu-
ent Curse.
Gravel-voice laughed, set both palms flat on either side
of his tailbone and shoved.
Hard.
Compressing ... parts into the ground. Parts that ob-
jected highly to such cavalier treatment.
But somewhere in and around or through his curse,
something grated inside, and thanked ... into place, there
was no other way to describe the sudden release of tension
and pressure within.
"What the hell" Deymorin gasped and twisted away.
"Sorry." Humor touched the gruff voice, but the hand
that grabbed his shoulder and held him steady was all busi-
ness. "How's the back? Better?"
Deymorin settled reluctantly onto his stomach, gingerly
flexing his lower back, and found, to his rather grudging
amazement, that the subtle tension he lived with almost
daily was gone, and with it the sharp bite of pain in his leg,
and he forced himself to admit, "I suppose." He shifted,
protecting the newest bruise, and said sourly, "Least you
could do is warn a fellow."
A throaty chuckle filled the air over his head. "Didn't
think. Sorry."
He granted and settled his head on his forearms as his
tormentor dribbled more of the oily substance.
"Used to do it for m' sis, don't you know? After her
fifth, her back bothered her like everything . . . Sorry about
the ropes. Wriggling around, you were, like a landed fish,
and you need to stay still while it dries, don't you know?
Woke up faster than I thought you would, or I wouldn't
have left you that way."
Suddenly Gravel-voice was quite chatty ... A noncha-
lance a man appreciated when the numbing goo oozed over
his hips and buttocks and those businesslike hands started
sliming his legs. Whatever Anheliaa's henchmen had done
to him, they hadn't missed a hand'Sc-breadth of skin. Made
a man wonder what else had been flayed and was already,
thankfully, numb.
Someone was going to be sorry they hadn't completed
the job.
Another bleat.
It was a lamb. Or a different one. And soon, from the
sounds, several.
Sincerely disturbed, now, he sniffed the grassthat being
the most immediately available clue, sticking into his nose
as it wasand rubbed a hand across it, trying to connect
the finger picture with a remembered image.
Short. Natural ends. Not clippednot by scythes, not by
sheep teeth. Fresh-smelling.
Spring smelling.
This time, the chill that shuddered through him had noth-
ing to do with the ointment the unseen lad poured across
his feet.
Sparing him little more than a passing glance, the Oreno
Ley registrar waved Nikki through the express stile. No
need for papers when you were one of Mheric dunMoren's
multiplicity of heirs, less when you made a habit of visiting
the family stable several times a week and were on a first
name basis with all the Oreno keepers.
Nikki raised a hand in silent thanks and slipped past,
hoping the rest of the walk to the stable would prove as
uneventful; the registrar nodded and returned with obvious
reluctance to an argumentative traveller.
Threads of that argument reached him as he wove
through the growing line of impatient inbounds. Something
to do with a gun and City regulations.
Strange argument. Must be an Outsider on his first visit.
No sane person would consider travelling near the leylines
(let alone within a node city) with a loaded firearm. There'd
been some spectacular accidents before their ancestors had
discovered the causal linkage between leypower and
gunpowder.
Even along the lines themselves, handling explosive
weapons was more likely to endanger your foot than your
adversary. Anyone accustomed to Cities expected guns of
any sort to be confiscated at the gates, and one carried the
proper papers and identification for retrieval of said items
upon departure.
But in Rhomatum even loose powder could be danger-
ous, and sometimes, people just didn't understand. . . .
Not that anyone needed such devices. Not in Rhomatum.
Within Rhomatum one confined oneself to (the tiny scar
beneath his arm twitched) knives. Not even Mikhyel could
outlaw those.
Personally, he'd always preferred the power of words.
An admirable philosophy which hadn't stopped him, since
the events of six months past, from carrying a knife at his
belt, and training with the cadets twice a week.
Six months. Had it really been so long since he'd last
seen Deymorin?
Nikki worked his way through the crowded streets, past
produce carts and street sellers, enjoying his own brand of
anonymity, here, where he was just one of many potential
customers meandering by to pass the time of day, to com-
ment on the weather or current politics, or to purchase an
apple or a freshly-baked meat pie.
Market-grazing, Deymorin called it. And it was a habit
he'd picked up from Deymorin, he supposed, although
since the market lay between the Tower and the stables, it
was natural enough. But Deymorin loved the marketplace,
as he loved the stables and farmlands. Deymorin loved the
press of people, the friendly shouts, even the jostling that
might mean a cutpurse.
Deymorin considered it a personal challenge to outsmart
such individuals, and if he couldn't, figured the cutpurse
deserved the prize.
He doubted a cutpurse had outsmarted his eldest brother
in years.
Dammit, Deymorin, where are you?
He never knew these days how he felt toward Deymorin.
Angry, that for certain. Deymorin had made him a prom-
isethe first important promise he'd ever asked of him
and broken it within the hour.
But after six months of Lidye
"Hai-yo, Nikki, lad!"
Nikki forced a smile to his lips and edged past an ener-
getic, four-way argument on the relative merits of various
chicken breeds to answer the voice hailing him from a low
bench behind aleather-strewn table.
"Where be that brother o' yourn?" the saddler asked the
Dreaded Question. "I ha'no seen him forlord o' my,
since afore midwinter. Been holdin' this here" He held
up a bitless bridle. "Bought a' paid, 'tis. Bought a' paid.
Just waitin' to set on a head."
Nikki ran a hand over the supple leather and fingered
the fine tooling appreciatively. These days, he tended to
pass by stalls with little more than a glance at the wares,
avoiding the owners because of the inevitable questions
Deymorin's Brother attracted. Questions to which he could
give only the official response . . .
"He rode up to Pretierac last fall, to check out some
native ponies and got snowed in for the winter in that early
blizzard. We expect him back any day now."
. . . regardless how unsatisfactory the answer was to both
himself and Deymorin's friends. Deymorin didn't get
snowed in, and Deymorin especially didn't miss the spring
foaling at Darhaven regardless of health or weather.
One thing he knew, Deymorin wasn't at Darhaven. He'd
been to the breeding farm twice since Deymorin disap-
peared: once with Mikhyel, a second time alone, quietly,
and unannounced, and he simply couldn't believe Tonio
and the other staff could fake their obvious growing con-
cern over their master's continued absence.
It was all very disturbing.
He handed the headstall back, expressed his admiration
of the workmanship, said he'd tell Deymorin as soon as he
saw him, and sidled out of the stall, mumbling some excuse,
uncertain which he used this time.
Mikhyel, being more accustomed to subterfuge, might
have given more complete, more believable answers, had
people ever thought to ask him. But they never thought,
never made the connection with Deymorin on the rare oc-
casions they saw Mikhyel dunMheric walking this same
path, not even when Nikki accompanied him.
Or perhaps it wasn't that they didn't think to ask, not
that they didn't recognize him, but rather that Mikhyel
never stopped, never gave anyone an opportunity to ask.
It was even possible some of the Outsiders dealing their
wares had never seen Mikhyel Rhomandi dunMheric. Prior
to Deymorm's disappearance, Mikhyel hadn't been through
this market since their father had died.
Mikhyel had told him once, years ago and in passing,
that strangers disturbed him, particularly crowds like the
market-grazers. Nikki had thought that quite odd, at the
time, and wondered, perhaps, if he'd heard wrong, but after
accompanying Mikhyel through these streets, after watch-
ing his brother's deliberately evasive, forward-staring eyes
as he passed between the stalls, he'd come to realize how
very real that fear must be.
Mikhyel had been going to the Tower Hill offices daily
since he was a child, and by the time he was Nikki's age,
he'd been in charge of them, constantly surrounded by peo-
ple and buildings and things he knew and had known all
his life. His tailor and barber attended him in the Tower.
He hardly knew other citizens, let alone the farmers and
breeders and merchants Deymorin preferred.
Seemed like a lonely way to live, though not as bad as
Anheliaa, who never got outside the Tower anymore. And
thatone way or the other, Anheliaa's or Mikhyel'swas
how they would have him live, if they had their way.
Except, Anheliaa would say, he'd have Lidye to keep
him company.
Day and night.
He shuddered, understanding, after six months of Lidye
dunTarim, exactly why Deymorin had left, and why his
brother had never so much as sent word of where he was
or how he was or when (if ever, Nikki now feared) he was
coming back to Rhomatum, no matter how many promises
or I.O.U.s given.
But understanding did not excuse.
Initially, Deymorin's leaving, his casual disregard of the
promise he'd made had seemed a personal betrayal. They'd
had a deal. Deymorin wouldn't leave until theyhe, Mik-
hyel, and Deymorinhad had a chance to work things out.
Six months ago, that had had ultimate significance. Now - . .
Now, he realized there was more at issue than his own,
admittedly rather childish, desires for an end of strife and
interfamilial power plays.  In  his selfish  disappearance,
Deymorin had deserted, not just him, not just Mikhyel, but
all the Outside as well.
Poor already-overworked Khyel, who hated and feared
the Outside, had been spending at least one week in five
travelling the Betweens, seeing to all the things Deymorin
used to manage. And when he was in the City, he was up
till all hours of the night meeting with councillors, syndics,
and people Nikki suspected, when he saw them passing in
the halls, of being Rhomatum's eyes and ears in other
nodes.
Nikki would have helped, offered to help every time he
took Mikhyel Outside, but Mikhyel insisted on doing the
work himself, insisted it was time he learned about fertiliz-
ers and mulch and foaling and seasons. And Inside the
Tower, Mikhyel said it was his job, and would take longer
to explain than to do it himself. Besides, Mikhyel said, he
depended on Nikki to keep Lidye and Nethaalye occupied
and entertained.
He'd rather be helping Tomas muck stables.
He stopped at Fredriri's booth as he always did whenever
the instrument-maker passed through Rhomatum, partially
because it was his interest alone, not one he shared with
Deymorin, or Mikhyel, and partially because he couldn't
resist trying out the new instruments.
He always stopped. He always admired. But somehow,
he never bought-at least, not for his own use. To do so
seemeddisloyal to Barney. And because Fredriri was his
friend, he could get the out-of-town news and gossip with-
out Deymorin's fate entering the conversation.
But today, even Fredriri failed him, insistently drawing
his attention to the wares of the seamstress sharing his stall,
Fredi himself obviously more intent on her buxom charms
than in promoting a known nonsale, and unwittingly re-
minding him of his own impending matrimony and associ-
ated obligations.
Nikki was dutifully checking out the embroidery on a
festival blouse of the seamstress' art and wondering list-
lessly if Lidye would like it, when, from the comer of his
eye, he glimpsed a familiar figure.
Mirym.
Anheliaa's servant was weaving her way hke a wispy
brown shadow through the crowd, pausing at each stall to
examine the items at length. Strange behavior, if she was
here on Anheliaa's errands: through monetarily generous
to her ladies-in-waiting, his aunt was adamant about loiter-
ing and time-wasting. Stranger still, she hadn't even a foot-
man to carry her packages and protect her from unwanted
attentions.
Finally, before people began to note and comment on
his apparent obsession with a young, unaccompanied fe-
male, he approached her, ostensibly to pay his respects.
"And what are you doing here?" he asked conversation-
ally, having determined she was, indeed, on holiday from
Anheliaa's demands.
She raised a basket filled with small packages, and lifted
a gently cynical eyebrow.
He ducked his head and tapped his forehead. "Dim-
witted, eh?"
She shrugged, and, tipping her head toward the stream
of humanity outside the stall, moved into the sunlight and
out of a potential customer's way. Considerate, he thought,
and recalling that long-ago birthday, and his private little
party, wasn't at all surprised at the discovery.
Taking the basket from her hands, he followed her
through the crowd to another stall, not quite certain what
to do, now he'd tacitly fallen in with her.
A surprisingly heavy basket, which upon closer examina-
tion of the packages revealed:
"Apples?" he asked, lifting one free of its cloth bag.
She touched index finger to thumb in interlocking cir-
clesher sign for Anheliaathen brushed an index finger
haughtily past her nose.
"Anheliaa doesn't like them?" he hazarded.
She nodded. Touched her own mouth and closed her
eyes blissfully.
"And you do."
Her tongue peeked out between her lips, tracing a damp-
ening path around the edge.
He laughed, both delighted and worried: she was so in-
genuous; she seemed easy prey for the unscrupulous.
"Is anyone here with you?" he asked.
She cast a look about as though checking every potential
hiding place, then shook her head sadly, looking like a lost
five-year-old.
He gave a shout of laughter that drew attention from
passersby, who caught her expression and turned accusa-
tory. One man actually stepped forward, shouldering be-
tween them to ask Mirym was this cad annoying her and
did she wish to be rid of him.
"I didn't" Nikki protested, but Mirym laughed silently,
dipped a curtsy to her would-be rescuers and pulled him
by the arm into the shade between two stalls. When they
were safely alone, he said, "Did anyone ever tell you you're
a wicked, wicked girl?"
Another innocent blink, a disturbingly familiar fluttering
of eyelids....
Rings, another Lidyeor rather, a roguish caricature of
the type.
He chuckled. "Still, your champions out there had a
point: it's hardly appropriate, your being here all alone, at
the mercy of every letch and"
Another of those eloquent searches of the shadows,
mock horror in every line, a search that settled on him.
Her eyes widened. A gloved hand crept to her mouth.
Before she could create another scene, he shook her arm.
"All rightyou win. You win. Peace?"
She smiled and patted his arm, immediately transforming
into a proper young female, and they moved back into the
marketplace flow.
Which inspired burlesque, while charming and entertain-
ing and fun, failed to guide him to a proper course of ac-
tion. While he couldn't just leave her, he had business of
his own. Important business. Mikhyel's business, which
meant the City's.
He could, he supposed, send her home with one of the
grooms, but he found himself increasingly reluctant to leave
her company, found himself wondering what she did on her
days off, where her family was, where, in fact, she came
from.
Though he'd rarely crossed her path since that stolen
little  party,  he'd  never  forgottenwas  reminded  of her
each time he picked up his guitar and set the embroidered
strap over his head, or plucked the sweet-timbred strings.
She deserved better than a lonely day in the market,
after which, what would she do? retire to her room and
her stitching?
"Have you the whole day off?" he asked finally.
She nodded . . .
"Plans?"
. . . then gave one of her articulate shrugs.
"Would you like to join me for a drive?"
Her dark eyes scanned the horizon, then her head
cocked questioningly.
"I'm off to Armayel to pick up Mikhyel. We'll have an
early supper and return before darkwell before you're
due back. Khyel's been gone twice as long as usual and
he'll be anxious to get home." He stopped and maneuvered
to face her. "So you see, you must come with me."
She tucked her chin in and gave him a gently skeptical
frown.
"To save me from his doldrums." Ignoring the human
wave breaking around them, he set her basket on the
ground, then held her hand to his chest, urging soulfully:
"Please?"
The frown dissolved into a soundless giggle. She shoved
him away and reclaimed her hand. Thumb under her chin,
she tapped her lips with her index finger while scanning the
distant foothills. Tipping her head back toward him, she
bugged her pelisse-covered shoulders, giving a mock little
shiver.
"I keep a spare cloak at the stable. Must. Wool, you
see. Not elegant, but very warm."
Her lower lip disappeared beneath barely visible teeth,
and her clear eyes narrowed. Cautious. Not one to decide
on a whim. -Possibly even making a mental list of his
motives.
He put on as innocent a face as possible, wanting her to
accept the invitation for his own sake now. She was pleas-
ant company, delightfully self-sufficient, inspiration to his
entertainment ingenuity. She felt . . . comfortable, as no one
since Deymorin left had felt comfortable, even his so-called
best friends, Phell and Bertie, having deserted him (in dis-
gust, he feared) since Lidye's arrival.
When her face relaxed and she gave a quick nod, it was
as if the sun shone a degree brighter.
"Thank you!" he said on a huff of air, brushing a hand
across his brow in only slightly exaggerated relief. "Soto
the stables. Walk? Or shall I fetch a cabin?"
Her eyes swept the soft puffs of cloud overhead, glanced
toward the human-drawn enclosed cabs working their way
a slow step at a time along the crowded cobblestones, then
she lifted her heavy skirts to shake a tiny, eloquent foot.
"Your wish is my command, m'lady." He tucked her
hand into his arm, picked up the basket, and steered her
toward the stables.
He began a cheerful monologue, a totally fictitious com-
mentary regarding the private lives of passing shoppers, a
libelous nonsensicality to which she responded with her
own comments, revealing an unusual talent for visual mim-
icry, until by the time they reached the stable, they were
both doubling over with irreverent laughter.
Storm and Ashley were vociferous in their welcome of
him, accepting Mirym with tempered equine dignityuntil
she offered them her precious hand-picked apples. After
that, she could do no wrong, in their eyesor his.
Negotiating the carriage through crowded streets re-
quired little effort on his part, the market-wise team work-
ing their own way quietly past vehicles and pedestrians
alike. Once free of the market and past the outer wall-
gate, however, their eagerness to be let out vibrated down
the lines.
He gave them a notch, but it was not enough: they shook
their heads and snorted, eager to have the brisk spring air
filling their lungs. While their driver agreed wholeheartedly,
Nikki couldn't help remembering Lidye's reactions the last
time out, the fear, the fingers clutching his armand threat-
ening his control of the linesat the first sign of open
fields.
Equine demands grew more insistent. He hadn't had time
to take them out all week. They had energy to burnand
so had he.
A stolen glance: Mirym's eyes were closed, her face lifted
to the sun and the breeze, her hands folded calmly in her
lap.
Trying to contain his eagerness, not wishing to pressure
her into something that would frighten her, he asked:
"Shall I let them go?"
She met his eyes; a wave of emotion crossed her face too
rapidly to read; then, one hand moving surreptitiously to
grip the buggy's side, she dipped her chin.
"You're sure? Don't let me scare you."
Another unreadable look, then she grinned widely,
clamped her free hand on her wide-brimmed hat, and nod-
ded vigorously.
He gave the greys the rein they craved, and the buggy
surged forward.
Something stank.
Deymorin shifted the arm pillowing his head, and
realized:
Curse the rings and their thrice-damned mistress, that
stench came from him.
This time, he awoke as if from a normal sleepprovided
one counted sleeping alone on a grassy slope, clad in noth-
ing but a stained wool blanket, normal. But his eyes opened
without obstruction, and his vision cleared (normally, thank
the various illegal deities), and his hands and legs were
free, if unwilling, as yet, to move. In fact, aside from a
pounding headache and smelling like a dungheap, he felt
in quite amazingly good health, considering the possibilities
memory suggested.
For a moment, he wondered if the whole thing had been
a dream: the gravel-voiced youth, the water, the fall . . . the
fight with Anheliaa, maybe even Nikki's bolt to Tirise's.
Perhaps he'd fallen asleep after making love in this
rather idyllic spot, perhaps (his imagination gained momen-
tum) with the shepherd's daughter, and the maiden had left
him here while she tended the flock.
Or, perhaps (imagination deferring to cynical practicality,
and considering his clothing was nowhere in sight), said
gentle maiden had absconded after stealing him quite liter-
ally blind.
But the feminine thief had no substance in his memories.
His brothers and Anheliaa and her rings did. The residual pain
in his back when he twisted around to scan over his shoulder
was definitely real. His eyes stung in the sunlight . . . possibly
the green-stained strip lying in the grass next to him was
the bandage that had instigated the row of his last wak-
ing moments.
The only thing missing (other than his clothes) was the
gravel-voiced youth.
On the other hand, the charred remains of a small fire
he didn't remember setting still warmed the nearby air, and
if he accepted Nikki's birthday and Anheliaa as truth, he
still had to explain the lambs and the abundant, spring-
' green foliage surrounding him. Nikki's birthdayat least as
he remembered itwas in the fall: a good six months ago.
If not, Darius save him, longer.
Assuming his memory was sound, the old woman must
have knocked him cold with her mind-invading rings and
had him put into winter storage, possibly talked Diorak
into keeping him drugged into incoherency.
He rubbed a chin bare of stubble across his supporting
forearm, flicked dirt from under a smooth-edged fingernail.
If that were the case, his jailers had taken uncommonly
good care of him just to flay him and set him out for the
wolves.
Which creatures would have been far more appreciative
of a free meal in the dead of winter.
He'd put nothing pastor beyondAnheliaa, not after
that painful assault inside his head. He supposed it was
even possible she'd used those damned rings to confound
his thinking permanently. His recall seemed clear enough
up to Nikki's birthday, but all that lay between that and
his last blind awakening was a series of disconnected im-
pressions having little to do with coherent reality.
Of course, come tomorrow he might not remember lying
here wondering where the sheep belonged and what had
happened to the gravel-voiced youth. Perhaps he'd awake
to an entirely different scenario. Perhaps he was really in
jail, and this lake, the sheep, and everything around him
was some fevered dream.
Except, if he were dreaming, there would be, without
question, a shapely shepherdess to share his lucid mo-
ments with.
At least, bless all the ancient gods and damn the rings,
he wasn't blind.
No thanks to Anheliaa.
And he was alive, despite Anheliaa's efforts. If he read
Gravel-voice correctly, his previous immobile status had
been for his own good, not the wolves' convenience or An-
heliaa's pleasure.
Therefore, Gravel-voice might be a potential friendly.
Might.
Gravel-voice had spoken Mauritumin, which was more
than the webless so-called barbarians to the north and east
did, but with an accent he hadn't recognized, and while he
hadn't a guardsman's talent in identifying such things, one
was reminded forcibly of cutpurse/assassins with strange ac-
cents ...
And the storms, and the Tower and Nikki's seventeenth
birthday, and . . .
Rings save him, the promise he'd made to the boy; that
reconciliation which had meant so much to him. Would
he ever believe his older brother hadn't simply run away?
Considering he felt the promise necessary in the first place,
Nikki must share Mikhyel's assessment of his character, at
least in that sense. If Mikhyel hadn't told Nikki the truth
about what happened in the Tower.
If Mikhyel knew the  truth.  If,  considering Mikhyel's
threat to the rings, Anheliaa hadn't scattered him to the
winds as well.
But Anheliaa needed Mikhyelto do the damned paper-
work if nothing else.
Of course, she also needed a backup stud for her breed-
ing plan. Nikki, being more complacent, would probably be
more to her taste.
Him, she didn't need. Had Mikhyel not risked his hand
to stop her, she'd have killed him right there in the Tower.
Lacking other physical means of accomphshing that goal,
she'd have driven him crazy with the pain until he killed
himself.
If it were just himself, he might well tell her where to
stick her rings and never return to Rhomatum. His life
was Outside, provided she hadn't impounded the Outside
estates already.
Even if she had, his people, sharecroppers and employees
alike, were a loyal (to him) and self-sufficient lot. She
wouldn't absorb them and what was theirs without a fight
and Rhomatum needed their produce, not the other way
around, therefore chances were she'd leave them alone.
At least for the moment. Until she discovered he was
still alive,  despite her undoubtedly fervent wishes to the
contrary.
But he had two brothers still living under her Towered
roof, and should either of them refuse to accede to her
plans, he had no doubt that she'd deal with them as she
had with him. Perhaps with more permanent results.
A man had to wonder, who'd weathered that pain and
lived, whether Anheliaa had used similar tactics with Mik-
-  hyel. That was a disturbing thought. Anheliaa had had her
beringed claws in Mikhyel since the tender age of thirteen.
Her methods had sent a grown man to his knees; how must
they have affected Mikhyel over the years? More importan-
tly, how would they affect his future choices, now he's
taken a stand against her?
So much depended on Mikhyel, on his motives and goals
and what he had or had not told Nikki. If Nikki didn't
know, if he believed himself deserted, he'd join forces with
Anheliaa, do whatever Mikhyel suggested to keep what he
perceived as his own family intact, because Nikki wanted
family, Nikki hated arguments, and (face it, Rhomandi)
Nikki was inclined toward the road of least resistance.
Mikhyel had power, if he chose to use it, and Mikhyel
might well fight.
For several brief instants, before the party, during, and
after, Mikhyel had revealed a side of himself Deymorin
hadn't seen in years, and Anheliaa .. . hadn't liked it. He
realized now, lying here, free of familial distraction, she'd
been watching them, inciting fragmentation when peace
threatened. She'd wanted Mikhyel and himself to fight,
which might be sheer perversity of spiritcertainly she had
enough of that for any ten individualsor might be some-
thing ominously more pernicious.
For years, for Nikki's sake, he and Mikhyel had avoided
letting their differences peak into full-blown battle. The
first time they hadthat last evening before Anheliaa en-
tered the roomthere'd been no fireworks, lightning hadn't
struck the Towerthey had, in fact, come close to, if not
reconciliation,  at  least  a  truce  and  some  seminal
understanding.
He wondered now if Anheliaa had known all along that
they'd never really hurt one another. If Anheliaa wanted
them in opposite camps, she would (following that warped
logic) want Nikki to constantly smooth their feathers so
they'd never reconcile, never compromise, neverband
against her.
But they had, when Mikhyel threatened the rings in the
Tower. After that, she'd been forced to -rid herself of one
of them permanently, and therefore goaded him into that
final  battle.  Gravel-voice  wasn't  supposed  to  be  here.
Naked, flayed, dumped into that pool below, he'd have had
little chance of survival.
Khyel (if memory was in any sense reliable) had been in
the Tower with them, and obviously knew well the risk of
opposition, even before Anheliaa attacked him. Depending
on his personal motives and his own goals, their middle
brother could as easily encourage Nikki into a similar disas-
trous protest, or steer him into compliance.
Or he might get himself killed trying to fight Anheliaa
alone, if he had come to the same conclusions Deymorin
was now drawing, and if he was the man Deymorin increas-
ingly believed him to be.
His brothers needed help and he wasn't about to run
away this time. Khyel's accusation to that effect had star-
tied him, wounded him deeply. Perhaps Mikhyel was right
to accuse him of running away when their father died. Cer-
tainly from Mikhyel's point of view he'd taken the easy
way out.
But he hadn't run away this time, and one way or an-
other, Nikkiand Khyelwere going to know that one
truth. And getting his brothers the truth meant getting to
his brothers.
Which in turn meant figuring where he was.
A leyline ran though the deceptively innocent meadow:
the barren strip running through the trees, into the small
lake, and out the other side was far too flat and wide to
be a seasonal stream.
Undeveloped leys did not exist between Rhomatum and
her primary satellites. Even the unsettled tertiaries had
lights erected along them, though the lights barely glim-
mered, and the land itself had long since been claimed on
speculation toward the time when even those minuscule
intersections would be capped and lowered.
The surrounding mountains, and the untapped ley would
argue for the far side of Hanitum, or possibly Persitum
in the Kharatas Range. The latter would account for the
unfamiliar accentand fit Anheliaa's warped sense of jus-
tice. She was perfectly capable of throwing him into Gar-
etti's lap just to watch them both squirm.
Came one of those bleats from above. This time, he was
able to see the rock overhang that explained the impression
of airborne sheep.
Downslope lay a pool, calm and green-shadowed among
budding azaleas.
And in the pool . . .
Perhaps his firstor rather secondsupposition was cor-
rect. That bare figure rising from the shallows was unques-
tionably more  shepherd's  daughter  than  gravel-voiced
youth.
Nikki pulled the horses down to a distance-covering, ex-
tended trot, a pace they could hold for hours, hope re-
turning that they might make up at least in part for the
time lost in the market. The road they travelled was one
the greys knew as well or better than he, and the grain
awaiting them at Armayel was sufficient incentive to keep
their minds on their business; the air was clear, visibility
good, at least until they reached the heavily wooded lands
around Armayel . . .
Which \ett him free to entertain his silent companion; a
far from unappealing prospect.
Cheeks flushed with the breeze, hair shaken loose be-
neath her wind-battered hat, her dark eyes shining with
excitement, Mirym looked almost pretty.
He grinned at her, and she smiled back, then threw her
arms wide, as if to absorb all the sunshine at once, as if,
like a flower, she required that glow to blossom, seemingly
at ease in what should have been a thoroughly foreign
environment.
Lidye's fears, while frustrating and tedious, had been un-
derstandable, and, in a way, expected, since citizens of a
node city went Outside only to travel between nodes, and
then they rode in sleeper-floaters along the leys, never
seeing the open fields and the green forests they passed.
Mirym's open, almost childlike enjoyment was the excep-
tion, a mystery wanting exploration.
Much as he had of the unknown market-gazers, he found
himself making up scenarios to explain Mirym.
... She was the unplanned daughter of a Family, her
parents banished to the Outside before her birth, forced to
raise her in the Barbarous Darkness Between the Lines.
Or perhaps she was a Rhomandi relative, considering she
now served Anheliaa. a cousin or even half-sister. But when
he tried to track his own, depressingly sparse family web,
no possibility suggested itself. The Darius line, after Darius'
own multiplicity of wives, had grown thin. Children born,
but few surviving to reproduce.
Odd, now he thought of it. And he wondered if this
belated observation should concern him, particularly con-
sidering Deymorin's mysterious absence. But the deaths of
his unknown potential relatives had never been mysterious,
only frequent.
There were a few, mostly quite distant, possibilities, off-
spring acknowledged, but not in the direct Rhomandi line.
Deymorin had at least two, but she was too old to be one
of his. Or perhaps an old retainer's daughter. Possibly
someone Deymorin owed a favor, except Deymorin wouldn't
consider placing someone in Anheliaa's control a favor . . .
Deymorin. Dammit, brother . . .
A tiny cough. He swallowed hard, jerked abruptly back
to reality. Mirym, huddled now in the borrowed cloak, was
eyeing him strangely, almost suspiciously.
He smiled. "Sorry. Gathering rose petals. You like it
Outside?"
She nodded.
"Do you get out of Rhomatum frequently?"
A puzzled blink. One hand crept out of the cloak's folds
and held up one finger.
"First time?" An unaccountable disappointment touched
him at her nod, only to quickly fade when she tapped her
forehead and flipped her hand like a man doffing a hat.
"Thank you?" he hazarded.
Acknowledgment.
"Well, you're quite welcome, ma'am," he said, and Mir-
ym's head ducked, her fine curls falling forward, hair and
bedraggled hat veiling her face.
She pulled her hat free, trying to fingercomb and pat her
hair into some form of order, searching her lap for lost
pins. Her hair, a pale, colorless brown, was more tightly
curled than his, and, free of its severe chignon, it fluffed
about her face, catching the sun, making a silvery halo for
her face and shoulders, making her unfashionably pointed
features look like some fey creature in a child's Tamshi
book.
"Please, don't," he objected, and at her startled blink:
"It looks wonderful."
Her attempts had tangled one lock behind her ear. Un-
able to resist, he shifted the reins into one hand and
reached to fluff it free.
She dodged his touch, suspicion flooding her face, and
pushed into the far corner- of the buggy, as far from him
as the handrail would allow, scanning the passing ground
as if preparing a leap to freedom. Not anxious, not fright-
ened, just eminently determined to avoid what she'd obvi-
ously perceived as an advance on his part.
A decidedly unwanted advance.
"Mirym, I'm sorry," he said, horrified. "I didn't mean it
like that."
A single doubtful blink ...
"Truly, I didn't."
. . . that became one of her narrow-eyed evaluations.
He chewed his lower lip, trying not to compound the
problem. "If you're really worried about your hair, you can
fix it when we get to Armayel. Beasleythe housekeeper,
you knowwill have hairpins. There's even a combwide
teeth and everything." He patted his own endlessly irritat-
ing curls, the short ones sticking out at all angles from
under his hat, and flipped the severely braided queue, set-
ting it flopping between his shoulder blades. "You see, I'm
sadly familiar with the problem."
Her silent giggle broke the tension, and expanding on
the innocuous theme, he proceeded to babble about various
ridiculous (and frequently embarrassing) moments resulting
from his hair, which nonsense seemed, at least, to amuse
her, and before he realized, they were well past the halfway
point, and moving into the wooded greenbelt that extended
in all directions around Armayel, a vast, natural garden
whose upkeep employed several households.
The greys eased their pace, knowing his preferences, and
he didn't urge them on. They were making good time, and
would arrive soon enough. His monologue died a natural,
companionable death, birds and the whisper of the wind
through the leaves carrying the conversation.
Watching her, he discovered a new kind of joy, that of
sharing something he loved with someone capable of open
appreciation of it, and he couldn't help but wonder if this
was the special feeling Deymorin had talked about having
the first time Deymorin had taken him to Darhaven.
And he wondered if Lidye would have been this pleasant,
had she not been trying constantly to secure his affections.
She wanted the position marriage with him could give her,
he had no illusions about that and couldn't blame her for
that ambition, but the constant need for reassurance, the
physical clingingwould Mirym have resorted to such tac-
tics, were their situations reversed?
A light touch on his arm requested his attention: Mirym,
who cocked her head and touched her forehead with a
fingertip.
Somehow, he didn't think so.
"Just wondering," he said. "Where are you from? What
node? What Family?"
Her chin tucked in a gesture he was learning meant a
suspicious Why?
"Just wondering why Aunt couldn't have chosen you for
me instead of Lidye."
The words were uttered before he realized where his
thoughts had taken him. Her response was outrage and
another scan of the ground racing past their wheels.
The hand he reached to keep her from falling got slapped
for its trouble, and he jerked back, palm outward.
"I'm sorry! Honestly, Mirym, I'm not ... I didn't mean
. . . It's just . . . Oh, never mind!"
The horses tossed their heads and broke stride, his ten-
sion translating to their sensitive mouths. He threw himself
back against the padded seat and distracted himself with
sorting the reins. For a time, he was sufficiently occupied
settling them back into their easy jog.
A light hand brushed his elbow. He jumped; the horses
did; again he steadied them, this time prepared for Mirym's
attention-requesting touch, less so for the surprisingly sym-
pathetic expression that greeted him.
"I didn't mean that the way it sounded, Mirym. I'm
just..."
He stopped, embarrassed that he'd ever brought the
topic up with this particular girl. Her position was awkward
enough, her duties to Anheliaa forcing her into family poli-
tics and what should be private matters. But there was
something so calm, so unpretentious and . . . worldly about
her. Like Deymorin. And when she pressed his arm encour-
agingly, as if to say It's all right, he relented to that pressing
need to say something . . . to anyone.
"It's Lidye. I should be thrilled with her, I know. Aunt
claims she's doing exceedingly well with the rings, she's
ever so accommodating, and she seems interested in every-
thing I do, but . . ."
He paused, finding no words to describe the vague feel-
ing. Her fingers squeezed his arm, urging him to continue.
In desperation, he blurted out: "She likes my poetry!"
An upward palm asked, clear as sunshine on a cloudless
day, So? What's wrong with that?
"My poetry's terrible."
She shook her head until the curls flipped her nose.
"How would you know?"
Her mouth opened, closed, then, with a little shake of
the head, she looked away, nose in the air.
"Just know, do you?"
The curls nodded once. Emphatically.
"You'd better watch yourself. I'll make you read them."
She turned back, and before he knew what she was up
to, caught his hand and slashed his wrist with a fingertip,
then tapped her mouth, committing him to his promise. It
was an ancient, childish gesture, one Darius' descendants
had inherited from the natives of this valley.
He laughed, feeling like a fly caught in her gentle web.
--"Just never claim I didn't warn you." He sobered. "Don't
you see? She hates poetry. Knows nothing about the clas-
sics, or even the modern drivel. So either way, it's an insult:
either to my intelligence, or my talent."
Her dubious look was back.
"You don't think so?"
She shrugged.
"What if she's just saying it? What if she'll do anything
to make this marriage succeed? Her parents were ecstatic
when I proposed. They might have pressured her to accept.
Anheliaa thinks she's wonderful, whenever Mikhyel men-
tions her, it's to say how beautiful she is, and what a"
He felt like gagging. "lovely couple we make. Aunt's
friends tell me how lucky I am. So why don't I feel lucky?"
The warm sympathy had vanished. Her face remained
blank, offering no insight. Tenaciously, he pressed his point:
"Last month, when I went after Mikhyel, Lidye insisted
on coming along. Before we left, she went on and on and
on about how lovely the drive must be and how she'd
rather spend the time with me than stay in the Tower
alonenever mind Nethaalye, is there, and Aunt and doz-
ens of other people. But she hated the drivecomplained
of the cold, wanted the carriage to stop swaying, said it was
making her sick and covered her eyes the entire way." Into
his shoulder. "It was awful. Until we got there. Then she
was all sweetness and delicate sensibilities. She couldn't
possibly have made the trip back that same day." Or the
next. Or the next. "While she was there, she never went
outside; she just wandered the house, fingering this and that
like . . . like an appraiser. And when we did return, we had
to walk the horses the whole way. . . . It took us the entire
day! And despite that, this time, she tried to come again.
I" He sought her calm gaze. "Why would she want to,
after the first time made her miserable?"
She looked at him, then ahead at the horses and the
road, then back to him. Finally, she shrugged, touched first
her heart, then his lips, and shrugged again.
"Maybe because she loves me?"
She nodded slowly, deep, emphatic dips of her head.
"Oh, dear."
. . . Then you shall have her . . .
One had to wonder: was that Anheliaa's plan? Grant his
'wish' and wait for him to come crawling home?
Well, Deymorin thought, as that curvaceous figure, hid-
den now beneath a ragged, gathered skirt and loose peasant
shirt, swayed its way up the grassy slope, you might have a
long wait. Auntie-dearest.
A patched travel bag slung over one shoulder hampered
his shepherdess' efforts to contain the shirt's voluminous-
ness with a simple strip cummerbund. Finally, in singularly
eloquent silent frustration, she stopped and flung the bag
to the ground, took several wraps around her narrow waist
and secured the ends with a snap. Then she plucked some-
thing long and narrow from between her teeth, and slipped
it into that newly-secured waistband with a patrather like
tucking an old friend into bed.
A knife. A fairly large, serviceable knife. Not that he'd
hold that against her: a shepherd's daughter out alone in
the hills, particularly one with so tempting a figure, would
need to protect herself.
As the unknown female approached, Deymorin tore his
eyes from her long, powerful, distractingly sensual strides,
and put his head down to give an outward appearance of
sleep, while watching her approach through slitted lids.
Perhaps not a shepherd's daughter. Voluptuous, yes, but
slim for a country girl, and (she paused to take an irritated
tug at the skirt wrapping uncooperatively around her damp
legs) singularly inept at the dress. She might well be some-
thing quite interestingly different.
Possibly, considering her rather casualone might even
say lovingattitude regarding the knife, some lady outlaw
preparing to . . . take advantage of him.
He stifled laughter in the crook of his elbow and the
smelly, stained blanket lying half-under, half-over him.
Insane, that's what he was. Anheliaa's games had bent
his mind, robbing him of what little sense he'd ever had.
Here he washe, who had been preparing a lecture for
Nikki about worldly cautionlying naked as the day he
was born, on an unknown hillside, thinking lewd thoughts
about an unknown female, while said unknown female car-
ried an undoubtedly very sharp knife in his direction. . . .
The rustle of skirts drew near; a twig snapped beneath
an incautious foot.
A toe prodded bruised ribs.
"Lazy bastard, aren't you?" Gravel-voice had returned,
too. "C'mon, Rag'n'bones, wakey-wakey."
He cursed roundly and rolled to an elbow, fully expecting
third party involvement. Possibly the knife-carrying shep-
herdess' brother, or (disappointing thought) husband.
But there was only the shepherd's daughter.
Realizing, insome disillusion, that the disagreeable voice
must have emanated from her, he squinted up at the backlit
figure and found further disappointment in dripping, rough-
shorn hair sticking out at odd angles about a freckled face
and reddened nose.
"Then you shall have her. . . ."
If this apparition was Anheliaa's notion of his shepherd's
daughter, she had a great deal to learn about her oldest
nephew's taste in women.
"So, Rag'n'bones," the apparition grated. Then sneezed,
sniffed, and ran a dampened cloth under its too-red nose.
"Now you've had your eyeful, you going to tell me why I
shouldn't dump you back? You're hardly a first-rate catch."
Catch? Dump him back? Fine talk for such a homely
shepherdess to the Rhomandi himself
Another burst of unholy amusement. Rings save him, her
attitude had him thinking like lord-and-lofty Mikhyel.
Homely she might be, but she wasn't stupid, neither was
she helpless, as the bruise between his shoulder blades re-
minded him.
Neither was she Anheliaa's, considering the treatment
he'd had of her thus far. She might well be impressed with
his lordly credentialscertainly with the potential of his
lordly purse.
So he opened his mouth to reform her thinking. Unfortu-
nately,  all  that  came  out  was  a  rather  petulant:
"Rag'n'bones?"
(The ground shook with the beat of horse-hooves.
(Hordes galloped down the leyroad toward Rhomatum,
their weapons blazing a steady stream of chained lightning.
(Rhomatumin soldiers struggleC to intercept, their horses
foundering in deep mud that turned to flowing rivers and
whirlpools that sucked them down and down into the bowels
of the earth herself. . . .)
"M'lord Khyel?"
Not the ground quaking after all, but Gareg, shaking his
shoulder ever-so-gently.
"Pardon, m'lord," the overseer said, from the far side of
sleep-sticky eyelashes, "but Master Nikaenor has arrived."
Mikhyel yawned widely and leaned his head back in the
chair, striving to ignore the aches in his joints and the
pounding pain behind his eyes, where that final dreadful
dreamscape yet lingered.
Such a lovely spring cocktail: rumors of war out of Maur-
itum, threats of flood here in Armayel . . . with such a pleth-
ora of problems, a man really ought not sleep anyway.
At least Nikki was herefinally. He'd hoped for earlier,
hoped to be well on the return trip by now, but he could
hardly complain: more than likely, the boy had been forced
to adjust his own plans to make the trip at all. Never mind
he'd told Nikki to send someone else this time, the third
trip in two weeks.
He should never have let Nikki talk him into this carting
him one way and the other, but Nikki claimed to enjoy the
trips, had objected loudly and at length when Mikhyel had
dared suggest he commandeer a driver and coach for these
necessary journeys to the Rhomandi holdings.
He had no doubt the boy relished the time with his
horses, but most of all, he suspected Nikki needed the time
away from the Tower and its perfumed prima donnas. Un-
fair, to put the entertainment of Anheliaa's two apprentices
off on him, but Nikki managed the women so much better
than he, and what with one thing and another . . .
If only there weren't so much to do. Always, so much . . .
"Sir?" Gareg, again, keeping him from drifting off.
Good man, Gareg. Mikhyel thanked the overseer, forced
himself out of his chair, and headed for the door. Gareg
swung his greatcoat over his shoulders while he walked,
telling him to take care of himself and get some rest, once
he got back to Rhomatum, and that he had every confi-
dence in his lordship's ability to convince Council to do all
that was necessary.
A week since, they'd been near blows.
That was when he'd sqpt Nikki back alone, determined
to settle his differences with Gareg once and for all, or
replace the overseer with a man of his own choosing.
He didn't blame Gareg, never had. It was simply that
Annayel had a major problem; a problem Deymorin had
been working to solve before that last disastrous visit to
Rhomatum, and he needed someone who would explain
that problem in terms he could comprehend.
Inexplicable changes in weather patterns of the past few
years had brought a confusion of drought and flooding to
the valley farmlands, turning small but rapidly expanding
portions of Annayel into bogs. Six months ago, confused
and resentful at what he could only perceive as Deymorin's
desertion, scornful of Deymorin's City-bred brother's pa-
tent ignorance,  Gareg had tried to carry Deymorin's
sketchy plans through on his own. But Gareg's attempts to
build those vital drainage channels across public land, with-
out the funds or necessary contacts Inside to gain the legal
waivers had gained Council's attention, and at last month's
meeting, the Council had given Mikhyel, in lieu of Dey-
morin, an ultimatum: stop Gareg, or they would.
Not an auspicious addition to an already formidable non-
working relationship.
But he hadn't wanted to replace Gareghadn't wanted
to replace any of Deymorin's loyal employees. He owed
that much to his brother, at least, not to turn his staff out.
And so he'd pressed Gareg and fought Gareg for informa-
tion and details until he finally began to understand, past
the books and the numbers, what delay of the project
meant-not only to Annayel, but to all of Rhomatum.
Gareg's project, had Deymorin gotten the necessary
backing last fall, might well have contained the problem
before the spring thaws, draining the bogs and shifting
waterflows to the areas in dire need. As it was, that bog
now extended far beyond Rhomandi land, threatening fully
half of Rhomatum's prime produce farms, and left un-
treated, it would eventually take the City itself.
His own awakening had come too late: the spring thaws
had begun, flooding nature-made channels and destroying
Gareg's unfinished labors, and Deymorin's original plan
was woefully inadequate for the new scope of the disaster.
He and Gareg had worked late every night for the past
weekthe last two nights, Mikhyel hadn't seen his bed
poring over survey maps, ordering new crews out for up-
dates .. . And every proposal they'd come up with would
require more money and manpower than he could possibly
get out of Council.
"Luck of the rings, sir," Gareg said at the door, and
gripped his hand before filling it with the packet containing
his books and ledgers, legal papers, notes and the all-vital
survey maps of the entire north end of the valley.
He smiled grimly. "If you've any influence with the local
gods, you'd best call it in. If you think I was hard-
headed"
"Not hardheaded, sir. Ignorant. And so are they. No
shame in that. Stupidity, that's something else. And if you
show them your maps and present them the facts and they
still resist, that's stupid, and we all get what we deserve for
letting them stay in control."
Deymorin's sentiments in a nutshell. Mikhyel wondered
who had learned them from whom until he realized, it
didn't matter, that either way those same notions had in-
fected him as well.
"Tell you what, Gareg," he said and returned the old
man's grip firmly. "If they prove stupid, I'll have Nikki run
me back here, and we'll gather all the 'tweeners together
and drive the fools outchase them over the Kharatas to
Mauritum with the other crazies, then build the ditches will
they or nil they. Deal?"
Gareg grinned. "Deal. Then get yourself some sleep,
hear me?"
He laughed weakly. "Deal."
Outside, Nikki had indeed arrivedin the buggy, he
noted with relief, his body ill-prepared for the nonexistent
springs of the two-wheeled, single-seat contraption his
brother usually drove when he wanted to make speed.
But Nikki was climbing down, telling the groom to un-
harness and walk the horses out. Nikki was pulling off his
driving gloves, and turning back to the carriage . . .
Nikki had brought a companion.
Exhaustion washed over him, turning his knees to water.
He was not going to be home before dark, perhaps (recall-
ing the last disastrous Visitation) not even tonight. The ex-
tended bath and solitary dinner his manservant was to have
prepared for him were going to go to waste.
And somehow, regaroiess of feminine frailty, sleep or no
sleep, tomorrow morning, he had to be in Rhomatum, mak-
ing sense to a hostile and apprehensive group of council-
lors, talking drainage ditches when those same councillors
were fixating on the rumors of impending war with Mauri-
tum. He'd been planning on discussing those problems with
Nikki, had planned to rehearse tomorrow's session with his
brother on the way home.
Nikki, how could you?
But it wasn't fair to blame Nikki, who even now was
handing his fair companion down from the sleek carriage.
Nikki didn't know about the drainage ditches any more
than he knew about the most recent rumors out of Mauri-
tum. As had become Mikhyel's habit over the years, he'd
thought to keep these problems from Nikki until such time
as he had to know.
And now, perhaps, he'd waited too long.
Mirym's unannounced presence was disturbing in itself.
Anhehaa's personal servants simply did not leave the
Tower, even on holiday, without a Tower Guard in atten-
dance. One had to wonder if Anheliaa trusted her enough
for this private-seeming excursion, and if so, what other
duties Anheliaa might expect of her.
Over the months, Mirym had become rather like a piece
of furniture: always where she was expected, generally in a
quiet corner, stitching, silently going about her duties with-
out question or complaint.
One had to wonder what secrets Tower furniture over-
heard.
Anheliaa had expressed (frequently) her dissatisfaction
with his absences from the City, and his return this time
was a week overdue. Without him in Rhomatum to act as
a communication buffer between Anheliaa and the Council,
it was possible she'd come to suspect the subtle twists he'd
put on her proposals over the years and consequently to
suspect his motives. If that was so, Anheliaa might well
want ears where she couldn't possibly go.
All things considered, he didn't believe Mirym's presence
here today was coincidence, but one had to wonder what
Anheliaa had sent the servant to find. Illegal ditches? Sub-
versive drainage canals? Possibly the nonexistent 'tweener
coup he'd accused Deymorin of all those months ago.
Perhaps Anheliaa pictured him coming out here once a
month just to meet with Mauritumin spies, handing them
her precious secrets, arranging a takeover of the City the
moment Anheliaa breathed her last. Such a notion would
be ludicrous, except . . .
Except for the rumors out of Mauritum, rumors that
were, perhaps, no more significant than any in the past; but
if ever control of Rhomatum Tower had been contem-
plated, now would be the time to try. Anheliaa grew more
frail each day, and had yet to declare and train a replace-
ment. She herself claimed that capping Khoratum had
made the Rhomatum rings' operation virtually automatic,
at least for simple power production. For the first time since
Darius had tamed the node, outsiders might well be able
to supplant the Rhomandis with impunity.
If Anheliaa suspected Mauritum of such a plan, if she
mistrusted him to the extent she linked him with such suspi-
cions, she could well be using innocent-seeming young
Mirym to follow his movements.
Regardless, he had little choice but to play along, and at
least Mirym wouldn't keep them spinning their wheels here
for days the way Lidye had on her visit last month. Anhe-
liaa was a serious taskmaster, even, he would imagine, to
her spies.
He returned packet and coat to Gareg, received in return
a sympathetic press of his arm. There being nothing to say
to that, Mikhyel forced a smile to his lips and descended
the steps to greet his brother and Anheliaa's spy.
If spy she was . . .
Mirym's face flushed and shining, her hair loose and
windblown .. . Nikki handling her as if she were made of
glass...
Perhaps, he thought, allowing himself the luxury of a
momentary lapse of caution, if the boy was fond of her,
that in itself explained her presence: a beyond the Tower
tryst fraught with Romancelanding his impulsive brother
in a great deal of trouble, if Nikki was contemplating giving
up Lidye for a servant.
But Nikki's face, that had gone so hollow-cheeked and
somber these last months, was aglow with laughter and a
brother whose life had once centered on seeing that look
on that face had to welcome the change, regardless the
circumstances responsible.
Such a brother might even work to protect the source of
that happinessif Nikki had asked.
Nikki looked up at his approach, and the welcome laugh-
ter faded. Nikki's brows, shockingly dark beneath his pale
hair, knit in concern.
Mikhyel didn't ask why. Didn't need to. He'd looked in
the mirror this morning, he'd seen the dark lines about his
own eyes, the thin, pale face he scarcely recognized. Yester-
day he'd found grey in his beard.
Late hours. Little sleep when his back did manage to
encounter a mattress. Out in weather the like of which he'd
never even imagined .. .
Not thirty yet and he looked like an old man.
"Nikki." He grasped his brother's wrist in greeting, then
nodded  politely  to  Anheliaa's  handmaid.  "Mistress
Mirym."
"Rings, man, you're freezing," Nikki exclaimed and
pulled him unceremoniously toward the door.
"Mind your manners." He resisted that pull, embar-
rassed, more so when Nikki, refusing to relinquish his hold,
sandwiched his hand between two warm ones and rubbed
it briskly, a superfluity of gesture out of character for the
two of them, and particularly off-putting with Mistress
Mirym standing as silent observer.
One didn't want to think what Anheliaa might make of
that tidbit.
With what dignity he could muster, he gestured with his
free  hand,  inviting  Mirym  to  precede  them  into  the
manor house.
But before heading up the broad steps, she exchanged a
look with Nikki, a look of mutual understanding that made
Mikhyel's blood run cold.
Darius save him, was Nikki party to Anheliaa's schemes
as well?
"Let go," he muttered, and shook Nikki's hands off.
"Nothing wrong with me about a week's worth of sleep
wouldn't cure."
"You could stay here a few days," Nikki said quietly,
that gay abandon  dissipating at  last.  "Take the  time
and..."
Mikhyel shook his head, and the sentence died unfin-
ished. Nikki frowned, then hurried to catch up with Mirym.
He longed to ask Nikki what he knew of Anheliaa's
plans, longed to ask how Mirym had come to accompany
him, but if Anheliaa had made a decision, if Nikki had in
fact become her sole choice for the Rhomandi, it was possi-
ble Nikki had suddenly acquired political aspirations. Nikki
might even want a wrong-thinking, inconveniently older
brother out of the picture.
If that were the case, he thought, dragging up the stairs
and back into the manor, tomorrow's meeting might well
take care of that problem for both Nikki and Anheliaa. By
throwing his lot directly behind Gareg, he was bound to
alienate Anheliaa, ending his political career more effec-
tively than if he had been conspiring with Mauritum.
Because Anheliaa would never believe his assessment of
the situation. Anheliaa wouldn't agree on general principle
to any plan with which Deymorin had been involved, and
in specific with one that would give such importance to
Deymorin's constituency.
But before Anheliaa had a chance to remove him from
office, he'd have made his case to Council, and as he'd told
Garegor had Gareg told him?if Council heard the facts
and still voted against the request, Council deserved to float
downstream with the rest of the valley.
Inside, the cheerful glow had returned to Nikki's face
and, with a great deal of melodramatic handwaving and
lordly demands upon a giggling staff, he consigned Mirym
into Beasley's hands to, "repair the damage the wind has
perpetrated upon her exquisite person."
Mirym, while blushing profusely, played along with his
nonsense quite admirably, matching his grandiose gestures
with shy posturings and fluttering lashes utterly unlike her
normal behavior, sinking into a deep, graceful curtsy when
Nikki captured her hand and held it lovingly to his cheek.
Mikhyel wished he knew if it was all preplanned. Perhaps
it was an attempt to separate, to place Mirym where she
might overhear conversations among the house staff, or to
put Nikki alone with him.
Or possibly both. The hypotheticals revolved aschaoti-
cally as Aiiheliaa's rings. It was enough to make a man
sick, who tried to figure them, so instead, he ordered hot
cider and brandy immediately, dinner for three as quickly
as the kitchen staff could manage, and preceded Nikki into
the study.
"I was hoping you'd be alone, Nikaenor," he said, after
they'd settled beside the fireplace. "I was hoping we'd be
able to talk."
Nikki looked abashed. "I'm sorry, Khyel. I met her on
my way through Oreno Market, and she seemed so alone,
and she had the day off and"
If Nikki was telling the truthand (Darius save him) he
wanted to believe Nikki was truthful, and that this was not
simply a rehearsed excuse designed to se't him off his
guardthen Nikki didn't understand the imphcations,
hadn't considered the coincidence of the girl's path crossing
his, today of all days.
Certainly Anheliaa was capable of planning the entire
meeting, planting the girl in the marketeverything with-
out the boy's knowledge.
"I'm not criticizing, Nikki. You don't have to explain
yourself to me. You've every right to court any girl you
come across, though I understood you'd settled on Lidye."
"I'm not"
"Dammit, stop interrupting!" Mikhyel jerked to his feet
and paced the room, rubbing the chill from his arms, regret-
ting his relinquished coat. He sensed Nikki's gaze, hoped
that if he faced it, he'd find the quiet, selfless concern of
old, and know that political aspirations had not yet driven
out innocence.
There was too much happening too fast. He only knew
he had to take a stand. Now. On issues based in fact, not
conjecture. But if he fell before Anheliaa's wrath, Nikki
mustn't be taken down with him. Nikki needed options.
Unless Nikki already belonged to Anheliaa. In which
case he, Mikhyel, was in even greater danger. And he
wasn't certain which was true, and that lack of certainty
tore at a temper already in tatters.
It was that flagging control he fought, not Nikki.
He'd learned something about himself all those months
ago, and about his brothers. He'd always assumed Deymorin's
was the temper to beware in the family, the way he'd as-
sumed Nikki was the family peacekeeper.
But he was wrong. Deymorin though tall and physically
imposing as Mheric, hadn't erupted into anger when pres-
sured,  had  contained  it,  tried  for  reason.  Deymorin
wouldn't strike in blind anger and damn the consequences.
If anyone in the family resembled their father in that
other, darker sense, it was himself.
"Khyel?"
"I'm sorry, Nikki. I'm ... slipping an orbit, as your
friends are fond of saying."
Silence. Nikki, as always, just as openly patient, waiting
for him to make his point.
Or sitting in judgment.
Mikhyel wondered, with his newly aroused familial in-
sight, whether Mheric had felt the same about their mother,
wondered if she'd sat, waiting for him to speak with just
that air of . . . moral superiority.
Nikki the peacemaker. Nikki, who studied all sides of an
issue but never, ever, committed to any position.
He stopped beside the fireplace and held out his hands.
The warmth spread upward from his fingers, dispelling the
chill that reached all the way to his heart. He'd discovered,
this past week, that wood fires touched something basic
inside him.
The way Nikki did.
Nikki, who might even now, behind that nonjudgmental
facade, be plotting his remaining brother's downfall.
He shuddered, wondering, in his deepest self-evaluation,
whether these newest suspicions about Nikki indicated a
final paranoid breakdown on his partor the death of his
own last vestige of political innocence, that he must suspect
everyone around him.
"Sometimes," Mikhyel said slowly and out of that evalu-
ation, "I wonder how Mheric managed. He did it all ...
somehow. The City. The holdings. Even the rings, on
occasion."
"Father had Anheliaa," Nikki replied smoothly, not
seeming to noticeor choosing to ignorethe apparent ir-
relevancy of his comment. "He had the council, and Gareg,
and all the other overseers. He even had Mother to fill out
all the paperwork. He just signed the papers and took the
credit. You do more. Care more."
"Forgive me, younger brother, but how would you
know?"
"Don't patronize me, Khyel. I've read the transcripts
all of them. I know what Father did, which decisions be
made, and which were made for him. The City survived his
tenure on the strengths of his predecessors' past manage-
ment. Since his death, the City has flourished under your
administration; as the web has under Anheliaa; as the Out-
side has" Nikki bit his lip and looked away.
"Under Deymorin?" Mikhyel finished for him.
Nikki shrugged, a one-sided, self-conscious twitch.
"It's all right, Nikki. We can be honest with one another.
Can't we?"
Nikki's eyes flashed toward him, brows drawn tight
above. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He raised a placating hand. "Just that there's no need to
avoid the real issues, is there? Anheliaa's will doesn't infil-
trate Armayel. Does it?"
"Khyel, I didn't mean ...I'm not..."
A discreet tap on the door interrupted him: a footman
with a huntbowl filled with steaming cider.
Nikki's mouth tightened, and he jerked to his feet, cross-
ing the room to stare out the window, his back to Mikhyel,
while the footman set out the silver and poured the mugs.
Personally, Mikhyel welcomed the interruption, not only
for the hot liquid, soothing to both his chill body and a
growing rawness in his throat, but also for the footman's
presence which gave him the opportunity to gather scatter-
ing wits.
I'm not What, Nikki-lad? A spy? Tempting to believe
everything. Nikki's innocence and outrage at having his ve-
racity questioned . . . Nikki's assessment of their father's
performance . . . Of Deymorin's . . .
He wasn't even certain why he'd raised the issue, except
that he was mortally tired and increasingly uncertain of his
own judgment.
Except that he wanted to believe there was someone left
he could trust.
And he couldn't help but think that, if they could face
Anheliaa with a unity of purpose, Anhehaa might be forced
to compromise. Such a unity might be possible.
Unless Anheliaa already owned Nikki.
Too much was converging too fast. Mauritum, Deymorin,
the flooding . . . He had to take a stand, but Nikki did not.
Nikki must play the innocent, but Nikki must be smart.
Aware. Ready to defend himself.
To survive.
While the footman stoked the fire, he rested an elbow
on the mantel, closing eyes gritty with lack of sleep, and
sipped spiced cider, ignoring the world for a fleeting instant.
But eventually the footsteps retreated and the door closed,
and reality, as was inevitable, returned. He opened reluc-
tant eyes to Nikki swinging about to face him, radiating
postponed righteous indignation.
"I had to ask, Nikki," he said quietly, before that indig-
nation gave voice. "And if I've accused anyone unjustly,
I'm sorry. But I must know where you stand. You're right,
I've done Deymorin an injustice all these years.  I've
learned that much. I don't want to make that same mistake
with you. I didn't want to do anything to interrupt your
courtship of Lidye, or spoil what youth you have left, but
I'm afraid I must." He paused for breath, and because he
knew that challenging Nikki's sincerity was the best way to
lose it. "I need your help, Nikki. Badly."
Indignation gave way to eager anticipation. "You've got
it, of course."
Grimly aware he was manipulating his younger brother
in ways Anheliaa had never imagined, he warned: "Take
care how quickly you promise, brother. You've no idea
what I'm about to ask."
Which ought to ensure Nikki's total, blind allegiance.
"Khyel," Nikki said, walking toward him, "if you need
me to go muck out the stables, I will, you know that."
"It's not cleaning stables that's at issue, Nikki. I only
wish it were that simple."
"Khyel, you're killing yourself, trying to do everything."
Nikki closed the gap between them with a hand to touch
his arm, as much display of affection as there ever was
between them, "It's too much for one person. I want to
help. Until Deymio returns"
"If Deymorin returns," he qualified deliberately.
That light touch left him. "I don't understand."
Mikhyel stared up into those blue eyes (Rings, the lad
was taller than he, when had that happened?) and found
himself caught in a sudden, overwhelming urge to trans-
gress the rules of distance, to throw his arm around his
brother's shoulders, to love as openly as Deymorin always
had.
But he hadn't the ability, had lost it long ago, if it had
ever existed for him, and he'd confused the issue enough
already. Nikki had the right to hear the entire truth and
make his own judgment with a clear head, with those basic
rules of conduct between them intact.
So he moved away from the fire, away from Nikki, and
away from temptation.
"Nikki, I must ask yourings, don't take offence af
thisAre you Anheliaa's? How much has she told you of
her plans?"
Confusion clouded the blue eyes. "Anheliaa's what?
She's told me nothing. Nothing! What about Deymorin?"
"Just before he left, Deymorinin front of witnesses"
"Witnesses?"
"Myself . . . Anheliaa. Deymorin . . . he renounced any
claim to the Principate."
"I don't believe it!"
"Nevertheless,  it's  true.  Anheliaa  says"  Mikhyel
rubbed his eyes, trying to ease what had become a constant,
burning irritation. "She says that as the Rhomatum Tower
ringmaster, it is within her rights to bestow the title as she
sees fit."
"You can't mean that!" Nikki objected. "Deymorin's the
Princepshe is. You wouldn't take it from him."
Mikhyel said nothing, there being nothing he could say.
Take? No. But what if Rhomatum needed a real leader,
not the proxy of an absent Princeps. The thaws were well
underway and soon Deymorin's whereabouts could no
longer be explained away.
"Would you?" Nikki persisted.
Even the details, sooner or later, would come out.
"She didn't say that I would replace him," Mikhyel
said quietly.
"You can't think I would."
"You might not have any choice. / might not. Anheliaa
insists, since we've shown no ability with the rings, which-
ever wife replaces her in the Tower, that brother will as-
sume the Principate whether he wills it or not." Although
tomorrow's meeting might well swing the balanceaway
from Nethaalye.
He wished, now, he'd not avoided Nethaalye these past
months, wished he knew how she really felt about being
mistress of Rhomatum Tower. He'd assured her and her
parents that her betrothal would stand, regardless, but he'd
seen her only a handful of times since she'd come to the
Tower. If she truly had Talent, if she truly wished to be
ringmaster, he was taking her down with him.
They'd been friends once. Good friends, and he wished
he could give her a reasonable say in the decision, but he
had no choice.
"Butwhy?" Nikki's protest cut into those thoughts.
"It sets a precedent," Mikhyel said, "So she says."
"Precedent? What sort of precedent? Council voted the
position to the Rhomandi three hundred years ago. The Rho-
mandi, not the Family, and that's Deymorin. She can't
change thatonly Council can vote it away."
"Anheliaa's not touching the Council's authorityat
least ..." And this was hazy in his own mind. "... not
legally speaking. She's changing the Rhomandi Family rules
of primogeniture. She says that this way the Rhomatum
Tower will never again be a part-time consideration. That
instead of the Princeps either assuming the position of ring-
master personally, or delegating it to a controllable relative,
the primary right to inherit is to be Talent, not primogeni-
ture, that anyone can learn law and books, but the Tower
requires unique, inborn traits which must have prece-
dence."
Which sounded to Mikhyel like one more assumption of
power on Anheliaa dunMoren's part. A line of thought he
was sure Nikki was perfectly capable of generating on his
own, and one which, from the growing chill emanating from
Nikki's corner of the room, was well underway.
Mikhyel forced a smile. "Sort of puts my job into per-
spective, don't you think? Of course, if / can learn the
dynamics of farming, I suppose her contention has some
validity."
"That's not funny, Mikhyel."
Nikki's tone and the chill that filled the room now, while
familiar in essence, were painfully new in origin. So: Nikki,
gentle Nikki, who had endured all of Anheliaa's decrees
without complaint, Nikki, who, with endless diplomacy, had
been so agreeable lifelong Deymorin used to joke he
couldn't be Mheric's . . . sweet Nikki had matured into the
family temper at last.
Anheliaa was going to be so pleased.
"And does she?" Nikki asked finally, amazinglydan-
gerouslycontrolled.
"Anheliaa? Does she what?"
"Have the right, the legal right, to propose and dispose
of our family this way?"
Mikhyel shrugged, caught off guard, which he shouldn't
have been. He should have been prepared to face Nikki on
this at any moment. But Anheliaa and her philosophies had
seemed so unreal, had lacked the urgency of flooding and
trade agreements, and pending war ... until he realized
that his stand on that very topic might well swing the bal-
ance of Anheliaa's decisionaway from Nethaalye, throw-
ing the decisions precisely onto the young shoulders he'd
been protecting.
"As far as I've been able to determine," he said quietly,
"there is no precedent. It's never been an issue before: the
Princeps and the ringmaster were either the same person,
or an unequivocal Rhomandi. But does it really matter?
Anheliaa has been setting her own rules for years. Who
would seriously consider challenging her?"
"Deymorin," Nikki answered without hesitation. "He
didn't really leave, did he? She drove him away because
she knew if he were here, she'd loseshe wouldn't dare
suggest such a thing to him. She always drove him away,
from the City, the Councillors, from you ... Damn you,
Khyel, if you two had ever stopped arguing long enough to
talk, you'd have realized you're not so different as you'd
like to think. But you never did, you always had to fight,
so she always won, didn't she? And she's winning this time
as well, because you won't oppose her, even though you know
damn well she's wrong."
"Nikki, it's not" Rings, how to answer that cold-
blooded logic that only confirmed his own belief? He'd
meant to explain long ago, but there'd been no good time,
and now, time had run out. "The point is," he said wearily,
"Deymorin's not herefor whatever reasonand there re-
ally is no choice. We must do something. Mauritum is press-
ing us. Our informants suggest they could be raising and
outfitting an army."
Nikki choked on a half-laugh. "You're joking."
"I wish I were."
"An army?"
"With ley-compatible firearms."
"Ley-compatible. Of course. And they've found a trea-
sure trove of ancient Tamshi weapons that collect bolts of
lightning and fling them at leytowers, blasting the founda-
tions out at the bottom. And we mustn't forget that Gar-
etti  has  discovered  how  to  make  people  and  things
disappear, just like thatpoof!"
"It's possible." Mikhyel said and forced his face to re-
main impassive, tried to keep Anheliaa's ring-driven pow-
ers from his mind, tried to ignore Nikki's open derision.
"Now that's taking the joke too far, Khyel. They're nego-
tiating a trade agreement"
"They've been negotiating for years. They've settled
nothing."
Nikki was silent a moment, then:
"An army, you said. To do what?"
"To take Rhomatum, I should imagine. Isn't that the
ordinary objective of armies?" Despite his best efforts, sar-
casm tinged his own voice at the last, and Nikki's chin
raised belligerently.
"Why haven't I been told before?"
"There was no need. We still don't know any of it for
certain."
"So why now? If 'we' were keeping Nikki ignorant, why
reveal ourselves now?"
"Because . . . because it might be true."
"And?"
"And because . . . because . . ." Nikki's set and thin-
lipped mouth wiped all reason from bis mind. Nikki wasn't
going to listen, Nikki wasn't going to believe anything he
said, and Nikki, who loved Outside nearly as much as
Deymorin, would never believe he'd come 'to agree with
them. He shook his head wearily. "It doesn't matter."
"You're right, it doesn't. Not to you. It never has made
any difference to you. Keep Nikki ignorant, keep Nikki
happy. Keep Nikki out of the damned way."
"Damn you, boy, I'm telling you now because I might
not be in a position to tell you later"
"Why not?"
"Because Anheliaa might well have me thrown in jail"
"Tell me another bogle-tale, barrister."
"Rings, you sound more like Deymorin every day."
"Thank you."
Mockery. Disbelief. Suddenly, he was tired of it all. Tired
of Nikki's accusations, tired of Nikki's determined immatu-
rity, the wide-eyed innocence that disappeared only when
they confronted one another, like now. He was tired of
skirting around Nikki's delicate sensibilities, and most of
all, tired of Nikki's never-ending, nonpartisan evaluations,
first siding with him, then Deymorin ... next he'd be de-
fending Mauritum's right to Rhomatum Tower.
"Impossible as it seems," Mikhyel said past a painfully
tight throat, "war is what rumor suggests."
"I'll grant youfor the momentthey might take the
City, possibly even the Tower. . .. What good would it do
them without Anheliaa?"
"We run that risk daily, Nikki. Anheliaa herself has said
the Rhomatum rings will remain aligned and stable with or
without a master. Certainly long enough for a trained out-
sider to come in and master them. From all indications,
Mauritum is simply awaiting Anheliaa's death and the chaos
surrounding it, but I wouldn't count on that rumor. The
point I'm trying to make is: if war is in the offing, we must
have a meaningful leader ready to take the field. Someone
everyone agrees has the right to command the City forces
one can scarcely call them an armywe've begun amassing.
It's not a large army. We can't muster one overnight. But
we must give at least the credible appearance of defense.
The Guard's not taken the field in two hundred years."
"Rather more than that. Read your history, brother."
Nikki took a turn about the room. "All the more reason
to get Deymorin back. He already has the respect of the
Guardhe's the only one of us with the experience and
the training to lead them. Neither of us has ever been in
the Guard, let alone"
"Dammit, Nikki, he's not coming back. Get that through
your head!"
Nikki froze, turned slowly to stare at him, measuring,
calculating the pain and guilt he'd not been able to with-
hold from that outburst.
Nikki walked slowly back to the settee.
"I want to know what's going on, Mikhyel," he said qui-
etly, firmly, all apparent signs of anger gone. "If Anheliaa
had simply explained the entire situation to him, Deymorin
wouldn't have left. Deymorm's not stupid. He'd not risk all
of Rhomatum for his own pride. And he'd believe the risk.
He believed Anheliaa had designs on Mauritum"
"Mawitum?" Mikhyel could scarcely believe he'd heard
right. "How did he think she would take Mauritum?"
"Power. He said she capped Khoratum to give herself
the power to force Mauritum to join the Rhomatum Web."
It made a horrific kind of unanswerable logic.
"Where is he, Mikhyel? And don't tell me Pretierac. We
both know that's not the case."
"I wish I knew, Nikki," he admitted foolishly.
"Wish you knew what? Honestly, Khyel. No more
evasions."
Something collapsed inside. . .
"Where Deymorin is," he said wearily, and Nikki nodded
as if he had only confirmed what Nikki had suspected all
along.
"What happened that night, Khyel?" Nikki asked.
.. .that   same   inside-something   that   Deymorin   had
breached six months ago. He could stand firm against his
brother's anger; against this soft-voiced reason, he had no
defense whatsoever.
"After you'd gone to bed, we joined Anheliaa in the
Tower, as I told you. There was an argumentas I told
you. Only Deymorin didn't leave, not on his own." He was
stumbling, making his case poorly at best. "Anheliaa ...
sent him away. They were both angry. Exceedingly. You
know how they could get."
"Because he realized she was trying to steal his birthright
and he challenged her."
All a man could do was shrug. Too much to explain. Too
old and tangled a path . . .
"She sent him away ... Where? What's she done with
him?"
"Better to ask, how, Nikki. She sent him away." And
venting his own long-simmering anger toward Anheliaa and
fear for his brother's safety. "Damn herjust hke some
common criminal!"
A long silence, during which a mask of calm settled over
Nikki's normally expressive features, a composed detach-
ment Mikhyel didn't trust.
There was a bond between Nikki and Deymorin. Nikki
wasn't stupid. Nikki was thinking, weighing the various pos-
sibilities, and when the scales had settled, Nikki was going
to blame him, as a result of which he'd lose what small
influence he had left.
Nikki wasn't stupid, but then, neither had Deymorin
been stupid; just passionate and headstrong. And if Nikki
was not to suffer the same fate as Deymorin, Nikki must
learn what he was up against, learn to play the game ac-
cording to Anheliaa's rules.
Rules, he, Mikhyel, intended to consciously contest. . .
"Sent him away. You mean, using the rings?" Nikki
asked at last, and Mikhyel nodded, being too tired to
form words.
. . . Contention that might well send him after Deymorin.
Rings, he was a fool. . . .
"Then the rumors are true."
He nodded again, and wearily continued the motion,
through:
"And she did . . . that to Deymorin?"
And: "Just because they had a fight?"
He stopped in mid-nod, Nikki's interpretation seeping
past exhaustion-induced stupidity, and he wrenched his
neck in reversing the motion. "No, Nikki. It wasn't quite
like that. Deymorin"
"Deymorin made me a promise that night, Mikhyel. Did
he tell you that? He promised me a family" Nikki's calm
cracked. "The only thing I've ever really wanted. You and
Anheliaa, between the two of you, have made me believe
for six months that that promise meant nothing to him. For
six months you've made me hate the only person, who ever
really loved me!"
"Nikki"
"Deymorin did nothing that could possibly merit exile.
Nothing! She had no right. You hadn't."
"I didn't"
"You didn't damn well get him back! You didn't expose
her injustice to meor to the Council. You advised me to
play along with her damned high-handed takeover."
"And if you hadn't played along? If I hadn't? What
then, Nikaenor?"
"I'd be with Deymorin."
"Are you so certain? You might be dead."
"Dea Where the hell is he? Where did she send him?"
"I don't"
"Where?"
Like the crack of a whip, the shock of such a tone from
his younger brother cut through his mesmerized thinking.
"Nikaenor, I don't know. Anheliaa doesn't. More than that,
she doesn't care."
Or so she claimed. It was the fear that she did know,
that Deymorin was alive and subject to her whim, that she
could at any moment make Deymorin suffer again as she
had that night and he wouldn't be there to stop herit was
that fear more than any other that had controlled him for
six months. That had kept him from telling Nikki the truth,
knowing Nikki wasn't going to accept that answer.
Well, neither had he accepted it.
"I've been lookingdiscreetly, dammitever since that
night, and so far, there's been nothing. Not a clue to where
he or any of the others she's exiled landed. It's hard. I
don't want to start a panic in the City. I don't want to
alert Anheliaa, and I don't want to endanger him! Can you
understand that, boy? For all we know, he's in the middle
of those same criminals we both agree he shouldn't be cor-
related withto" He threw his hands up in furious, mute
surrender. "Whatever."
Nikki scowled.
Upset.
Angry.
But Nikki listened. Nikki ground his teeth and breathed
deeply, controlling that justified anger.
"What happened to Ringer?" Nikki asked past that tight
jaw, which question made no sense at all. "Deymorin's
horse, dammit! He was gone from the stable when I went
there three days after Deymorin disappeared. He's not at
Armayel. Not at Darhaven. What happened to Ringer?"
And then he understood. Knew again that other subtle
pain in how he'd failed Deymorin. "I ... I was too late,
Nikki," he forced through his tightening throat. "Anheliaa
got to him first."
Or more accurately, Brolucci, the captain of Anheliaa's
Guard had.
"Destroyed?"
He nodded, that being all he knew. The horse had been
gone when he'd been clearheaded enough to ask, and no
one knew. Except Anheliaa, who had seen no reason to
hide her actions from him. Had piled secret upon secret
onto him until he collapsed under their weight, no longer
certain who knew what, having to evaluate every thought . . .
Nikki's jaw slowly relaxed, his harsh breaths eased into
silence, and Nikki asked calmly:
"That's the real reason you've been driving yourself so
hard, isn't it, Khyel? You're worried about him?"
"Exceedingly."
"More than that, you're blaming yourselffeeling
guilty."
He shrugged. But the truth of it was, he'd never known
whether the constant antipathy between Deymorin and
himself had been the primary factor preventing Deymorin
from backing down from Anheliaa in front of him, any
more than he himself had been able to excuse Nikki's tru-
ancy in front of Deymio the night of Nikki's party. Maybe
if he hadn't been there, Deymorin would have responded
differently to Anheliaa's demands, would have been here
to drain Gareg's bog and counsel Nikki more wisely than
ever he had done.
"Well, you shouldn't be," Nikki said emphatically. "Nei-
ther should I for demanding that promise. Anheliaa's to
blame. She sets so much store by the rings, and she's so
damned proud of her skill. She threw him out. Whatever
has happened to him is her fault and since she lost him,
she can damnwell find him."
"Don't push her, Nikki." Please. He pressed his lips tight
over the silent plea, but he knew, with fatalistic certainty,
that he would lose Nikki from such a confrontation, leaving
him alone to deal with Anheliaa, to present her with her
damned heir, to lead the damned campaign against Mauri-
tum, and to get the damned swamp drained.
But if that happened, it was no more than he deserved.
He should have confronted Deymorin years ago, should
have challenged Anheliaa's high-handed dispersal of crimi-
nals, should have told Nikki long before the engagements
were settled, should have given him the chance to tell An-
heliaa to take her rings and her wives and go to hell.
So many, so very many should-haves ...
"We've got to go after him, Khyel."
"Don't be foolish. I've good people, trained people work-
ing on it."
"We've got to go after him. If it were one of us miss-
ing"
"He'd come looking. But it wasn't" This time, it was
a light tap at the door that interrupted him. "We'll talk
about this later. I promise you, Deymorin is not forgotten."
A second tapping, louder this time. He knew who it was.
Who it must be.
"And if I go to Anheliaa?" Nikki demanded, "If she
gives me a different story?"
"Anheliaa has an agenda, Nikki. You know that. You
can imagine what it is, if you use your head. Think of that.
Think ofthink of Berul. And then ask yourself, brother
. . . and if you lied to me in this . . . Who really arranged
Mirym's presence here today, and watch what you say."
"Who?" Nikki regarded him as if he'd gone totally
over the edge. Then not. The temper flared. Came under
control. "You're out of your mind."
He'd gone too far, challenging Mirym. Mirym had snared
his brother's romantic interest at impressionable seventeen
and Anheliaa had him, whether or not he realized it yet.
No, Nikki wasn't stupid, but he was young, and impression-
able, and passionate; and if his cooler, older, supposedly
wiser brother had pushed him into defending the very peo-
ple he advised against, who was the fool? Where the
stupidity?
"Disregard what I said." He made a dismissive gesture.
"Probably inconsequential. Probably nothing at all. Just . . ."
He shrugged, somewhat desperate in the face of his broth-
er's stubborn calm. ". . . trust me."
Nikki raised a single, cynical eyebrow, a gesture so like
Deymorin it roused a painful knot in Mikhyel's throat.
Or perhaps that knot was born of the knowledge that
Nikaenor was not about to trust him. Or take his warnings.
Not this time.
Perhaps never again.
"So, Rag'n'bones, have you a name?"
Soap splashed into the pool, scattering reflections of blue
sky and shadows, and the carrot-topped apparition ap-
pearing unannounced behind him.
"Dammit!" Deymorin made a wild grab after the blanket
lying on the bank, overbalanced and followed the soap into
the pool. Shaking his eyes free of water, he glared at the
apparition through a veil of dripping hair. "After making
him smell hke a skunk, the least you could do is give a
man a bit of privacy while he defumigates."
"Like you gave me, Rag'n'bones?"
Scowling, he ducked his head and swept the trailing hair
aside with a bent arm, careful not to crimp tender back
flesh. Closer examination of his person had given no clue
to the origin of hiS vast discomfort. It was as if his entire
body had been badly sunburned.
According to the apparitionwho even now tossed the
pack she carried to the ground and settled with her elbows
propped on it, obviously planning -to staythis soap
would help.
"Nothing I haven't seen already, Rag'n'bones. As to pri-
vacy, I hauled your oversized carcass out of this place once,
I don't intend to repeat the performance for the sake of
misplaced modesty."
Out of the lake was one thing, up the hill to her campsite
was something entirely different. Where was her help? If
not the gravel-voiced youth, then who?
Easier to believe he'd simply been thrown out the city
gates and wandered here on his own. Perhaps he and this
female were unwilling companions, or she'd found him
sleeping and hit him on the head to rob him. He'd heard
of people losing vast chunks of memory through a blow to
the head.
Perhaps she knew fall well who he was, and was taking
advantage of his confused state to place him under some
fictitious obligation. He could have mumbled something in
his sleep. Something she used against him now.
Now, that was paranoid thinking.
On the other hand, that would account both for the lost
months and the fact his body seemed as fit as he last re-
called, give or taking an aching
"Get a move on, man. Before you turn blue."
Nothing to argue with in that.
He groped about the rocks where underwater currents
had carried both soap and battered washrag and staggered
defiantly to his feet, to discover, to his delight, that the
stinking ointment she'd spread all over him had turned
from irritating-dry to disgusting-slime on contact with
water, and itched as if he were one of Anheliaa's lizards
shedding outgrown skin.
He scrubbed at the area of greatest irritation.
She hissed, and a barrage of pebbles and dirt struck his
back.
"What the"
"Use it right, or not at all, Rag'n'bones."
Tempted to throw the lot in her face, he followed instead
her explicit instructions, given him along with the soap,
covering his face, shoulders, and chest with herbal-smelling
foam, taking it clear to his fingertips. Bare fingers. The
Family ring he'd worn for thirteen yearsever since Mher-
ic's deathgone, like his clothes.
Something else Anheliaa owed him.
Properly foamed, he stood shivering in the breeze,
counting.
To his further delight, the throbbing ache had returned
to his back and leg, whatever magic she'd performed prov-
ing sadly temporary. Having no desire to repeat her 'cure,'
he tried to conceal his discomfort, to stand straight and
shift his weight smoothly, determined not to show weakness
in front of her.
He discovered himself surprisingly conscious of her gaze.
He'd never considered himself a particularly bashful indi-
vidualhad, indeed, spent a delightful summer interlude at
a friend's mountain lodge cavorting in what Mikhyel would
undoubtedly have considered a shocking state of undress
but he'd always had the option of dignity, and the knowledge
that everyone knew who he was and would treat him ac-
cordingly, if he had demanded it.
It was that (he had to admit it) arrogance which had
stared openly at this woman as she bathed; she'd caught
him at it, recognized that attitude, and challenged it now.
However, his arrogance had been unconscious, while
she'd chosen a bathing spot in full view of the campsite
also of her choosing. He'd retreated into these prickly pool-
side bushes to organize his thoughts as well as destench his
person in private. If he'd tried to run (ridiculous hypotheti-
cal: he could barely walk without staggering) she'd have
seen as well from the camp as from her current front row
seating.
Besides which, if he chose to leave, wasn't that his right?
If she believed that pigsticker of hers would keep him if
he decided otherwise
"Long enough," she said, and he ducked under willingly,
relieved when the itch rinsed away with the soap.
"I'd still rather scrub it off," he muttered, when he sur-
faced, charity not high on his list of emotions at the
moment.
Surprisingly, she laughed. "Infinitely more satisfying, I'll
admit, but infinitely less effective. Trust me. I know."
"Oh?" He twisted, reaching for that elusive Spot in the
middle of his back no human arm could conveniently reach.
"Been flogged recently, have you?"
She didn't answer. A backward glance encountered a
face gone quite blank, what he'd intended for a joke, albeit
a rather low one, gone sadly off-mark.
But the flush disappeared as quickly as it had risen, and
she repeated smoothly:
"So, Rag'n'bones, have you a name?"
"Dey" he began easily, anxious (at first) to make
amends, then (with an attack of sanity) amended smoothly,
"mio."
"Deymio," she repeated flatly. "That's it? Just ...
Deymio?"
"Just Deymio," he maintained firmly, gave up on the
infernal Spot (and dignity) and soaped his lower half next.
"No family? No honor affiliates?"
"Honor?" That was an old one. "Can't recall I've
heard that anywhere outside a history book."
Another over-the-shoulder glance caught her studying
him with the predatory interest of a hungry cat. Not sexual
interest; more the. look of a merchant assessing the trade
value of an unknown commodity.
"Well?" That predatory gaze lifted.
"None that will acknowledge me," he answered belat-
ediy, and returned rather slowly to his soaping.
Her look said she didn't believe him, but that much was
probably true. Anheliaa never had, Mikhyel increasingly
didn't, and Nikki...
Unless that gap in his memory included some magical
reconciliation with his brothers, he'd broken his promise;
and considering what that promise had meant to Nikki,
Nikki wouldn't want him either.
A convulsive tremor shook him: the mountain breeze, he
told himself, and rubbed his arms vigorously.
"Wait." The woman buried herself up to the elbow in
the bag, and produced a flask ofhe waded over to meet
her stretch halfwaystrong spirits.
Another of her ringing laughs, which, when he could
breathe, he echoed.
She gestured at him to try again.
Forewarned, he took a more cautious sip, and found wel-
come warmth spreading from his throat to his stomach and
outward to steady shivering hmbs. She squatted on a rock,
one elbow comfortably balanced on a bent knee.
"And where are you from, Just Deymio? Rinse."
The disarming smile he sought came more easily than he
expected. Returning the flask, he sank into the water, then
settled his backside on a convenient rock, propped his feet
on another to soap his legs, and masked the twinge that
nonchalance caused with:
"Ah, mistress, 'tis my turn, now. I realize the lady in
general retains a prerogative of anonymity, but under the
circumstances..."
"Under the circumstances," the woman said, "I think
I've every right to engage that prerogative." She took a
healthy swig, and passed the flask again. "Ask another."
"Generous of you," he said sourly.
He took a third swallow, while he waited for his legs
to cure.
If he asked where she was from, he'd undoubtedly re-
ceive a similar rebuff.
And a fourth.
If how she'd found him, or how he came to be here, he'd
betray his ignorance, giving her yet another advantage. . . .
"Where are my clothes?"
"You arrived without any."
"I What?"
Her oh-so-ladylike laughter rang out across the grassy
meadow.
Deymorin scowled, and, not waiting for her signal,
slipped his legsand much of the rest of himinto the
water. Not so chill as before: either he was growing accus-
tomed, or the drink was amazingly effective.
Or, gloomier thought, he was losing all sensation ...
dying from the toes up.
A hand clapped his shoulder, squeezed reassuringly: a
companionable, unfeminine gesture that made the world go
momentarily sideways to a head too full of spirits.
"So, Just Deymio, what brings you to our humble end
of the country, naked as the day you were born? Someone
rob you? Dump you on your head in the lake?"
"You tell me," he said flatly, and twisted around to stare
along that companionably stretched arm, feeling anything
but companionable at the moment.
The smile left her face. She started to pull away; he
grabbed her wrist, tightening his hold and standing when
she jerked to her feet, her free hand flying to her waist and
the concealed knife.
But she didn't draw it. Didn't struggle beyond that initial
attempt to free herself. Instead, eyes narrowed, mouth tight
with anger, she hissed:
"If you don't want to lose something important, Just
Deymio, I suggest you let go right now."
"Guess I'll have to take my chances, won't I?"
Which priority seemed to confuse her utterly. Tension
dropped from her face and wrist alike.
"The last I remember," he said candidly, "I waswell,
someplace entirely different. You say you rescued me from
the lake. I believe you, and appreciate it. I must assume,
however, that you saw me go in, or I'd have drowned,
right? Lord and rings, woman, have pity. If you have any
idea how I got there"
"You fell from the sky," she snapped, "like a common
cutpurse."
"Fell ...?" His hand went numb. She jerked free. But
he was beyond caring. The world had gone grey and shim-
mery, the image too close to confirming his worst night-
mares. He sank back onto his rock, shivering.
"Relax, friend," she said easily, dropping cross-legged to
her chosen perch, almost cheerful, now she was in control.
"You're pot the first; I doubt you'll be the last to arrive
thus. And you put those legs of yours in too soon. Try
again."
Grateful for a supplied objective, he resoaped his legs.
Not the first? Falling out of the sky?
Disturbing pieces of a disturbing puzzle. He brushed cold
water over his face, clearing the buzz in his head, and threw
the least disturbing piece back at her:
"You consider falling out of the sky common?"
"For criminals out of Rhomatum, it is," she said just as
matter-of-factly. "Other cities simply toss their overstock
out the back gates."
"How pedantic," he said dryly, and lifted a foot. "Now?"
"Yes. Quite." She grinned appreciatively; he took that
for the answer to both and rinsed his legs.
She seemed to take this 'dumping' for granted. If there
was any truth to it, if other Rhomatum 'overstock' had
been thrown into this regionif she herself was onehe
had no desire to advertise his identity. No sense encourag-
ing them  to  seek  revenge  against  Anheliaa's justice
through him.
"Damn you, Anheliaa dunMoren," he muttered under
his breath, and a solid and present hand tightened on his
arm. He took the proffered flask and drank deeply, grateful
for the warmth and the bite of spirits to wash the bitter-
ness away.
"Not the first to utter that, either. Just Deymio. What
did you do to incur the lady's wrath?"
"This time?" He laughed ruefully. "Lady, I was born.
Anheliaa dunMoren needs no other excuse."
The hand fell from his arm, and she rose to her feet,
looking down her nose at him.
"Yon speak well, Deymio of no house in particular. Too
well for streetscut."
He shrugged and settled lower into the water. "I might
say the same of you, shepherdess."
"She?" It was her turn to choke. And gasp. And
sneeze. And blow her nose most inelegantly into a cloth
she then rinsed in the pond.
"Don't you like sheep?" he asked innocently, willingly
shifting the conversation onto her.
She just glared at him.
"I suppose that means you're not my shepherd's daugh-
ter," he said, with a soulful sigh.
"I'm not your anything, my lord nobody. Quite the oppo-
site, in case you hadn't noticed."
He biinked. "I'm your shepherd's daughter?"
A cool-eyed scan of his person terminated squarely and
without a hint of maidenly color on his water-covered
lap. "Hardly."
"I'm relieved for that."
Surprisingly, she laughed. "Get your back. Just Deymio.
I'm freezing."
He ducked an increasingly heavy head toward the flask.
"Try a swig of that, shepherdess. Warm y' right up, 't will."
He swayed upright, avoiding a retaliation that never oc-
curred, and stretched once again after that Spot.
His shoulders screamed a protest; the woman's ointment
had taken the sting and fire from the skin, but the bruised
muscles beneath, joints stretched to the limit, still ached
with a fire of their own. Forgetting the woman, he cursed
softly, closed his eyes and stretched again, determined to
reach the Spot.
"Fool." The woman's gruff voice chastised almost gently,
and she plucked the cloth from his hand to give the un-
reachable spot a scrub.
Eminently satisfying ... until it turned painful. He
grunted a protest, and shied away.
With a laugh (an I-warned-you laugh, if ever he'd been
subjected to one), she grabbed his wet trailing hair and
pulled him back, this time smoothing the lather over the
Spot and down, stopping before getting overly personal.
"Thanks," he muttered, and finished himself, waited si-
lently for the itching to stop, the signal (he inferred from
experience) to rinse, and dipped a final time, staying under
to run his fingers through the hair drifting freely around
his head, working the worst of the tangles free.
Surfacing, he found her standing well back on the stony
shore. Her eyes followed him as he worked his way through
rocks and weeds to dry ground and the stained blanket.
"So," he said, shaking out the blanket, and turning his
head away from all the . . . things ... that flew free, "you've
had your eyeful. What's the verdict?"
"I've seen betterand worse. Far worse." She continued
that head-tilted consideration, while he gingerly wrapped
the filthy thing around his waist, little enough protection
against the breeze, which had reclassified itself into a no-
argument wind, that whipped around him and threatened
to freeze damp skin solid.
"C'mon, Rag'n'bones," she said, grabbing his arm and
giving him an uphill shove, "Let's get out of the wind."
He rubbed his bare arms vigorously, and quickened his
pace, no longer able to disguise the limp.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he answered shortly.
"Back bothering again?"
"Leg." He hedged.
"Twist it when you fell?"
"Old."
"Break?"
He nodded: a single, abrupt dip of the chin.
She clucked sympathetically. "That explains the scars.
Must've been a bad one."
"Doesn't slow me. Don't suppose you have anything
approximating a spare shirt in that bag of yours."
A hesitation, so slight as to be nonexistentto a less
suspicious man. Then:
"A nightshirt. Quite frilly. Aad you might . . ." She took
a skipping stride ahead and walked backward, squinting
and holding her hands as if taking a tailor's estimate. "You
might find it a touch binding through the shoulders."
"Thanks. I'll pass."
"Thought you might." She fell back in beside him, her
long strides matching his easily until they reached her
camp.
In deference to the gender of his companion, he forced
his legs to stay straight, waiting for her to sit before drop-
ping cross-legged to the ground and huddling into as small
a package as he could manage, drawing the blanket up
around his shoulders.
The woman's seemingly bottomless bag produced an oil-
cloth of standard traveller's fare, hard-baked flat-bread and
cheese, as well as the flaskor perhaps, from the weight,
a second. They shared the largesse in silence, and since she
seemed unconcerned about renewing the supply, he ate
and drankfreely.
"Listen, Rag'n'bones," she said at last, and he looked
up, surprised to find her face swimming in and out of focus,
"we've a while before we have to leave. I suggest you try
and get some rest."
"Leave?" he asked, stupid and not caring. "Are we
going somewhere?"
"What did you think? Unless you want to stay here and
commune with the sheep."
"I" Think? He wasn't thinking. Hadn't been for a long
time. He'd been floating with the moment, hadn't truly
looked beyond to realistic options.
Because there weren't any. Reality had taken a holiday
the moment he'd fallen from the sky. But he found his
head agreeing with her suggestion, found himself unable to
formulate any sort of answer . . .
Found himself settling to the ground in absolute, compla-
cent acceptance.
Outside, a groom walked the greys patiently around the
circular drive, keeping (so Nikki had explained once and
at length) their delicate leg-muscles warm. Inside:
"Khyel, we must be going. The horses"
"I know, Nikki." Mikhyel turned from the window, let-
ting the drape fall. "I know. But promise me you'll leave
the issue"
"Issue." His younger brother settled his hat and picked
his gloves off the table. "You mean, Deymorin?"
"You know exactly what I mean." He looped a silk scarf
around his neck, crossed the ends, and fastened his great-
coat over the top, praying it would be enough against the
growing chill outside. "It's not just Deymorin. Please,
Nikki, it's important. I must be able to trust you to keep
your own counsel until I"
"You've had six months, Khyel." Nikki yanked a glove
over his hand. "I'm not promising anything. But don't
worry, I won't implicate you without your clearance."
He shook his head wearily. He'd just stay close to Nikki,
keep him from taking Anheliaa on alone, for all the help
he'd be. Perhaps he could temporize with the Councilat
least until Nikki cooled down . . . until his head was clearer
. . . until
"Mirym's waiting," Nikki said, and reached for the door.
MirynL
He'd made a silent supper, listening to their odd, one-
voiced conversation down the table. One-voiced, but not
single-minded. Nikki had seemed able to read Mirym's si-
lent gestures with uncanny accuracy.
And watching, he'd begun to wonder if he was doomed
to read conspiracy into even the most innocent of intrigues.
Except that no romantic tryst could remain innocent where
Anheliaa's  nephewsand  Anheliaa's  servantswere
concerned.
"Nikki?"    -
"What?" Nikki turned impatiently.
"What about ... her?" He tipped his head toward the
door.
"Mirym?" Nikki's chin lifted. "She's a nice girl. Had the
day off. I gave her an outing. What about her?"
Perhaps he was wrong about everything. Perhaps Mirym
wasn't a spy, perhaps they weren't even a couple; certainly
there was nothing openly romantical in their actions, being
more like the easy companionship his brother seemed able
to establish with anyone.
But this girl was not just anyone.
"Do you love ..." He dropped his eyes to the short-
crowned hat he twisted between his hands, and rephrased
the question. "Do you love Lidye?"
"I'm goirig to marry her."
"That's not what I asked." This time, he sought out
Nikki's eyes, hoping for clues to his thoughts. "I just ...
can't imagine. You. Her . . ."
Nikki's cold stare revealed nothing.
He shook his head, and settled the hat, ready, now, to
leave. But:
"Do you love her, Khyel?" Nikki asked, with ill-
concealed  eagerness.  "Would  you  rather  her  than
Nethaalye?"
"Me? Gods, no!" Shock betrayed him into brutal hon-
esty. "I can't stand" He broke off. "Sorry, I shouldn't
have said that. As you point out, Mirym's waiting."
This time, it was Nikki's hand forcing confrontation.
"Don't you like Lidye?" Nikki asked, staring intently, a
look no more readable than the other.
"Nikki, I" He sighed, and, very briefly, covered Nikki's
hand with his own. "I want you to be happy. Nothing more,
certainly no less. If Lidye will do that, I'll" He swallowed
hard. "I'll respect her as your wife and try to love her as
a sister. More than that, no, I'd not want her as my wife."
And with that ultimate betrayal of Anheliaa's plans, he
walked out the door.
Angry, more confused than ever, Nikki followed Mikhyel
down the steps to the carriage.
Lidye, the paragonwasn't. Mirym, Anheliaa's spy? And
Mikhyeljust where in the eighteen hells above Rhoma-
tum did he stand?
Mirym was standing at the horses' heads, nipping an
apple into bits with her teeth, holding the bits out in a
gloved hand for appreciative horse-mouths. Gareg was
leaning over the carriage half-door, supervising the distribu-
tion of furs and blankets in the rear seat, while four men
stood at attention beside saddled horses, obviously in-
tending to accompany them.
Brushing past Mikhyel, Nikki joined Mirym. openly dem-
onstrating his opinion of Mikhyel's absurd accusations. She
smiled a welcome, but her face clouded with concern as
she looked past him to Mikhyel, who was certainly moving
more slowly than was his custom, and his feet scuffed the
gravel twice as he approached the carriage.
Nikki concentrated on the horses, making minute (and
unnecessary) adjustments in the harness. Stubborn pride
brought its own reward, as Deymio had told him often
enough, when he'd ruined something by insisting he could
do it himself. He'd offered to help Mikhyel and had those
offers twisted into something ... ugly; he wasn't inclined
to offer again.
Still, he couldn't help but hear when Gareg asked: "Are
you certain you don't want to wait until tomorrow, sir?"
He glanced up to see Mikhyel smile wryly. "Not if you
want that road by harvest."
"We can have a coach brought 'round"
A flicker of pale eyes in his direction, then Mikhyel
shook his head, said something in an, undertone, and took
Gareg's hand before climbing into the nest of furs. Their
low-voiced conversation continued, shedding occasional ref-
erences' to bogs and manure, while the footman stowed
Mikhyel's portmanteau under the forward seat.
Bogs and manure. A mere week ago, Mikhyel had gotten
silence and hostility from Gareg, and Mikhyel had shouted
at him to get the hell back to Rhomatum and tell Anheliaa
she was on her own until he'd pounded sense into Gareg's
thick skull.
Enough to make a man quit trying to comprehend, and
opt instead to ask Mirym whether she preferred Mikhyel's
nest in the back, or the simple lap robe of the forward seat.
He was ... not displeased when she compromised, ex-
changing the lap robe for a larger, warmer blanket from
the back, but climbing into the front next to him.
"Think you'll be warm enough, brother?" he asked
somewhat sourly.
A touch of color stained Mikhyel's pale face, but it was
Gareg who answered harshly:
"You'll be grateful to have blankets along yourself, soon
enough, Master Nikaenor. Once that sun sets, you'll freeze
that smart ass of yours off without." Gareg pressed some-
thing into Mikhyel's hands, then moved forward and said
in a stern undertone: "You ease off on your brother, hear
me. Master Nikki? He's worked long hours and has no
business setting off in this cold. He's liable to fall asleep.
If he  does,  you keep your  eye  to him  and keep  him
warm. And stop teasing him."
Somewhat abashed, he glanced back at Mikhyel. "You
want a warming brick or something, Khyel?"
Mikhyel shook his head, without looking up, but seeing
him huddling into those furs, one was reminded unwillingly
of chill hands and weary eyes, and uncharacteristically con-
fused logic.
"Khyel, if you're not up to this, I'll take Mirym back
tonight, and come back for you in a day or two."
Which earned him a scowl and an irritable. Just get going,
for his trouble.
He shrugged, and said to Gareg: "I'll watch him. Nothing
more I can do, is there?"
"I suppose not." But Gareg was still angryor, per-
haps, frustrated.
"What about them?" He nodded toward the outriders,
mounted now, and quietly adjusting reins and stirrups.
"You'll be glad of them, too, considering the time you're
starting. They'll see you to Khorandi Ley, but no further.
They've firearms in their saddles . . ." His voice faded into
a muttered comment about outlaws and fools and Mauri-
tum spies.
"All right, Gari," Nikki said, laughing and throwing his
hands in defeat. "All right. Can we go now?"
"May you go, fry." Gareg grinned finally, in the old,
friendly way, and waved him away. "And yes, you may."
And giving the half-door a tap, as it passed: "Bye, boss.
Take care."
Boss. The term Gareg had always reserved for Deymorin.
A good sign, Nikki supposed, though it hurt to hear the
familiarity directed elsewhere, particularly considering his
new understanding of Deymorin's absence. However, the
Rhomandi Family held four different seats in the valley
and foothills surrounding Rhomatum, not counting Darha-
ven, of which Armayel was by far the largest. Mikhyel had
faced anger and hostility at each as he'd visited them, trying
desperately to cover for Deymorin's absence. If Mikhyel
could establish an understanding with Gareg, perhaps the
others would come around as well.
But Nikki, if he were h6nest with himself, did not want
them to come around. He wanted Deymorin back to deal
with them in person. The only truly useful result of such a
. .. defection . . . would be if it meant Mikhyel could .now
find room in his schedule for more important things.
Like finding Deymorin and bringing him home.
The reins were quiet, steady. Storm and Ashley, all busi-
ness now, and pacing the outriders without need of his
input.
Mikhyel, when applied to for comment on the deepening
sunset, was silent. Sleeping, or, more likely from the occa-
sional smothered cough that escaped him, wanting them to
pretend that he was.
Hoping to be left alonewhich hope Nikki was perfectly
content to oblige.
Mirym, wrapped in her blanket, sat huddled against the
side-cushions, her former enthusiasm waning, though not,
from her frequent backward glances, due to the cold.
Anheliaa's spy. How dare Mikhyel imply such nonsense?
Mikhyel should know better. Mikhyel spent more time
around Anheliaa than anyone, and must have seen how
competent and honest Mirym was.
He could understand how his incurably serious brother
might wonder, seeing Mirym arriving with him. But how
those suspicions could survive beyond the initial consider-
ation . . . had to be sheer blind stupidity on Mikhyel's part,
as ridiculous as . . . as those rumors of war with Mauritum.
Lidye could be a spy, perhaps, or Nethaalye. They were
from political families, they had come to Rhomatum for
political reasonsAnheliaa's reasons.
Mirym was different. Innocent and fresh. Sensible, as
Outsiders were sensible. Sweet and honest, considerate and
a multipheity of other virtues Mikhyel wasn't likely to
recognize.
He sighed heavily, jumped as a light hand touched his.
Mirym, whose large eyes drifted to Mikhyel's nest and back
to him.
"I'm fine. Just" He shrugged and laughed softly. "We
had a bit of a row. Personal, but thanks for asking."
Her hand patted his, then tucked back under the blanket,
her gaze wandering to the lengthening purple shadows. She
huddled deeper into the seat, pulling the blanket higher,
shivering.
"Would you like me to stop so you can move back
there?" He pointed to the rear with his chin.
She glanced backward, her face going soft and gentle,
and Nikki instantly regretted the suggestion, but:
She shook her head, and tilled her head cheek to palm.
"Khyel's asleep?" Perversely, he argued his own desires.
"Don't worry. If he wakes, he wakes. We wouldn't want
you to take a chill."
Her expression turned puzzled, as if he presented a mys-
tery she couldn't sort. Then she shook her head firmly.
Just as well, he decided. He'd as soon not deal with Mi-
khyel at the moment. For all his brain found remote reasons
for Mikhyel's long silence and for his suspicions regarding
Mirym, still he resented being kept ignorant, still resented
having his judgment constantly challenged, or worse, ig-
nored altogether.
He wasn't a child. He wasn't naive. But Mikhyel insisted
on treating him that way. Mikhyel, who let Anheliaa exile
Deymorin without public challenge, who called Mirym a
spy, and who thought to scare him into compliance with
rumors of war.
Who sang Lidye's praises to him for six months, and now
admitted he could scarcely tolerate her and paled at the
thought of wedding her.
Mikhyel, who spent a significant portion of every day in
Anheliaa's company and upon whose sleeping figure Mirym
cast repeated furtive glances.
Jealousy. That strange twist in his gut was common jeal-
ousy. Perhaps Mirym, who had rejected his innocently ad-
vanced friendship on the trip out, wanted Mikhyel so badly
she couldn't trust herself even to sit next to him. Obviously,
she preferred mysterious and darkly handsome to honesty
and . . . and . . . (he raised his chin, in silent defiance) cheru-
bic curls.
Another shiver. A tiny cold-sounding sniff and a rustle
as Mirym tucked her handkerchief back into her sleeve. He
glanced sideways at the girl's bravely steadfast profile.
Perhaps Mikhyel wanted Mirym. Perhaps he raised
doubts to convince himself, not Nikki, willing to destroy
Nikki's virtuous friendship to silence his own base lust.
Well, Mikhyel was a fool, in more than one way.
"There is another option," he said to Mirym.
She looked a question; he lifted an arm in invitation, the
change in direction on the rein rousing a snort of protest
from ahead and the tiniest veer in their smooth forward
motion.
He apologized solemnly to the horses, and (encouraged
by Mirym's silent laughter) went on to assure them they
were indeed going to their City stables and warm mash and
that he wouldn't consider pulling a switch on them.
"I promise to be a perfect gentleman," he said to Mirym,
"but Gari was right: I'm a bit chilled myself, now, and two
under a blanket is warmer than one."
She grinned and slid easily inside the circle of his arm,
tucking the blanket firmly around them both. The outriders
exchanged knowing glances and moved in pairsone
ahead, one behindextending the distance between them
and the carriage.
"Wonderful," he said under his breath. And at her in-
quiring look, nodded toward the riders. "It'll be all over
the Tower by morning."
A strike of her palm to her forehead said, plain as words:
How could I be so stupid.
He squeezed her shoulders lightly. "Don't worry. Plenty
of witnesses to the contrary at Annayel. Hell, my brother's
in the back seat, and he's the most dedicated prude in Rho-
matum. Besides" He leaned as if to get a better angle
on her face. "If Anheliaa tries to make an issue of it, I'll
tell her I'll marry you instead of Lidye."
She frowned, a mock scowl, and punched his ribs.
"Guess that's a No." He sighed, a grandiose huff of air.
"Can't blame a fellow for trying."
The scowl quivered into a silent giggle, and that into a
yawn, and he found himself wishing Anheliaa would make
an issue of it. Found himself considering giving his priggish
chaperone in the back something to talk about.
Unfortunately, he'd made Mirym a promise to the
contrary.
"Sleep." He brought the blanket up over her shoulders.
"I'll wake you when we get there."
In sleep, the strong lines softened, giving Just Deymio's
face an almost boyish charm.
But there was nothing at all boyish about the thick-
muscled forearm tucked, elbow to the fore, beneath the
dark head; or to the broad shoulders and lean body
attached to that arm.
Kiyrstin dunTareg, you should be ashamed of yourself.
But why, in the name of all the gods, did this particular
fugitive out of Rhomatum have to fall at her feetor
rather, on her head? The other Rhomatumin outcasts
they'd encountered on the road, hke those Van had hauled
out of Mauritum prisons, had been streetscut: ragged and
rough, the sort any City would toss out without pause for
second thoughts. That sort one could recruit with a clear
conscience; that sort had as much reason as she to keep
clear of the authorities.
This one ... sweet Maurii, still shocky from Anheliaa's
tender ministrations, dizzy-drunk as a loon, dressed in noth-
ing but a filthy blanket, he'd stood like a noble gentleman
until she was seated, never mind her chair was a rock, and
there wasn't a soul about to notice was he mannerly or not.
Never mind he could hardly stay upright.
And that hair. Long, silky despite its twice-over dunking
in murky water, short and wavy about the face . . . Difficult
not to touch itas a babe's cheek or a cat's fur was
irresistible.
She'd heard of the Rhomatumin customrumor had it
that Darius had picked it up from the valley locals, adopted
it as one more calculated departure from the old, Mauri-
tumin customs that considered long hair effeminate.
A bit of whimsy that had survived three hundred years.
The dark, luxurious waves, pulling up and over his shoul-
ders as they dried, were obviously meant to be controlled:
tied back, or possibly, (her lip curled at the thought) forced
into the elaborate coifs the ladies of Mauritum were re-
quired to contend with.
Somehow, she doubted such a man would endure the
latter. A braid, perhaps, long and simple, with those shorter
waves loose to soften the strong lines of his face.
Tempting fate, she leaned toward him and brushed a
strand back from his stubbled cheek.
He didn't move. Not surprising: he'd inhaled enough of
the shepherd's homebrew to put three men under the
tableand still hadn't trusted her enough to speak frankly.
A foot twitched, searching the blanket twisted up around
the knee. Not a meaningful callus in sight. Evidently the
burn and pamicci balm had sloughed any such rough spots
awayif they'd ever been there. She'd wager this was a
man accustomed to well-fitting footware. Either way, he
was going to be sorry for its lack, before the night was out.
The foot twitched again. She unwound the blanket, tak-
ing the leisure to admire the exposed limb before tucking
the corner securely around the pitiful foot.
Yes, she must have seen better sometime.
But damned if she knew who or when.
Good thing for him he'd landed on her and not another
member of her party. A man might have let that face scar:
one had to get the parnicci balm on fast to stop the burning
and remove it gently if one was to avoid that.
Lucky, too, for Just Deymio that she'd not been too deli-
cate to care for certain parts of his body before he wa-
kened. Not that he'd appreciate knowing thatprudish, by
his actions lakeside. Too bad for the ladies of Rhomatum.
You are a filthy-minded slut, woman, she told herself
firmly. You haven't the remotest idea who he is or why he's
here, but he's damnsure not Just Deymio, and until you
know who he is and precisely why Anheliaa shoved such a
lovely gem from her little ley-lined nest, he's not for you.
Not even then, she admitted to herself wryly. Drunk or
sober, the man wasn't interested, not a bit of it.
Not that she blamed him; if ever she'd had reason for
vanity these past months had eliminated it for good and
all. Skin that had once been her maid's pride and joy was
rough now, and sunburned, her nose would never recover
from the combined effects of sheep and this spring spent
Outside, and her body, never particularly lady-delicate, was,
after a winter of living like a bandit, as hard as any man's.
Well...
She looked again at those broad shoulders.
. . . most men's.
What to do with him, that was a problem. She couldn't
leave him here . . . Well, perhaps she could, but she didn't
want to. He posed a mystery. One that might have bearing
on their mission.
Best to take him back to camp with her. Perhaps Van
could get him to talk, find out who he was and whether or
not he'd prove useful.
But that leg . . . she frowned, thinking of the scars, won-
dering if it would, in fact, hold up under pressure. His back
was already paining him again, and while she could take
another shove at it, if he'd trust her anywhere near it, and
while the accidentally discovered cure helped, she really
hadn't any idea what she was doing, and she did know it
was far from permanenther sister Meliande's back still
went bad regularly.
Well, she decided fatalistically, she couldn't afford to let
him slow her. Van was going to want to move out, no
question. She'd gotten solid information from the shepherd
this time: Mauritumin forces had indeed entered Persitum
Node, looking for her. The pass was clear of snow at last
A state that would allow their own small band to get all
the way to Rhomandi territory, where, if they were lucky,
Garetti's men wouldn't dare follow.
Unless Garetti and Anheliaa had settled their differ-
ences. Unless this Just gorgeous Deymio was Anheliaa's
spy dropped very specifically on her head to lead those men
right to herself and Vandoshin romMaurii.
The last of the sunset's ruddiness edged the mountain
tops and streaked the sky above; she'd let him sleep as long
as she dared. She wrapped her leggings and fastened her
sandals, then stood up and nudged him with a toe.
He moaned, muttered, "Go 'way," and rolled his face
into his elbow, shading it from. outside influence.
"On your feet, Rag'n'bones."
Another moan, a sweep of arm that brushed the hair
back from his face, and secured it at his nape with a dexter-
ous twist of the wrist.
And a disarming smile that made her heart flip. " 'Mor-
nin', shepherdess."
"Courting disaster, Rags." She pointed toward the sunset
with her chin, and forced her heart to proper behavior.
"Time to leave."
"Rags?" His eyebrows arched upward. "First name basis,
are we?"
Laughter bubbled. She swallowed it and slung the bag
over her shoulder, then nudged his leg again, deliberately
dislodging the blanket. If she couldn't get him on his feet
one way . . .
"Are you well enough to walk? On your own, Rags, I'm
not carrying one finger's weight."
"Walk?" He pushed himself upright, flipping the blanket
deftly across his lap. "Where to?"
"Away from these . . . woolly things. It's getting late and
I don't care to explain you to their owner."
"Oh, I see. And yourself?"
"He already knows me. That's why I can't explain you."
"I see."
He packed a world of innuendo into those two words;
she raised an eyebrow: let him wonder.
Examining a bare sole, he asked, "How far?"
"They'll survive." Not comfortably, but that wasn't her
concern.
Another disarming smile.
"Perhaps I'll just wait for the shepherd." He cast a look
about the scattered herd. "Careless of him to leave them
out so long, don't you think? But perhaps I'm mistaken.
Perhaps I don't know anything about sheep. I am a bit
hazy, you know. One moment, drowning. The next lying in
the moonlight" An upward glance to the moonless, twi-
light sky. "well, almost-starlight, with an unknown lady's
blanket wrapped about me, and the fair one herself stand-
ing  over  me  ...  you  must  admit,  this  is  all  a  bit
overwhelming."
Lady. Fair one. She ran a self-conscious hand through
her cropped hair, checked the motion, and dropped the
hand. She'd been surrounded by heathens and hooligans
far too long. But heathen was better than where he tried
to place her.
"Overwhelmin', my sweet arse," she said, scowling hard,
and adopting the cant of those same hooligans. "Tryin' f
turn me up sweet, y'ar. Y' ain't never been o'erwhelmed
in yer life. Jus' Deymio. Yer tryin' f delay me, 'n I don'
like delays. So, on yo' feet, laddybuck."
"Yo'?" He slumped back onto his elbows, a skeptical
half-smile splitting his face. "Laddybuck?"
She jerked her head toward the forest . . . "On yo' feet."
He laughed aloud. "You expect me to buy this?"
... and tucked her thumbs in her sash, fingers of the
right brushing the knife hilt. "Ee buys what 'ee c'n afford.
One or t'other, makes no nevermind to me, so long as yer
walkin' in that direction, afore I c'n count f ten, One."
"You can count?"
"Two."
"Have you a name?"
"Three, Not one I'm inclined to hand you. Four."
"Charming."
Scornful. Derisive. Good.
"Give me one good reason why I should go with you
rather than wait for the shepherd."
Safer than the teasing and that disastrous smile. "Seven."
"What happened to five and six?"
"Eight. You babbled through them. Nine. Reasons?
I'll give you two. This ..." She tapped the sheathed knife.
He shrugged, obviously underwhelmed. "And the
other?"
"Ten." She grinned, feeling deliciously, dangerously
wicked. "That's my blanket, Rag'n'bones."
Lights ahead. Talk of pistols and Khorandi Leynever
a good combination.
They'd be safe from here: no highwayman ever dared
the leys this close to Rhomatum, so the outriders were leav-
ing them, returning to Armayel and their wives and their
beds.
Their warm beds, lucky souls.
Mikhyel smothered a cough and burrowed deeper into
the furs, seeking the sleep the girl accused him of, trying to
ignore the comfortable coze in progress in the driver's seat.
They made an odd couple, Mikhyel thought, his tall, ele-
gantly handsome younger brother and Anheliaa's mousy
little servant girl. Easy to forget this colorless, silent wraith
might have needs and desires her physical and social limita-
tions denied expression.
But not Nikki. Nikki, in Nikki's own unique way, had
managed to find the person within the servant, seeming
almost to read her mind at times.
Perhaps Nikki could.
Perhaps Nikki's older brother should mention that obser-
vation to Anheliaa, as Deymorin's younger brother should
have mentioned his suspicions regarding Deymorin's ring-
setting abilities. But somehow, Deymorin's younger and
Nikki's older brother opted to hold his peace on both mat-
tersit seeming easier to allow almost-wives, virtual strang-
ers, into Anheliaa's power than to deliver his brothers to
her.  Somehow, their brother didn't have nightmares of
Lidye or Nethaalyeor possibly Mirymcrumpled over on
the floor in agony as the rings spun.
Use anybody. Do anything. Anheliaa had no rules, where
it involved her control of the Rhomatum Web.
And it appeared, now, he could be as ruthless, where it
concerned his brothers.
Lidye and Nethaalye had involved themselves in Anhe-
liaa's plans of their own free willor their parents'which
made their continued presence in the Tower a matter for
their Family honor, not his.
Mirym had the option of leaving at any time; still, he
was willing to consider the possibility that Mirym was as
much Anheliaa's pawn as Nikki and himself. Last he'd
heard, Lidye was all but publicly declared as Anheliaa's
chosen successor. He hadn't thought about it at the time.
Hadn't cared, but for wondering how to explain to Nikki
that Nikki was to be Princeps.
But maybe Lidye wasn't working out. Maybe Anheliaa
wanted to force her into calling the engagement off and
was using Mirym as a convenient wedge, figuring she could
force Nikki to give Mirym up when she found a replace-
ment for Lidye.
If Mirym would make Nikki happy, then, dammit, he
should have her. But the transition between engagements
would be done with dignity and without ruining Nikki's
reputation.
He'd see to that, Anheliaa or no Anheliaa.
At least Nikki had observed some propriety and started
back before the sun set. And as Nikki had so succinctly
pointed out to his fluffy-headed paramour, they had the
web's greatest prude chaperoning from the rear seat. If
Lidye tried to take exception, she'd have nothing but a
rapid daytime trip between Rhomatum and Armayel to
base it on.
Wellhazy eyes registered starry skiesmostly daylight.
If Anheliaa wanted Lidye gone, if Nikki didn't want her,
she'd have no grounds for legal settlementno breach of
promise suit to inflate her Family's coffersonly a civi-
lized buyout.
And if Anheliaa still wanted Lidye, Nikki would have
both, somehow, if that was what Nikki wanted.
Another cough, barely concealable.
To avoid another of Nikki's contemptuous backward
glances, he fumbled reluctantly after the flask Gareg had
pressed on him at the last moment.
Nikki, with his increasingly Deymorin-esque frame and
hot blood; Nikki with his warm little paramour tucked be-
neath his arm.
Mikhyel took a cautious sip.
Nikki, with his unsullied righteousness.
The spirit's bite seared his throat, but it did help the
cough. He biinked back tears and hazarded another sip
before screwing the cap back in place.
For a time he had tried to follow the one-sided conversa-
tion taking place in the front seat, hoping for assurance of
Nikki's innocence, fearing clues to Mirym's complicity, but
each rut in the road jolted his aching joints despite the
buffering furs, each burst of laughter made his pounding
head explode, and eventually he simply endured, setting his
teeth against those jolts, hiding his ears in his collar, trying
fruitlessly to sleep, while the needs of the farmers, and the
favors he could call in, the names of the merchants he had
to contact for quotes on material and labor first thing to-
morrowsome the instant he arrived in the Cityraced
through his head in ever-increasing columns of figures and
faceless names and nameless faces.
And underlying every thought, a disturbing certainty
that, faced with the question of Deymorin's whereabouts,
and the trouble reportedly brewing in Mauritum, Nikki
would pursue those questions all the way to Anheliaa's
Tower chamber. There would be no stopping him.
He would do the same, if the figures and farmers weren't
demanding attention ... or if he weren't convinced that
there was little or no chance of locating Deymorin without
Anheliaa's help, and less chance of securing that fickle aid.
Or would he pursue them? Was he truly convinced?
One cough became a convulsive chain. He clamped his
jaw, keeping those relentless seizures internal, and pulled
the wool blanket up to his chin, knocking his hat to the
carriage floorboards.
Or was he too much the coward?
That was the most unsettling thought of all: that, all ex-
cuses aside, he might not have the requisite courage; that
if he had, Deymorin would never have been sent away.
His threat to the rings all those months ago had been an
act of expediency, not bravery: he'd known Anheliaa would
never risk her precious mechanismthat thing that was
more child to her than ever he and his brothers had been.
Except, perhaps, Nikki.
And perhaps Nikki could get out of her what he'd been
unable to obtain. Nikki the pet, the always agreeable.
Nikki, who hated arguments with a passion. Perhaps Nikki
could indeed succeed in locating Deymorinor Deymor-
in's pieces.
Unless Anheliaa, assuming she already controlled him,
was setting out now to destroy Nikki. Unless Anheliaa had
moved Mirym, had gotten her close to Nikki for her own
purposes, with or without the young servant's consent, in-
tending to throw Nethaalye into power and him into the
Principate.
If that was the case, tomorrow's meeting should truly
foul her orbits.
By all the gods, he hoped Nikki could find Deymio and
bring him back to Rhomatum, though it was very hard to
imagine his stubborn elder brother alive and well, and not
returning on his own for another round with Anheliaa. And
if that was the case, he  hoped also Deymorin had been
living like an ancient king these past months so he could
send Deymorin to hell for leaving him alone with this gods-
forsaken nest of snakes.
His throat tightened. Dry. Painful. He took another sip of
Gareg's concoction, to straighten a world suddenly canted.
. . . If anyone was going to kill Deymorin dunMheric, he
reserved the right to see to it personally. He'd earned it.
Another sip; the dizziness increased.
Rings, all he needed to was to show up drunk on the
Tower doorstep. Fine chaperon he was. Defiantly, he took
another sip. And another, and another as the tightness
eased to bearable, and the world hazed into uncomplicated.
Activity; inside the carriage and out.
The stables. Rhomatum. Strange, seemed as if they'd just
begun the drive.
Or been driving forever.
His objecting leg muscles moved his feet reluctantly to
the half-door and beyond. His body slid after in a slow
collapse to the ground.
Someone shouted, a sound that echoed in his head and
rattled down to his feet, shattering his frozen bones. Hands
fumbled over him and gained purchase; he tried to shake
them off, tried to tell him he was all right, just tired and
cold.
But then he was in a porter-cab, being carried like an old
woman through the empty marketplace. Dark marketplace.
Their ridiculous, fruitless arguments had made them impos-
sibly late.
And then they were in a floater with ring-blessed warmth
filling the air, and Nikki was there. He could hear Nikki,
though his eyes had closed and refused to open, yelling at
the pedaller to hurry, damn you; and he could feel him
almost. Could at least feel the tug when Nikki yanked his
gloves off and the pressure when Nikki began rubbing his
hands. Hard. Which hurt, but he didn't say anything be-
cause it was Nikki rubbing and he didn't care if Nikki hurt
him so long as Nikki was there and safe.
And there was panic in Nikki's voice telling him not to
fall asleep; and another voice, gentle, in his head, telling
him it was all right, that he could sleeptruly sleepat
last.
Darkness imploded about them, the surrounding moun-
tains and forest absorbing what, in the valley, would have
been twilight.
Deymorin stumbled over an unseen root, caught one-
handed at a nearby tree, and clutched the awkward blanket
to his waist with the other. A curse rose, but he swallowed
it,  his  head  still  ringing  from  the  woman-with-no-name's
last wordless chastisement.
Once hidden within the trees, she'd drawn the skirt up
between her legs and tucked it into her belt, forming a sort
of loose breeches he envied, particularly since the revision
allowed her to swing immediately into a long, ground-cov-
ering stride, while ignoring the possible limitations of bare
feet and a scratchy blanket with a contrary tendency to
drift southward, despite the rope belt salvaged from his
former bonds.
He paused once and tried a similar wrap, but the blanket
was too large the weave too bulky for it to hold, and the
following instant, she was at his side hissing, "Move it!"
As if she seriously wanted to avoid attention. As if she
was anxious to get somewhere in a hurry. Though whose
attention, and where remained as much a mystery as the
woman herself.
A curious mixture of familiar and bizarre, her body and
carriage were designed for action, not a ballroom floor,
and yet he'd wager she could dance a Shilea with the best
professional husband-hunter. She handled the woodland
trail with the instincts of the bill-folk, but an occasional
muted grunt and reflexive swipe of the hand indicated a
less resigned attitude toward minute forest freeloaders than
the hill-folk achieved long before puberty. Though she at-
tempted to convince him otherwise, her natural accent was
that of an educated Citizen, though he couldn't, not having
Ben's trained ear, quite place the city of origin.
He would wager she was from Mauritum Web, perhaps
Mauritum itself. Perhaps one of those exiles she'd refer-
enced. Perhaps she'd made a political misstep. Perhaps
she'd murdered her husband. Perhaps (and somehow more
likely, he thought, throwing up both hands to protect his
face from a backward-flying branch) her husband had at-
tempted to murder her and she was running away.
Perhaps (as he snatched at the wayward blanket) he'd
help that poor sod finish the job.
They followed a trailof sortsthat was ghostly evident
in the waning moon's light; and sometime during that seem-
ingly endless trek, he discovered one good thing about fro-
zen feet: ultimately, they ceased to feel the blisters and
bruises and slivers; and another (dour realization), that if
they were bleeding, the blood would congeal more rapidly,
and he might avoid bleeding to death.
For a time, he managed to busy his mind and warm his
fingers imagining the confrontation he was determined to
have with Anheliaa. He even briefly considered taking the
redbeaded apparition-with-no-name back as his bride just
to spite his autocratic relative. But stumbling along that
blackened trail, he found Anheliaa's thinning grey strands
turning thick and red, her large-boned, arthritic body trans-
formed into curvaceous and strong, the wrinkled neck he
longed to wring becoming a long and lush neck he longed
to wring.
He was hungry. He was thirsty. He was damned cold and
his feet hurt, his leg ached and showed a disturbing ten-
dency to collapse at the most awkward moments, and for
some reason known only to the gods and the rings, he con-
tinued following this woman as if he had no more sense or
choice than one of those mindless sheep.
It was possibleperhaps probableshe'd long since for-
gotten he was there. And who needed her anyway? Given
a little sleep to recoup, he was woodsman enough to find
food, water, eventually a friendly farmer or goatherd. He'd
find out where he was, get word to someone he knew. . . .
And what did she have to stop him? A knife?
Keeping a close eye to the woman's back, he lagged be-
hind ...
No backward glance, no falter to her strideif she no-
ticed, she didn't care.
. . . and stopped.
Her ghostly form disappeared into the blackness ahead.
He slipped into the undergrowth, and began counting,
using the throb in his leg as a metronome.
One hundred: he slumped wearily against a tree.
Two hundred: he slid down to sit among the dead leaves
and needles, elbows propped on his knees, his back
propped against the tree.
Three hundred: he let his face drop onto his crossed
arms. He was tiredrings, more exhausted than he'd ever
been in his life.
She'd get far enough ahead, he'd become too much trou-
ble to pursue. She had no reason to suspect his identity,
assuming they'd never met before, and if they had, .he'd
have remembered that unusual accent. . . . Surely he'd have
remembered. Rings, he'd remember that face.
Or would he?
(He yawned.)
He tried to imagine That Face as the ladies of his ac-
quaintance did their hair and made their faces up. When
that failed, he tried to imagine her at Tirise's.
He chuckled wryly: that worked much better.
(He yawned again, and buried his nose in his elbow, hop-
ing at least to warm the air going into his lungs: to such
small pleasures had his world shrunk.)
Tomorrow he'd worry about his fate . . . about how he'd
gotten here and what he'd do about his brothers . . . about
where exactly he was and why this woman had been so
determined to take him with her and who her associates
were....
But at the moment, all he wanted was
"Move it, Rag'n'bones."
The trees might have whispered that in his ear.
But they hadn't. He sighed, and said, without bothering
to raise his head:
"My name, shepherdess, is Deymio, and I'm bloody
damn hungry, and frozen through. Got any more food in
that bag of yours?" Or at least the flask. Darius save him,
he'd even wear the nightshirt, frills and all.
"I said"
A point pricked his bare side.
"I'm moving. I'm moving."
He lost all track of time then, beyond caring about right
or wrong or why or even options, worried only about put-
ting one foot in front of the other, and following her whis-
pered directions at each trail juncture.
Eventually, he was catching his balance against every
available support, disregarding the point in his back. But
while that point didn't allow him to stop altogether, it
didn't press him beyond reason, and after a time, he recog-
nized the wisdom in thatif he stopped, he might never
start again. Ever.
And just when he had that figured:
"Hold."
He froze. From behind him, a whistle: excellent imitation
of a moonbird. A signal. From the darkness ahead, an
answer.
A hand pressed his back. "Let's go."
Evidently a satisfactory answer.
"Friends of yours?" he inquired cautiously.
An acknowledging grunt.
"Isn't it rather obvious since the moon's not"
"I said" It was the knife-point this time. "move it!"
"All right, all right ..." he muttered, and a few steps
later: "Can we talk now?"
He took a second, less encouraging, grunt for a yes.
"I haven't thanked you for fixing my oack and eyes. Felt
as if I was burned all over the first time I woke up. I
imagine you kept me from going blind."
"Damn right," she growled. "Don't think to turn me up
sweet, Rag'n'bones. Better than you have tried."
"Who are you?"
"Already answered that."
"Who are these friends of yours?"
"You'll know soon enough."
Only the hope of food and warmth ahead kept him from
turning and choking her, knife or no knife. He asked
through clenched teeth: "How soon, dammit?"
"Open your eyes, Rag'n'bones."
And indeed, the trail ahead took a sudden turn, and be-
yond it, a welcoming glow limned the trees.
"At last," he gasped and picked up his pace.
"Wait, fool! Take it"
A sudden sparkling flare, an unpleasant tingling in his
legs.
A shoutthe shepherd's daughter, he thought.
The next he knew, he was staring up into her moonsha-
dowed face.
"Idiot! I told you to slow up. You all right?"
"What the hell!"
"I'll explain later." Her hands pulled at him. "On your
feet. I know it's hardjust do it.
With her helpand a stinging blow or three to his face
he staggered to his feet and down the trail toward the light.
On the third step, an unpleasant reminder tingled
through his bad leg. He cursed, and stumbled; she cursed
back and struck him into action. Together, they stumbled
through the trees and into a ring of light.
And a chorus of laughter.
The woman's hands left him to his own uncertain bal-
ance, and her distinctive voice joined the chorus. Deymorin
shook his head clear; felt a breeze where he'd rather not,
and glanced downward, then back toward the shadowed
trees where the unpleasant tinglingand his blanket
awaited the next poor unsuspecting wayfarer.
The floater trip from Oreno Gate to Rhomatum Tower was
a nightmare.
Kneeling on the carpeted floorboards, in the ley-lit inte-
rior, cradling his semicomatose brother against his chest
while Mirym rubbed warmth into Mikhyel's near-frozen
fingers, Nikki was forced into the realization that Mikhyel,
for whatever reason, had been unableor unwillingto
complain of his growing discomfortworse, that he hadn't
thought to ask was his brother cold, or ill, when he could
see he was, had heard the coughs from the back and will-
fully ignored them.
Had the distance between them grown so great that Mik-
hyel would risk serious illness rather than ask for help?
Had anger and jealousy and suspicion so completely under-
mined his own sense of Family that he'd been blind to
that distance?
He felt angry, yes, and betrayed. Anheliaa had lied to
him for months, and Mikhyel had been party to the lie.
But he didn't hate Mikhyel; far from it. Anheliaa controlled
the rings. Anheliaa had the vision for the Tower's future.
And Anheliaa alone had exiled Deymorin. Mikhyel's
only crime had been to go along with heras he himself
hadtrusting her to know best. And Mikhyel had the
added curse (one had to be honest with oneself) of knowing
what Anheliaa had done to Deymorin. Knowing that
Deymorin's fate could easily be his, had he resisted her
plans?
A hand tapped his.
He biinked, his eyes gone hazy with unshed tears.
It was Mirym, gesturing toward Mikhyel's booted feet.
He nodded, then held his brother against mindless, fid-
geting objections, 'while the floater attendant pulled the
boots off; clasped a flailing hand and murmured reassur-
ance as Mirym and the nameless attendant began vigor-
ously nibbing Mikhyel's feet.
Mirym. Sweet, generous, unsuspecting Mirym.
She was no spy, but Mikhyel had been living under the
shadow of fear and suspicion for monthsperhaps years.
A shadow Mikhyel had done his best to keep from his
younger brother's path. Mikhyel was worried for him, that
was all. And perhaps the fear of losing both brothers ac-
counted for Mikhyel's long silence and wild accusations.
He wasn't certain he could stand to be that alone. Nei-
ther, perhaps, could Mikhyel, hence Mikhyel's attempts to
keep himself from taking action against Anheliaa, or from
trusting Mirym too much.
And he'd thrown that concern in Khyel's facewith
Khyel already sick.
What if, his mouth turned dry and sour, what if Mikhyel
had elected to return, to risk his health, because of what
he perceived as his stubborn younger brother's unwilling-
ness to take his suspicions of Mirym and Anheliaa
seriously?
He thought of those personal revelations he'd made on
the drive to Armayel and the sourness worsened. What if
Mirym took those comments straight to Anheliaa? And she
to Lidye?
Not-quite-frozen fingers tightened convulsively.
"N-Nikki?" His name was a hoarse whisper past chat-
tering teeth.
"I'm here, Khyel."
"N-not f-feeling so g-good."
"Not?" He strove to make and keep his voice light.
"Could have fooled me. Thought you'd maybe tipped one
too many of Old Nam's cider."
A dry, painful-sounding chuckle disintegrated into a
hacking cough that set Mikhyel to fumbling under the blan-
ket. His hand came  up  clutching a flask, but another
coughing fit foiled his efforts to unscrew the cap.
He brushed Khyel's hands out of the way, uncapped the
half-empty flask and steadied the opening against Mikhyel's
mouth, trying to get more of the hquid inside than out.
From his damp collar, Mikhyel had had similar problems
on the journey from Armayel. But he got down enough to
ease the cough, and Nikki wiped the excess away with a
handkerchief, which appeared as if by magic from Mirym.
"Try to rest, brother," he murmured, not certain Mikhyel
heard him, but trying all the same. "We'll be home soon."
A weary nod acknowledged him, and cold fingers pressed
his hand against a fever-hot cheek. He bugged Mikhyel
closer, bitterly aware just how much he missed such simple
human contact. With Deymorin there'd always been a com-
panionable closenessa hand tucked in his elbow, an arm
about his shoulders, playful punches and quick passes of
gentle hands over his arm, or his hair, or his chin.
Displays which had always seemed to embarrass Mikhyel
and to increase the distance between them all.
Ever since Deymorin's disappearance, communication
from Mikhyel had been confined to terse necessities, re-
quests for conveyance like today's, or to pass the salt at
the dinner table. For months, he'd waited for Mikhyel to
explain to himto so much as utter Deymorin's name.
He'd waited, but there'd been no mention.
Strangest of all, Mikhyel's sudden bursts of violence had
vanished altogether. He'd thought Mikhyel was angry,
blaming him for Deymorin's disappearance, avoiding him
to avoid losing his temper and doing something he'd re-
gret afterward.
If only he'd known. ...
Of a sudden, Mikhyel's convulsive shivers stopped, his
body grew rigid, and his hand withdrew from Nikki's, his
feet pulled .up under his blanket, fiercely denying Mirym's
attempts to retain them.
Safely concealed, Mikhyel turned to him, determinedly
aware and, Nikki realized, utterly mortified. Mikhyel, who
always turned away in disgust from Deymorin's open af-
fection and the human contact Nikki craved.
"You can let me go now, Nikaenor."
He grinned, hoping the concern he felt didn't show
through. "Rather not, big brother."
"Dammit, boy" Mikhyel's voice broke along with his
hold over his body. His face turned and pressed against
Nikki's neck. One hand clenched the blanket, the other
groped blindly, gripped painfully when Nikki caught it.
When the fierce spasms eased, a half-sobbed whisper, not
to him:
"Dammit, why now . . . Of all times . . . S-so much to . . ."
Nikki laughed softly, and let go Mikhyel's hand to wrap
both arms around Mikhyel's shoulders, rocking gently.
"Told you to let me help shovel the shit."
Laughter, weak but honest. Arms that bugged with what
meager strength was left in them. And as he held Khyel
close, closer than he ever had, he realized in hazed surprise
he was no longer the little brother. Likely he hadn't been
for years. Khyel had always been such a presence, had
cared for him for so long, he'd never noticed that he'd
grown taller.
But more than that, Khyel felt . . . frail . . . in a way no
one else he'd ever touched felt frail. He could feel the
bones of Khyel's back even through the heavy clothing.
Small bones. He was fragile, in a way stocky Anheliaa, for
all her arthritic age, wasn't. Always lean, he was wraithhke,
now, in his lack of flesh. Always pale, sunken eyes and
hollow cheeks made him positively cadaverous.
Most disturbing of all, the pale grey eyes that stared up
at him, eyes that had always been silvery-keen between
pitch-black lashes, had gone cloudy, the green rim of the
iris faded to near invisibility. Sad eyeseven a bit fright-
ened, until Nikki brushed trailing strands of hair from his
brow and told him to rest, that he was going to be all right.
Then those stranger-eyes drifted shut, and another whisper,
so light he wasn't certain he heard correctly:
"Lord and rings, I love you, Deymio."
Tears welled; he bhnked them back, hardly recognizing
his own brother. So it was not embarrassment, not even
disgust .that had caused him to turn away over the years.
Jealousy . . . perhaps.
He'd always wondered what his birth had done to his
brothers' relationship. Now he feared he knew. He wasn't
fool enough to shoulder blame for his existence, but he was
brother enough to care.
Responding as he knew Deymorin would, he brushed
another dark strand back from a forehead clammy with
sweat, and whispered, "Love you, too, fry." And followed
the touch with his lips. "Sleep now, little brother, you'll
feel better when you wake up."
A child forced too early into adult politics, an adolescent
shoved too early into manhood ... his brothers hadn't
asked for that life. His brothers had been friends once, as
he and Deymorin were friends now. Their parents' death
had changed all that, their individual responses to fate mak-
ing them enemies.
But it needn't have happened that way. Just as Deymor-
in's disappearance needn't have happened. There was one
and only one person truly responsible. One person whose
unwillingness to assume her responsibilities had shoved
Mikhyel into politics and whose obsessions lay at the root
of all Deymorin's antipathy toward the City.
They'd reached the hill that was the Rhomatum Node.
The floater track constrained them to a scenic path, orbiting
upward, circling the Tower complex, which included, be-
sides the Rhomandi city residence with its private gardens
and the Tower itself, the city legislative buildings, the
Courthouse, and the Guard barracks.
Most of the buildings were in darkness, the residents
gone home for the night or asleep. In Rhomandi House
itself, his apartments and Mikhyel's in the North and West
wings showed signs of life: Jerrik and Raulind, Mikhyel's
man, preparing for their arrival, wondering, no doubt,
where they were. Worried, perhaps.
Anheliaa's apartments were also evidencing occupation.
With luck, his aunt had assumed they'd changed their plans
and retired early.
Mirym was likewise staring at Anheliaa's windows, her
highly expressive face devoid of emotion. She'd had the
day off; he wondered if that extended to the evening, and
just how far from her normal schedule he'd dragged her.
He realized, in further guilt, that he'd dragged her off with-
out so much as a word to Anheliaa, or anyone else who
might have had occasion to wonder at her whereabouts.
Or who might blame her now for that absence.
But if he'd gotten her into trouble, he'd get her out
later.
Not waiting for the doorman to respond to the floater's
arrival, he had a barely cognizant Mikhyel on his feet the
moment the anchor engaged. Enlisting the unknown atten-
dant's aid, he got his brother inside, where a servant re-
placed the attendant, who was out the door before Nikki
could gather wit enough to say thank you, reappearing only
to set Mikhyel's boots and the flask inside the door, and
disappear again.
He made a distracted mental note of the cab company
he'd send a message and a generous tip in the morning, as
much for that final bit of tact as for his helpfulnessand
asked after Diorak.
The physician had gone home for the night, which indi-
cated Anheliaa had had one of her better days. He sent a
footman to fetch Diorak, another to alert Raulind, Mikhy-
el's valet, a third to tell Anheliaa they were back, and that
Mikhyel had taken ill . . . and on a belated thought, as the
third man headed up the staircase:
"And if the Lady Nethaalye is not still in attendance to
my aunt, you'd best take word to her room as well."
When at last they got Mikhyel up the lift, and to his
room, Raulind had the heating vents full open, and was
drawing a hot bath.
Nikki hesitated, wondering if they shouldn't just get Mik-
hyel (who had lost all awareness of his surroundings and
was mumbhng about war and swamps, resisting all efforts
to hold him on his feet) into bed, but Raulind insisted, and
in the end, proved justified: the moment the hot water
closed around him, Mikhyel relaxed, the fight evaporating
with the steam, and their greatest challenge became keep-
ing him from sliding under and drowning.
Raulind persisted, even to washing Mikhyel's matted
hair, maintaining Mikhyel would sack him for certain if
they put him to bed in his own sweat, and by the time
they'd soaped and rinsed and manhandled Mikhyel the two
steps up from the bathing pool, they were all three soaked.
Nikki helped Raulind to wrap Khyel in a warmed bathing
robe of luxurious imported cotton, and to settle him on a
grooming lounge in the bedchamber; then shed his own
clothing into the pile of towels, and rinsed himself off in
the constantly cycling tub before slipping into a spare dress-
ing gown Raulind had foresightedly set out for him.
Raulind was at his brother's back, drying Mikhyel's long
straight hair in a narrow stream of ley-warmed and driven
air. Nikki silently replaced him, running a comb through
the silken strands, gently separating the tangles, giving Rau-
lind a chance to change into dry clothes, and straighten
the bath.
"Braid?" he asked Raulind, when the hair was dry, but
the valet shook his head, and Mikhyel, whom he'd have
sworn was asleep said, quite audibly: "Don't you dare,
Raul."
Nikki exchanged a look with Raulind, who shrugged and
said succinctly: "Hates it."
Which was a surprising insight into his oh-so-meticulous
sibling.
Hell of a way to find out, Nikki thought as they worked
Khyel, who was, after that final protest, well and truly be-
yond critical evaluation, into a nightshirt and bed, where,
clean hair a dark stream across the pillow, his eyelashes
shockingly black against pale cheeks, Mikhyel appeared
quite peaceful.
. . . as a corpse, he thought with a shiver.
All he could do then was sit beside the bed holding his
brother's hand, until Diorak, grumbling at the late hour,
finally arrived.
The grumbling stopped the instant the old physician got
a good look at Mikhyel.
Following a cursory examination, and a curt request for
explanation, he chased Nikki from the room with orders
for the kitchen and Nurse.
"Nurse?" Nikki chewed his lip in uncertainty. Khyel
would kill him. "How serious is it?"
Diorak shoved him forcibly from the room. "He'll live
if you do as I say and then keep out of my way. I'll send
word Where will you be? The hbrary, I suppose," he
answered his own question before Nikki could open his
mouth, "since I doubt you'll do the sensible thing and go
to bed. Now, go. Get out of my way!"
He made a final stab at self-assertion: "I'll be in Khyel's
study"
"Go!" Diorak barked. And as he ducked out the door:
"Damn fool."
Another log sailed into the firepit from the far side shad-
ows; scattered coals fell in a shower of glittering bits. Flame
chased hke a living thing along cold, dark surfaces, rousing
a hissing, sputtering protest from the damp wood.
Rejuvenated, firelight skipped outward, expanding the
shadow's edge, dancing along the strong, handsome lines
of the Rhomatum exile's face, and highlighting the clean
demarcation of intersecting muscle along bare arms and
thighs.
From the shadows of the tarpaulin tent covering their
small supply cart, Kiyrstin kept a wary eye to this Just
Deymio, while she exchanged the irritating hill costume for
more comfortable leather and smooth linen.
Likely she should have given him the extra shirt she'd
carried in her bag; if she'd been kind and sensitive like
sister-Meliande she undoubtedly would havewith never a
second thought.
But she was neither kind nor sensitive and felt no shame
in the admission. On the trail, that precarious blanket had
been her only hold on his cooperation: she couldn't have
forced him, with no more than a knife and a trail ax at
her disposal.
Yes, she told herself, she'd been fully justified on the
trail.
Since his arrival in camp, it had become a test of wills,
no amount of rationalization could change that fact. She
was waiting for him to ask. Beg, if she were honest with
herself, and she did try to be honest . . . with herself.
But he hadn't begged, nor even asked politely for so
much as another blanket.
Standing beside the fire in the suit the gods had given
him, he'd been embarrassed (how not?) but his grin had
appeared loathsomely natural, he'd bowed rather generally
(not singling her out in that courtesy) and seated himself
(casually) on the nearest fireside rock, finger-combing his
long hair into a smooth twist before accepting the bowl of
stew and mug of water Tarcel placed at his side.
Casual. Tranquil.
The scut didn't deserve sensitivity.
Without fireworks to feed it, the laughter had died, and
the dozen or so men (the exact number varied day to day)
who comprised their small band had quietly resumed their
own meal, as. if a naked stranger in their midst were nothing
unusual. But then, some had joined them with little more
to their namesome with less: this Rhomatum exile could
at least stay on his feet.
Having finished the meal and complimented the anony-
mous cook, the Rhomatum simply sat and stared into those
flames. Waiting, tired, as she herself was, but too wary to
let sleep overtake him, in this camp of unknown elements.
Waiting for someone else to instigate, content in his ability
to handle whatever situation might arise.
Kiyrstin jerked the final lacing tight. Tough, practical
the fur-lined leather vest provided warmth, protection and
a very necessary support that was infinitely more comfort-
able than corsets . . .
And made her look like a rather pudgy, fourteen-year-
old boy.
Packing the hated skirt away, she gathered the pile of
folded leather and cloth she'd set to the side, and sauntered
across to Just Deymio's side.
Dark eyes turned up to her, fire-dazed, tiredand puz-
zled, for a moment, as if he didn't quite recognize her. But
the puzzlement lifted along with an enigmatically raised
brow, as that gaze travelled her length.
"Stunning," he said coolly. "You should wear it to the
Transition Day Ball. Give the day a whole new meaning."
Transition Day. The holiday reference held no signifi-
cance for her, but the scorn dripping from his voice, the
disinterest from his eyes, did.
"I don't dress to please you or any other person of my
acquaintance, Rag'n'bones," she said tightly. "Here."
She wadded the pile and thrust it at his chest.
Hands closed reflexively over the clothing. Fine hands,
white lines in the tan where rings once circled, manicured
and elegant as the man himself was, even without a stitch
on. Too elegant to ever have the least interest in a woman
who preferred breeches to skirts, warm leather to lace ruf-
fles, and whose callused fingers would snag any fine fabric
they touched.
Not that she caredthere was. no time, and rarely any
desire, for such things these daysbut the look in his eyes,
when she again intercepted them, showed he'd guessed
those thoughts, and mocked her nonexistent interest.
She scowled down at him, lest he dare to presume. His
mouth twitched, but (showing uncommon good sense) he
kept those thoughts to himself.
He located the broadcloth breeches and slipped them on
before standing and sorting the rest of the clothing out on
his rock.
She studied that smooth-skinned back with what she con-
vinced herself was clinical detachment, noted the slight
blemish (barely visible above the waistband) with a decid-
edly imdetached, fiendish satisfaction.
Maybe next time, the man would believe her. Listen to
her.
And perhaps sheep would sprout fins and swim.
The pamicci balm, a common enough country burn treat-
ment, made of plants that grew along the ley at the very
edge of the infertile zone, had proven remarkably effective
against these insidious, ley-inflicted burns, but the depth of
the burn varied unpredictably, and one could never be cer-
tain until that last bit of dead skin flaked free whether
one had applied the cream quickly enough, or removed it
carefully enough.
"Find yourself another stray dog, Kiyrsti?"
Vandoshin's voice announced his presence before he ap-
peared beside her. A muscle twitched in Deymio's smooth
back. Then, as if determined not to appear unduly startled,
he straightened quite deliberately and faced them, shooting
a triumphant glance at her as he slipped the loose shirt
over his head.
A small triumph she cast into perspective with an indif-
ferent shrug. With that diminutive of her name, he knew
no more about her than she about him.
Less.
She knew his City.
"Rhomatum streetscut," she answered Vandoshin, at
once reminding the Rhomatum of, and cautioning Vando-
shin with, that fact. "Name of Deymioso he claims."
Van touched fingertips to brow in formal greeting-, the
Rhomatum just nodded warily.
Van gave an easy smile, not likely to take offense, under
the circumstances.  "Vandoshin romMaurii, Deymio, at
your"
"Service, romMaurii?" Deymio finished. "A Mauritum
priest? for a Rhomatum citizen? Somehow, I doubt it."
"Which?" Van asked smoothly. "That I'm at your ser-
vice? Or that I'm a priest of Maurii?"
"Take your pick. You can't be both. Or was that your
ticket into this elite group? Caught impersonating a priest,
were you?"
"Actually - -." Van paused, his mouth twitching in an
enigmatic smile, "Not. My title is quite legal . . . though I,
perhaps, am not."
"Perhaps?"
"Shall we say, I've heard no official charges."
"More than that," Kiyrstin interrupted, irritated at the
priest who, obviously finding this duel of innuendo to his
liking, was revealing far too much far too cheaply, "you'll
have to wait until we know you better."
The two men exchanged an enigmatic look designed, she
was certain, to make a woman suspicious and mean abso-
lutely nothing no matter they meant you to think it did, so
she ignored the look and continued:
"He's one of Anheliaa's victims, Van. Dumped him right
into the old shepherd's lake, crisp fried. Love him, she
must."
Vandoshin laughed easily. "What did the Rhomandi
bitch get you for, Deymio of Rhomatum?"
Deymio adjusted the laces on the shirt to a precise bal-
ance between careless and sloppy, then looked up through
a rakish fall of hair. "Apparently, she didn't approve the
cut of my clothes."
"Cautious lad." Another laugh. Coming close to overdo-
ing the companionability. Van was: her Just Deymio was
the suspicious type. "Not a bad trait. But we're all bandits
here, of one ilk or anotherhardly the sort to turn you in."
Not that Van was likely to listen to her, any more than
the Rhomatum was.
"Bandits?" Deymio's glance scanned the camp this time.
"How disappointing." And stopped on her: "Pardon,
m'lady." As he unbuttoned the breeches to neatly tuck
his shirttail.
Without turning.
She allowed her mouth its own appreciative twitch.
"Disappointing?"
"As a boy, I rather thought bandits to live a far more
exotic lifestyle. This is quite ... meager." Another brief
pause to shrug on the loose, calf-length coat: old-fashioned,
but the warmest garment she could find that might span
his shoulders. "Overall . . ." He stretched his arms forward,
nodded surprised approval and adjusted the cuffs. "I'd
rather be fishing."
"A fisherman from Rhomatum?" Kiyrstin asked, lightly.
"Bit far from the coast, isn't it?"
"Ah, lady," he mocked her, meticulously (so she sus-
pected) avoiding the use of the name she'd not yet granted
him permission to use, "I didn't say fisherman. I said fish-
ing. There is a difference."
"But not one your average Rhomatum lord would
recognize."
"It is, however, your classification, not mine." He lifted
a very sad-looking foot. "And does my lady's benevolence
perchance extend to boots?"
Vandoshin laughed. "Admit it, Kiyrsti-lass, stalemate."
He reached for Deymio's arm. "Come with me, lad, we'll
find something suitable for those feet."
my MtMtUt. elwMtatoel A4e <fM <(MteMiM~ ~uMMfe. UM t&t
t>  6m.  twl.  PCu~c  ikffi  6w.  <Mfmuel af  6en  Sttiwwl 11t<M<fit'i
fnajMM.. Stc MiAu, af eMnM, 4466 eoMlel MM* MM {on iiM 6fHMU,
~slt ka <leteate csclotC*ctls~   I  f m CfftlaCI~ lfMt MMlaoCarrkk * * 
Etc., etc., etc.
Oh, he understood. He understood perfectly.
Nikki crumpled the scented paper into a ball and threw
it across Mikhyel's study. It bounced off a bookshelf and
disappeared behind a couch.
Good riddance.
But one wouldn't want Mikhyel discovering it by accident
on some future date, so one went crawling on one's hands
and knees to retrieve the smelly thing, and this time one
made certain one got it into the waste box beside Mikhy-
el's desk.
Such a loving fiancee. No wonder Mikhyel took every
opportunity to avoid her.
Still, it  was more  acknowledgment  than  he'd  received
from Anheliaa.
Mikhyel's desk was covered with mail, neat piles his sec-
retary had sorted in his absence, piles of (he pulled the
robe's heavy brocade cuff back to flip through a stack or
two) letters to be signed, grant requests to be reviewed,
various personal and business appointments to be con-
firmed or rescheduled due to his delayed return.
Even in this small way, Mikhyel refused his help, insisting
to bring in a professional, constantly protecting him, to pre-
serve, so Mikhyel had said, his youth.
So Mikhyel had always excused his actions.
Dammitall, he wasn't a child, though he was kept igno-
rant as one. And if Mikhyel had only taught him, let him
help, he wouldn't be up there with Diorak right now, hav-
ing worked himself into exhaustion.
Unless Mikhyel had lied in that reason as he had in
Deymorin's fate. Anheliaa might have demanded he be
kept ignorant, and if Mikhyel had kept silent at Anheliaa's
bidding, the timing of this revelation might also be her
choosing. If she was about to make her move, having her
disposition of Deymorin suddenly revealed to Deymorin's
youngest brother might have been calculated to catch the
brother unaware and to frighten him into capitulation
A knock.
He was at the door in two strides.
"Diorak?" he asked before he had it open. "How is
Oh, hello, Mirym." He stepped back, schooling his face to
hide disappointment. "Please, come in."
She crossed the threshold, a tray-laden footman following
close on her heels. She was carrying a large package which,
once safely within the room, she handed to him.
Mikhyel's packet, the one he'd nursed all the way from
Armayel.
Appalled at its weight, he frowned his disapproval at
the footman.
The footman released the legs on the serving tray and
set it precisely between two wing chairs, then, glancing at
the girl, shrugged.
"Sorry, sir. She wouldn't let go."
"Declaring yourself personally responsible?" he asked
her, and she nodded primly. "Thank you," he said, forcing
his mind to amenities. "I should have seen to it myself."
She cast her eyes ceilingward, then shook her head
firmly, and, oddly, some of the strain and worry seeped
away from his shoulders.
"You're right. He was my first responsibility. So I say
for both of us: thank you."
A slight cough, a clearing of the throat, from the door-
way: reminder of the footman's presence. He excused the
man and cast himself into the righthand wingchair, reaching
for the decanter.
"Will you join me?" he asked, and tipped the decanter
without waiting for her answer.
Another cough, tiny echo of the footman's attention-
getter.
He paused in mid-pour, surprised when her look, gener-
ally so direct, kept shifting uncertainly, sliding from him in
obvious embarrassment.
Aware, suddenly, of drooping lapels exposing his bare
chest, and of the robe's split front exposing most of a bare
thigh, he hurriedly set the decanter down and stood up,
pulling the dressing gown together. He was at once ap-
palled at himself and secretly disappointed that she didn't
feel a similar impatience with protocol. Among family
Except she wasn't family. Odd, that he should forget that.
So with a formal gesture toward the other chair:
"Please?"
Indicating a tiny measure between her fingers, she re-
lented, easing onto the edge of the other chair, apparently
still unable to relax fully in his presence. And somehow,
he knew his attire was not entirely at fault. What clouded
the air between them now had nothing to do with lust, love,
or even friendship, and everything to do with po-si-tion.
He poured aglass to her specifications, another for him-
self (to his own) and sat back wearily, the energy to initiate
conversation beyond him at the moment, knowing that re-
sponsibility to be his and resenting that reality, as he re-
sented the socially proscribed customs that kept him from
treating her as the friend he suspected she could be.
He had been born into money and power, but a primarily
quiet life, divided between the library and stables, with the
occasional theater outing or informal dance, had done little
to make the class distinction more than theoretical. His
friends, such as they were, tended to come from families
of his parents' friends, or the stables.
He'd rarely differentiated between the two sources.
The young ladies of his acquaintance tended to be
ephemeraleven Lidye. Lidye was a fact of his life, a nec-
essary function to be performed. Even though they were
distantly (very) related, and while they came from suppos-
edly similar backgrounds, Lidye still felt like a stranger.
Mirym...
That afternoon, he'd thought they'd enjoyed an under-
standing, her manner had been open and friendly. Now,
they were back in the Tower, back where she was a servant,
never mind she gave honest work for honest pay, and she
no longer dared even sit in his company without express
invitation.
Their eyes met over the top of the glass she cradled
between her fingertips.
Mirym, realizing she had his attention, again glanced up-
ward, concern drawing her brow together.
"Khyel?"
She nodded.
"I don't truly know, yet. Diorak is still with him."
Her concern deepened, all the way over to frightened.
And a man had to wonder why his brother's health should
matter to this girl, this determined stranger.
Perhaps she feared Anheliaa would blame her for Mikhy-
el's illness. Perhaps she felt that if she hadn't been along,
they'd have stayed the night at Armayel. Perhaps her con-
cern was more basic, a fear of what Lidye would say when
she discovered Mirym had spent the day with her intended.
He took a sip, running his tongue around the rim, gather-
ing drops left by his wearily shaking hand, lowered the glass
to the chair arm, and let his head fall back against the
cushions, eyes closed.
Or perhaps she was frightened of him. He could, after
all, on the whim of a moment, take away all she had. So
simple a concept, yet until this moment, one he'd never
considered. Because he wouldn't act upon such a whim.
That wouldn't be fair, that much Deymorin had taught him.
Mikhyel might. He didn't know for certain, though he
preferred to believe otherwise.
Anheliaa would, had, without hesitation or regret.
Revulsion shuddered through him.
A touch: hand to hand.
His turned of its own volition, recognizing reassurance
given, not requested, accepted that comfort as fingers inter-
wove. For a time, he absorbed Mirym's warmth, her calm,
her strength, then, with some reluctance, squeezed gently
and released her, heaving a deep sigh.
"He'll live, so Diorak claims." He looked down into the
swirling liquid. "It's . . . kind . ... of you to ask."
A glassy click demanded his attention: her barely tou-
ched glass stood abandoned on the tray.
An emphatic, one might almost say angry, shake of her
head.
Startled, he asked, "I don'tof course it's kind. I ap-
preciate"
A slap on his chair arm stopped him. She tapped his
arm, gestured toward Mikhyel's room, then pressed crossed
hands to her breast.
"Mirym, settle down. I don't understand what you're say-
ing. I certainly didn't intend to insult you."
Her foot tapped the floor as her eyes scanned the room,
settling on him, exuding no small anxiety.
Thinking he understood, he said gently, "Don't worry,
Mirym. I won't let Anheliaa blame you. We would have
returned today regardless. Your position here is"
He might have slapped her. She jerked to her feet, hand
raised as if to retahate.
"Go ahead," he said calmly, "If I've said something to
offend you. I'm sorry, but I deserve it. I won't tell anyone."
Her jaw dropped. She flounced over to the desk,
searched ruthlessly through the private papers for pen and
paper, scribbled furiously for a moment, then thrust the
result into his hand before dropping defiantly back into the
chair and draining her glass.
The note, barely legible past the angrily splattered ink,
read:
f Mini AsecuMf 1 MM. y Mfune~aua ieCMl
Nikki stared at the note, at her, and inward at himself,
not liking the mirror she held for him. He hadn't once
considered that possibility, that she could care as a friend
would care.
As Khyel's own kin and fiancee did not.
Or perhaps, reluctantly recalling his suspicions on the
ride home, not as a friend, and he . . . hoped that was not
the case. Hoped further his brother had not encouraged
any such leaning. He didn't want her hurt. Certainly didn't
want her driven from the house following Mikhyel's wed-
ding to Nethaalye.
If she survived here past Lidye's discovery of today's
events.
Anger surged within him, unfocussed. All pervasive.
It wasn't right. None of it was right.
He thrust himself to his feet, brushing the tray with his
trailing hand. The glass tottered and fell, shattering on im-
pact. Red wine spread across the hardwood floor like thin
blood, seeking the easy course, working its way insidiously
into the grain, like the lies and pretense upon which his
very life was based.
A frothy white moth fluttered across the blood: Mirym,
on her knees and blotting at that stain with an inadequate
lace-edged handkerchief.
"Get up!"
Her head flew back, her eyes wide, surprise throwing her
balance, forcing her to catch it with a hand to the floor.
Anger, concern, exhaustion, and bitterness confounded in
a dizzying whole, and sought release in the nearest source:
"Dammit, get up! You're not a servant!"
Her expression shifted; her eyes fell, but not in submis-
sion. He followed that blank look to the floor, where real
blood joined the metaphoric, oozing through the wine in
viscous rivulets.
Mirym stood slowly, holding her cut hand well away from
her clothing. She freed the glass shard from her palm with
stoic calm, and wrapped her wine-stained handkerchief
tightly about the wound.
Nikki watched, spellbound, vaguely appalled at his own
lack of initiative, saying nothing when she dipped a curtsy
and turned to go.
"Wait!" He reached the door before her, held it shut,
though she made no move to elude him.
She didn't seem angry, or accusatory, or any of the gamut
of justifiable emotions. In fact, she'd ceased to radiate any-
thing at all.
"Mirym, I"
A knock interrupted him.
Taking advantage of his momentary confusion, she
slipped out the door, leaving him face-to-face with a star-
tied maid.
Nikki, straining to see past the girl, caught a glimpse of
embroidered hem disappearing down the hallway toward
the east wing and the servants' quarters. He sighed and
took the note the maid held, thanking her quietly.
cuzgaE titM <ftt ~u*arrck. S)kat tieUwifM wtoet* dk fMfU U- to
itnme. ~SM ~RauL1L itOM t6 ti eMA.
'w'4.<~M<lleMt&m.1(M~Mt6iM~
/lttml me- faMt ttiM~ tMumnMn uunuiwf.. *}'e  tuwk fax. faw..
Written in an unfamiliar, rounded hand.
Nikki crumpled the paper in his fist, and demanded of
the waiting maid: "Where is she?"
"Iin the Tower, sir."
"At this hour? What's the emergency?"
"None, m'lord, that I've heard."
"Alone?"
"With the Lady Lidye, sir."
Lidye. She had written that note for Anheliaa.
"Is there word, yet, of my brother?"
"Your brother. Master Nikaenor," Diorak's voice said,
from beyond the maid, "is out of danger." The old physi-
cian waved the maid away and drew Nikki into the privacy
of the study, closing the door behind them. "No thanks
to you. Whatever possessed you to subject a sick man to
that drive?"
"Stupidity, sir," Nikki said abruptly, making no attempt
to whitewash his culpability. "I didn't realize how bad he
was. I thought him asleep. I should have known better."
"And he, poor stubborn fool, should have said some-
thing."  Diorak grasped his arm in rough reassurance.
"Don't worry, son. He'll have an unpleasant day or two,
but he'll survive."
"May I see him?"
"I don't think he'd want you to."
"Why?" Somehow, he couldn't stop his voice from
shaking.
But Diorak snorted his disgust. "Drunk! That's why.
Damn fool should know better. But he should sleep until
morning. Nurse will stay with him tonight. She'll welcome
relief in the morning. Best you can do is get some rest
yourself."
"I'll try, sir." He grasped the warm, dry hand. "Thank
you."
"Doing my job, son. Will you tell Anheliaa, or should I?"
"She's in the Tower."
"Oh. Well, I suppose morning is soon enough."
"No, sir, it's not."
"Boy"
"Tonight." Nikki said determinedly. "But don't worry. I
intend to tell her personally."
"Careful, boy, I don't want to be called out of bed twice
in one night."
"If you are, it won't be for me."
"Is that supposed to reassure me? Perhaps I'll just wait
here until you return."
"Good night, doctor," Nikki said firmly. "And thank
you."
Unable to gain access to the ringchamber without Anheli-
aa's mandate, forced to stand passively as the lift carried
him up, Nikki realized the deliberate nature of his arrival
would shield his aunt's initial reactions, relegating him to
what might well be nothing more revealing than carefully
garnered responses.
But for once he had the advantage over Anheliaa. He
was no longer the mindless trusting sod he'd been yester-
day, or even this morning.
He had to face her tonight, before Mikhyel had recov-
ered enough to interfere. Mikhyel was afraid of Anheliaa,
afraid of her anger, afraid of her abilities with the rings,
afraid of being sent after Deymorin. Mikhyel always inter-
cepted for him, kept him from pushing Anheliaa for
answers.
Well, not tonight.
He wasn't afraid of Anheliaa. Well, at least, not particu-
larly. Anheliaa had an agenda, and that agenda included
Lidye, and for Lidye, she needed him, and if Anheliaa
wanted him, Anheliaa was going to answer a few whys
and wherefores.
If she didn't want to answer, well, she could send him
after Deymorin.
He slammed the brake with his palm; the lift jerked to
a halt.
Anheliaa's chair faced the door, waiting.
At her side: Lidye, who, as he stepped off the platform,
beamed and rushed to take his hands, exclaiming over his
fortitudemaking that horrid drive in such weather, and
all aloneas though their meeting this morning had never
taken place, as though never suspecting he'd purposely
avoided her company.
"I hate to disillusion you, madam, but I wasn't alone."
"Not?" Some of the fluttering ingenue was missing from
that query.
"Mirym was with me."
"Mirym?" She sounded confused, as if the name meant
nothing to her. Then: "Anheliaa's Mirym? Is that where
the little"
Her blue eyes flickered toward him, and she swallowed
the rest of whatever she'd planned to say.
"You didn't even notice she was missing, did you?"
"Oh, we noticed," Anheliaa's dry voice interrupted.
"And did you make any attempt whatsoever to locate
her, when she didn't return from the market?"
"Hardly necessary, was it?"
"You didn't know that!"
"Didn't I?" Anheliaa countered, which resurrected, un-
wanted, the dark suspicions Mikhyel had hinted at earlier.
"You knew that sneaking little bitch had insinuated her-
self into his company and didn't tell me?" Lidye's voice
achieved a painful screech. "Anheliaa, how could"
Anheliaa raised one arthritis-contorted hand, and cast
Lidye a quelling glance. Lidye frowned and looked away,
but she did not finish the accusation.
"Lidye, please leave us," he said curtly.
Lidye raised her softly rounded chin and looked to
Anheliaa.
He closed his eyes, and drew a calming breath. "Forgive
me, Lady Lidye, I've had a trying day. Aunt, if you please,
I must speak with you alone. Now."
That calming breath undermined his store of driving
anger. And as if aware of that weakening resolve, Anheliaa
smiled, a mere tightening of her mouth, and nodded a gra-
cious dismissal.
As she passed, Lidye placed a light hand on his arm.
Forcing his attention from his aunt, he found the woman
destined to be his wife blinking up at him pathetically, as
if seeking absolution for her unseemly defiance.
Unfair, perhaps, to blame the young woman, who was,
after all, simply one more pawn in Anheliaa's grand
scheme. And perhaps Mirym was right. Perhaps Lidye's
actions were motivated by . . . love.
He patted her hand reassuringly.
Perhaps she thought to inspire similar emotions in him.
It wasn't her fault that she'd been caught in the middle of
a familial power struggle. Naturally here, within Anheliaa's
domain, she'd feel compelled to defer to his aunt's desires.
But, dammitallwhy now?
Closing the grille behind her, he waited until she disap-
peared down the shaft and the telescoping hatch fanned
out over the opening, a hatch that was guarded with a ley-
lock to which only two, Anheliaa and Brolucci gorAnhe-
liaa, the Captain of Anheliaa's private Tower Guard, held
the mental keys. Only Anheliaa knew precisely how that
lock worked, but (particularly in lieu of recent develop-
ments) he no longer considered its addition five months
ago entirely circumstantial.
If he'd done to Deymorin what Mikhyel claimed Anhe-
liaa had done, he'd have taken a few extra precautions
himself.
"Well,  you unhousebroken brat?"  Anheliaa's voice
snapped. "What have you to say for yourself?"
"Damn you!" He whirled about, then gritted his teeth
against that self-destructive family temper. "What would
you sayhow would you feelif the answer to that was
'Khyel's dead'?"
"Is he?"
Tempting to answer in the affirmative, tempting to see if
anything could shake that infuriatingly aloof exterior. But
he couldn't. For some reason, he clung with foolish tenacity
to the belief that if he persisted in Truth, those around him
would someday reciprocate in kind.
He shook his head, dropping his eyes from her cool
triumph.
She gave a slight, derisive snort. "I've lived a damned
long time, boy, and ceased years ago to panic when one of
you boys comes down with a sniffle."
A damned long time. That much was so.
Her cool confidence and austere face had fascinated him
as a child, when, constrained to sit for hours in her pres-
ence, warned never to make his existence known, he'd
watched her, and wondered what her delicate, wrinkled
skin felt like from the inside, how the gnarled fingers possi-
bly functioned, knowing from the occasional wince, the care
with which she bent them, the curses when she dropped
something, how they must pain her, thinking she must be
terribly brave and wise, having lived so long in such obvious
discomfort, with so many people hanging on her every
judgment.
Now, that air of supreme conviction engendered only
contempt; contempt for an authoritative old woman's last
gasp attempt to control her universe, contempt for her lack
of basic humanity and lack of familial loyalty, and contempt
for her misuse of her fate-given power.
Propped in a corner like some damned trophy, one of
Anheliaa's lizards curled around the handle, was Deymor-
in's sword-cane.
He wondered why, in all these months, he'd never no-
ticed it. Wondered if Anheliaa had kept it hidden until
now, knowing Mikhyel had told him the truth, or whether,
not suspecting, he'd simply been that blind.
He picked the cane up, slipped a hand's-breadth of fine
steel free of the carved sheath, met Anheliaa's eyes and
shot it back home.
"Is what Mikhyel told me the truth?" he asked abruptly.
She raised one painted-on eyebrow. "How should I
know? More to the point, why should I care? Such matters
are between you two boys."
"Is that intended to put me in my place, Aunt? Or to
justify your temerity where it regards my life? I'm not a
child, Anheliaa. Neither, for that matter, is Khyel." His
exploring fingers discovered the gold band on the tip of the
cane was loose. It was a ring. Deymorin's family ring, with
its silver-web overlay. He raised his chin. "Certainly Dey-
morin is not"
Anheliaa's cool expression didn't waver. "And for this
sagacious insight you interrupt an important training
session?"
"Training session? I saw only one of your apprentices.
Hardly sportsmanlike of you."
Her colorless, lashless eyes narrowed. "You sound like
your oldest brother. Bless the rings I need no longer
suffer his audacity. This is not some sporting contest, boy.
This is the single most vital decision of my career. You
should be delighted. Your fiancee shows great promise."
"Delighted?" he asked, deliberately mistaking her mean-
ing. "As a citizen, I am naturally pleased you have a prom-
ising student."
"It should. 'Nikaenor Rhomandi dunMheric, Princeps of
Rhomatum.' Rather a nice meter, don't you think, poet?"
"Not particularly." He pulled the ring free, held it up
between them in two fingers. "Deymorin is, and will be
until he dies, Princeps of Rhomatum."
"Dies. Or renounces."
"I'll believe that when I hear it from his own mouth."
"Impossible. That person is gonepermanently."
"Dead?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"Why don't you know? You ordered his exile, didn't
you? To make certain you would no longer 'suffer his au-
dacity'? Didn't your guard escort him to the perimeter?"
"I  prefer  to  solve  my  own  problems.  Personally.
Permanently."
"Then Mikhyel was right, you did use the rings to send
him away."
"Is that the grievance behind this vulgar scene? It hardly
matters then whether Mikhyel told the truth or not, does
it? Since whatever I do with the rings is my business, not
yours. Or his."
She won't be content until she rules the world. . . . Deymor-
in's words; among the last he'd heard from his brother, and
more prophetic than even Deymorin had realized.
To send Deymorin away in a fit of anger, that was like
Mikhyel's backhanded blows: unconsidered before, regret-
ted after. Power, used instinctively and in anger. He'd seen
that all his life and could have accepted that excuse from
Anhehaa; even if it meant the permanent loss of his
brother. Possibly even if it meant Deymorin's death.
But while Khyel struggled to control that misuse of
power, berated himself when he could not, Anheliaa had
relinquished the struggle before it ever commenced. Ac-
cepted as her right the ability to destroy lifeanyone's
lifewithout accountability. Simply because she had the
power to do so.
The cane's carved ridges formed touch-patterns beneath
his fingers, the gold and silver inlays radiated a metallic
chill.
"What you did to Deymorin . . ." he began, then revised
quickly, seeking knowledge and understanding. Anger he
had in plenty. "What had he done that was so wrong or
illegal as to warrant exile?"
"His was the ultimate crime." She shot him another of
those narrow stares. "He refused his destiny."
"The destiny you chose for him."
"The destiny the rings chose for him."
"The rings. You yourself told me the rings are affected
by personal desire. Your desire."
"The needs of the rings" Her eyes widened, lids disap-
pearing under the wrinkled brow. "Told you? Never!"
He brushed a careless hand through the air. "Of course
you did." And ignoring her intense, sudden frown: "The
needs of the rings cannot preclude the right of my brother,
your nephew, Princeps and the heir to the Estate!"
"That's where you're wrong, boy. By the rings, I'll
choose the bride and the groom, if I so choose."
"Don't you think the Council of Citizens might just have
something to say about wholesale abandonment of tradition
and law? Don't you think the Syndic might?"
"For the power I can give them? They'll agree with any-
thing I demand."
. . . until she rules the world ...
"You seek enhanced use of the rings. Your 'new' benefits
are personal ones. That which the rings give the citizens,
they do already, and will continue to do withor with-
outyou."
"Are you so certain? And where do you suppose Council
will stand if the choice is losing the rings altogether?"
"That's an empty threat."
"Is it?"
Her unwavering confidence shook him, made him think
of that new controlled doorway into this room, made him
recall her years of private experimentation in this isolated
fortress. Brought to mind Lidye's image on the ringsphere,
six months gone, and made a man wonder if Anheliaa had
conjured other imagesperhaps compromising images
with those rings, and which Councillors she had called into
this same room during her long tenure.
"Why, Anheliaa?"
"Do I need a reason? Then, perhaps just because I'm an
old woman. Perhaps because I'm bored. Perhaps just be-
cause I can."
Madness. The room reeked of it.
Breath failed him. All arguments seemed wasted as, sud-
denly, he realized why Mikhyel was frightened of Anheliaa,
and why Mikhyel sought to protect him from her.
He took a step backward, felt pressure against his weak-
ening knees, fumbled after an armrest and slid into the
chair.
"I won't support you in this, Anheliaa," he whispered.
He thought her eyes flickered at that, but her tone, when
she answered, continued indifferent: "Did l,ask you to?
The citizenry will happily accept Mikhyel. He's already
their practical Princeps."
"And if Mikhyel refuses?"
She laughed outright. "He won't." An arch look. And a
hissed: "Hasn't."
Hasn't. Fait accompli. Suggestion made and accepted. In
spite of what Mikhyel had said at Armayel.
Damn him!
He felt as if all the tension, the worry, the guilt he'd felt
for the past hours had just been thrown back in his face.
One had to wonder what had prompted Mikhyel's strange
confrontation  at Armayel that  afternoon.  If Mikhyel
planned all along to usurp Deymorm's title, why go through
all that? If Deymorin was officially declared exile, Mikhyel
would be the natural heir.
Except that, with Anheliaa's renunciation of primogeni-
ture, that was no longer assured.
Had he fallen headlong into a trap? Had Mikhyel set
him up? It was possible Mikhyel hoped to ensure his posi-
tion. Possibly Mikhyel believed that by throwing suspicion
on Anheliaa he would force his sole remaining rival into
just the confrontation now taking place, and eliminate that
rival permanently, leaving himself as Princeps.
Rival. He'd never considered himself anyone's rivalcer-
tainly not his brothers'. Without his brothers he had ...
nothing. No family. No meaningful avocation. His brothers
had actively discouraged him from developing usable
skillsprotecting his childhood, so they'd claimed.
His childhood had been studying history and science
theorieshis poetry the family joke; his single brush with
ambition, the brief dream of Ambassador to Mauritum, had
long since vanished, gone to dust in the reality of im-
pending marriage and paternal duties.
A life without accomplishment, without goals, a life full
of uncertain worth, and now Anheliaa used those multitudi-
nous uncertainties against him to force him to conform.
He freed one hand from its deathgrip on the cane, and
ran it distractedly through his hair.
"Dammit," he cried, "what gives you the right to be
judge and jury as well as executioner?"
"The power of the rings."
"That's no answer!" He bit his lip, forcing the anger and
the pain, the fear of uncertainty under control. "Duly
judged criminalsthat's one thing, although I'd argue the
Council should be consulted first and with full knowledge
of your actions. Exiling Deymorinwith no hearing, except
by you"
"And Mikhyel."
He refused to believe it. He took a solid grip on his own
careening suspicions.
"Don't put this off on Khyel. He had no realistic choice
in the matter."
"Is that what he told you?"
His heart sped. The clammy chill left his hands. "He
didn't have to. It was your doing. All. of it. And it's wrong.
Anheliaa dunMoren."
She leaned back, eyes narrowing to heavy lidded slits,
hands crossed over her substantial girth. "Your judgment
is,  of  course,  all  important  to  me.  1  really  think  you
should go now."
It wasn't right. None of it was right.
Deymorin always said no one could take his pride; that,
he had to give away, and damned if he would.
"Not until you tell me where Deymorin is."
Her eyes closed completely.
"You don't know where he is, do you? Or even whether
or not he's dead?"
A faint noise. An almost-snore.
"Do you?"
Her shadowed eyelids lifted. A painted brow rose slowly.
"Definitely unhousebroken."
He tightened his grip on Deymorin's cane, only a desper-
ate need for information preventing him from proving to
her just how undisciphned he could be.
"What happens to them?"
"Them? I thought we were speaking of your brother.
Them who?"
"Those you . . . leyapult away from the Tower."
"Leyapult? Ah, I see: our in-house poet strikes. Leya-
pult. I rather like that."
"What happens?"
She shrugged.
"Where did you send him?"
Another shrug.
"You don't know?"
"Don't care."
"Where you sent the others?"
Still another shrug.
"Do you know whether or not they survive the transfer?"
And a fourth.
"Damn you!"
"You grow unpleasantly like your father."
"Father?" Of a sudden, the statement's very oddity uni-
fied and directed his increasingly scattered thoughts. "Tal-
ented of me . . . considering I never really knew him."
"You knew your brother; ergo, you knew him. Beware."
"Beware? Why?"
"I never liked your father."
"At least, you admit it. Extrapolated: you never liked
Deymorin. I suppose that means you don't like me, either."
Her head tipped, slitted, unreadable eyes studying him.
"I wouldn't go that far . . . yet."
'"And if you decide you don't, will you send me into
oblivion as well?"
"If necessary."
For one chilling moment, his mind blanked, until he real-
ized that the rings swung their gentle chaos, same as always.
For some reason, she wasn't even considering attacking
him.
And then, he remembered that exchange with Lidye
when he arrived, remembered Mikhyel's statements and
suspicions, and from somewhere, bitter laughter happened.
"No, you won't. You want Lidye. For Lidye, you require
me. Mikhyel can't abide her. Well, if you want Lidye, you'll
find Deymorin, do you understand me?"
There was no way to tell if she heard or cared. Her face
was as blank and lifeless as a bad portrait.
"I mean it, Aunt. I'll go further and wager Khyel will
support me in this. If you push, Khyel and I will leave.
We'll find Deymorin without your help. We may come back
and we may not. We won't be here to marry your precious
apprentices, or to . . . pollinize your precious future adept.
Or do you expect to foist Lidye and Nethaalye onto Coun-
cil without us? Your apprentices are outsiders. Once one
of them controls the Tower, you effectively relinquish Rho-
matum Tower to another node whose loyalties to Rhoma-
tum are shaky at best. Do you honestly believe Council
will allow that to happen?"
Her eyes raked him up and down. Measuring.
"You put a high value on yourself," she said at last.
"You established the market when you insisted on out-
siders to . . . crossbreed us with."
"And what is it you expect of me?"
"Cooperation."
"In what?"
"I want to know where Deymorin is."
"I tell you, I don't know."
He nodded toward the rings, whose silver surfaces made
a glittering cloud behind Anheliaa, their excitement an
echo of her growing agitation.
"Find him."
"You dare defy me?"
He supposed he should, by all rights, be terrified. But a
cold confidence filled him, leaving no room for terror. "De-
fiance is not the word I would choose. It's really much
simpler. You want your heir, find Deymorin. You use
those things to locate criminals; you can use them to lo-
cate Family. Once I have proof, once I know he's alive
and well-once he's backI'll do whatever you ask, as
long as it's for Rhomatum and not simply your own ego.
Have we a deal?"
"Deal?" Her face was an ever darkening thundercloud.
"You arrogant little insect. No! You will stay. You will
marry that girl. Do you understand me?"
The rings became a sudden, silver blur behind her, a blur
he remembered seeing before, a blur that was one with a
confusion of images of Mikhyel and Anheliaa, of Deymorin
collapsed on the floor. He felt dizzy in that memory; dizzy
as well with the knowledge that he'd not been witness to
any of it. . . .
Pain gripped his hfead, a vise pressing in all directions
at once, Anheliaa's voice echoed in his ears, though her
mouth remained a thin, clamped line. The voice de-
manded:
{Stay. Wed Lidye. Forget Deymorin. Behave.}
And when his soul cried: "Why should I?"
{Because I say so. . . .}
Simple adult-to-child orders.
"And if I refuse?"
Images of terror: Child's fears of darkness and closets
and ogres and pain; man's fears of death, dismemberment,
impotence and shame.
Child and man, he resisted that pressure, tightening his
fists about the cane: Deymorin's proxy, Deymorin's camou-
flaged protection against camouflaged danger. He concen-
trated on the bite of fingernails into palm, of contrasting
cool wood and flesh-warmed metal.
"Is this what you did to Deymorin?" He thought he
shouted the words, but perhaps thoughts lied. Certainly her
image, swimming in metallic tones somewhere beyond his
touch, didn't respond. "And when he wouldn't yield, was
that when you exiled him? Threw him out like an uncoop-
erative servant?" The confusion of sensory input increased,
touch, sight, soundeven smell and tasteconfounding
into one, all radiating insistent need to comply with her
wishes. "Dammit, you'll not force me ei"
The pressure increased. He might have screamed. Cer-
tainly some offensive noise echoed about the room and
through his head.
The room twisted, the chair disappeared from under him.
He grasped blindly, breaking the fall, landing on his knees;
very real pain that cut through the unnatural agony of Anh-
eliaa's invocation.
He fought again, pulling himself to his feet, staggering
toward where he believed her couch to rest, crashed into
what felt like a wall where none should be, grasped for a
handhold on a slime-slick surface that wasn't there, and
slipped full length to the floor.
This time, he simply curled, grasping his head, no longer
concerned with winning, striving only to maintain aware-
ness of reality, somehow certain that if he lost conscious-
ness  now,  he'd  never truly  regain it,  that  he'd be
Anheliaa'sand after her, Lidye'sforever.
And as he fought, that internal demand wavered like
fresh water entering brine, and a sense of pure anger
Anheliaa's hatred for resistance, any resistance, for failure,
of anyone, to bend to her logic and her needsballooned,
engulfed the pain.
Images of Mheric, standing in this same spot, defying
Anheliaa's will, and after him, Deymorin, whose angry
stubbornness had given her headaches for three months
after his exile. Images of Mikhyel, most bitter of all, stand-
ing before the Council, selling them watered-down versions
of her most treasured strategies.
Suddenly:
"Damn you, Mheric, and all your thick-witted hellspawnf"
And that pain spread . . . through his body and beyond.
He was lying in bed. Nurse at his side . . .
He was lying beside a fire, wrapped in a filthy blanket,
next to a redheaded woman, surrounded by strangers . . .
And all of him curled and clutched his head, on the floor,
in the bed, beside the fire.
And of a sudden, he was Deymorin, on his knees on this
same floor, filled with Deymorin's strength and Deymorin's
hardheaded stubbornness. And he was Mikhyel standing
beside the rings, terrified, but resolute.
Sight/sound/touch dispersed, segregated, and categorized.
A lizard twitched beneath his cheek; Deymorin's cane
pressed painfully beneath his hip.
And then he was Nikki again, pulling himself up from
the floor of Anheliaa's ringchamber. But not Nikki alone:
his brothers, unspoken, unheard, but unquestionably real,
were standing with him, behind him, before him, around
him, and within: a sphere of protection that siphoned Anhe-
liaa's  sanity-threatening-destroying-disrupting  pain  away.
He could feel Deymorin's arms around him, could see the
pain flowing like viscous oil, out of his body and down
through the tiles and stones, and he could hear Mikhyel's
whisper: /Vo one will ever hurt you. . . .
He wrapped his hand around the wooden hilt and pulled
the cane from under his leg, held it to his face, tracing
each intricate niche with fingertip and eye, absorbing the
surprising heat from the metal bands: deliberate conjura-
tion of his own reality to dispel Anheliaa's.
And as the sensations clarified, he felt strength flowing
into his limbs, heard Deymorin whispering Good, fry. Very
good . . . and: Get the old witch . . . and Mikhyel, his whisper
frighteningly thin: the rings, boy, the rings are her strength
 . . and her weakness. . . .
Staggering to his feet, still gripping his brother's cane, he
advanced against the agonizing pressure.
And as he advanced, another image.
A solution. Mikhyel's solution.
He lunged.
*     *     *
"Nikki, no!" Just Deymio screamed and lunged toward
the fire, tangled in his blanket, and fell to his knees, fists
clutched to his stomach, cursing in an endless, breathless
stream.
"Deymio?" Kiyrstin propped herself on a weary elbow,
"Are you all right?"
A shuddering breath. A curse that was half-sob. And a
breathless: "I'll kill her."
"Who, Deymio?" She sat up and leaned toward him.
"Who do you want to kill?"
Another shuddering, teeth-chattering inhalation.
"Who? . . . Oh. Sh-shepherdess."
"Nightmare?"
"I . . . suppose."
Suppose, Rhomatum? she thought, as he returned to his
nest. If not a dream, what else might it be?
"Don't let it concern you," she whispered. "There have
been others. They all have themparticularly the first night
or so. Whatever the old woman does evidently wreaks
havoc on a sane mind. Want to talk about it?"
"N-n-no. You're probably right. Nothing but a dream.
Tired, that's all."
"Let's hope there isn't another. 'Night, Rhomatum."
"G'night, shepherdess."
"Idiot!"
Anheliaa's shout was as potent and as physical as a blow
to Nikki'S face. His head snapped back, he spun away from
rings gone suddenly wild, rings spinning randomly on off-
center, canted axes, bouncing and scraping against each
other, releasing living wails of protest that echoed through
his head.
He struck a wall, rebounded into a stool, and dropped
to the floor, scrambling for cover from the storm raging
within the room, from deafening light and blinding shrieks.
Pure instinct for survival located a small nook, a tiny haven
within the maelstrom, and he cowered there, clamping his
lips  on  mindless,  babbling  horror  at  the  havoc  he'd
wrought.
Silence, darkness, when they arrived suddenly and with-
out diminution, were equally consuming.
"Idiot, Idiot. Idiot."
Rhythmic chant in the void, invading his silence: Anheli-
aa's bitter whispered incantation.
Alarm bellswithin the Tower and without.
For the first time in living memory, the energy flow out
of Rhomatum Node had ceased.
Idiot, idiot, idiot.
The words were a chant inside Deymorin's head.
Sleep. As if he could. Or would ever again want to, now
he knew the nightmares lying in wait for him.
Idiot, idiot, idiot.
The throb echoed the relentless beat of Anheliaa's
dream-rings.
The shepherdess had said Anheliaa's other victims had
had nightmares. Not surprising. Arriving in the middle of
nowhere, losing months in an instant ... the human mind
took a while to adjust to such realities.
Six months . . . If not, he suddenly realized, much longer.
Perhaps years. How would he know?
Still, one had to wonder, who had faced Anheliaa's rings
before, if nightmare accounted for the images still so crystal-
clear in his mind. This was not the scene he remembered, not
himself and Mikhyel facing Anheliaa, but Nikki, alone.
And not. He had been there. Mikhyel had.
Dream? Reality? Or simply Anheliaa's revenge on him:
torment based on his own deepest fears for his brother?
His own mind set to feed off his own fears?
Anheliaa had been experimenting with the rings for
years. She'd alluded to seeing the future. She'd tried to use
them to force him into compliance, had used themor so
Kiyrstin and the priest claimedto transport him out of
Rhomatum.
How much did Anheliaa know? Could she read his
mind? Was she in any manner responsible forwhatever
he had experienced, and if so, how was she doing it?
For any ley-related effect to reach beyond the lines went
against all traditional understanding of ley energy; and this
camp was most definitely not on a ley.
So many questions. Questions to which there were no an-
swers.
Here.
"Get up."
Essence of light limning the hand in front of his eyes.
Gentle low-pitcned hum. Aura of serenity.
"I said, On your feet!"
Nikki cringed, seeking the serenity.
"At least manage the appearance of a man, damn you!"
Half-hysterical laughter shook him. He let his face slip
from his hand and into the crook of his elbow. A man
knew when to take cover . . . and when to keep his mouth
shut. He wasn't such a fool as to let pride risk his life again.
His aunt had been out of control. Might well still be.
"Nikaenor! Damn you, get up." Desperation edged her
command. Desperation and . . . fear?
He lifted his head.
The room was in shambles. Shards of metal, wood splin-
ters permeated everywhere: remnants of Deymorin's cane.
That could have been blood and bone: his arm. He'd have
done that, to stop Anheliaa's attack. Had intended to, if it
had taken that to stop Anheliaa's attack.
Fortunately, the cane had intercepted the rings first.
Thank you, Deymorin. . . .
"Nikaenor." His name was a breathless whisper. "Help
me!"
Anheliaa lay in a crumpled heap beside her massive
chair, overturned and collapsed in the maelstrom. Beyond
her...
Only the inner ring still beat the rhythm of the leys: that
accounted for the glow within the room. The third and
seventh ring hung in suspension, but their movements were
erratic and off-axial.
"Damn you, boy, I must see them. Get me up!"
His body responded without conscious thoughtinstincts
responding to that commanding voice. He scrambled to his
feet and staggered on pain-filled legs around the lizard oasis
to his aunt's side. He dropped down, heaved the large-
boned frame as best he couldAnheliaa's condition had
never affected her appetitesher curses of pain and frus-
tration ringing-in his ears the while. Her arthritic fingers
clawed at him, seeking purchase, long nails scraping his
neck, digging into his arm as he turned her face to the rings.
"Hold me steady, damn you," she hissed and he braced
himself on his knees, took her weight against his shoulder,
forced to watch in unwilling awe as the fallen rings rose
and, like sentient creatures, sorted themselves, hanging sus-
pended as Anheliaa tilted and aligned their axes, one at a
careful time. Nikki could feel the touch she gave each as
she released it: a gentle breeze to initiate the swing, holding
it  on  line  until  the  system  as  a  whole  resumed  its  self-
possessed, mildly chaotic motion.
The breeze touched the final ring, the radical streamer
hissed into motion . . .
Anheliaa collapsed, dragging them both to the floor . . .
... and the Tower Guards burst through the hatch and
into the room.
Interlude

Mother was positively dancing with wicked glee, leaping
and twisting about .the cavern terraces, the flickering.veils
whipping over and around her as much as she around them.
Dancer hesitated just within the world-cavern, mesmerized,
seeing in this impromptu performance the substance of
which the human dance of the radicalthat was itself pre-
decessor to the ringdancewas but a pale copy.
Tradition held that the first humans to enter the leythium
caves had, upon their return to the world of men, taken a
dangerous test of manhood and turned it into a dance to
honor the gods of whimsy and chance. Tradition held it
was patterned on a dance of the gods themselves.
Seeing Mother now. Dancer could well believe tradition.
{Got the damnable and gods-be-damned creature, they
did!]
There was an imbalance in the veil. Where the Rhoma-
tum haze should be, the crystal was utter blackness, the
linkages battered and rent. Mother's elusive form, at the
moment more reptilian than human, slipped, slithered, and
leapt through that darkness, arcing up like a fish in water
to hoVer and then settle before Dancer's frozen startlement.
"Creature?" Dancer repeated, feeling dull and stupid,
until, of a sudden, the sum of Mother's words, her elation
. . . and the blackness that once had been Rhomatum came
clear. "Anheliaa's dead?"
The veils echoed Mother's shrug, a fluttering, biUowing
rise and fall as if the crystal itself sighed.
Which might mean Anheliaa was dead ... and then
again, might not. Either way, one had to wonder who or
what had 'gotten' the all-powerful Anheliaa of Rhomatum.
But Mother, not being inclined to answer the former, was
hardly likely to answer the latter, and since Dancer had
little power to affect that surface fact. Dancer could afford
to  wait  for  the  rumors  sure  to  fill  Khoratum  court
tomorrow.
Besides, the Rhomatum pattern didn't matter any longer.
Khoratum's didn't, nor any other of the infinity of crystal-
line webs and chandeliers save one. Only a single pattern
mattered now to Dancer: the pattern born in the waning
of the previous year, a pattern that drew Dancer to it as
relentlessly as the Towers attracted lightning.
That enigmatic pattern had form now: a central core,
strong and stable, hardly lacework at all, a core that sank
its roots not into the leylines that ran pulsating and rich
between the towered nodes, but in the untouched leythium
tributaries that formed a delicate lacework between the in-
ternode arteries. Off that trunk, a complexity of branching
patterns grew and fluxed, reactive to all the surrounding
energies.
And that pattern, having broken free, as new patterns
would, of its womblike antechamberwas growing, ex-
panding toward and overlaying the Rhomatum darkness.
But the pattern's radical haze, that cloud of leythium
hovering above the web, awaiting direction, fluxed in fright-
ening chaos; colors juxtaposed senselessly, crystalline fila-
ments dissolving before they fully formed.
Dancer reached a cautious hand, touched that shim-
mering, shifting uncertainty and sensed . . .
Mheric's sons ... and the source of the Rhomatum
dissolution.
Dancer pulled back, startled at the clarity of realization.
Turned to find Mother staring.
Expectant.
"You did this. You wove me into this pattern."
An aura of negativity, an accompanying thought: {Too
much trouble./No need.}
"No need". Why not? If not your doing, whose? I don't
want this. Mother."
"What you want is irrelevant. What is, is."
"No."'
Dancer ran from the chamber, but all exits led back to
the Rhomatum dysfunction and the Rhomandi brothers'
web. Mother or the ley itself refusing to sever the pattern.
Eventually, exhaustion prevailed and Dancer collapsed,
shaking with anger and denial onto the chamber's lethium-
lattice flooring.
And all that while. Mother only watched. Silent.
The leythium lattice liquefied and ran soothing tendrils
up and over Dancer's body, bringing revitalizing nourish-
ment to shaking muscle and whispering soothing reassur-
ance to disturbed and disturbing thoughts.
Done was done, those whispers said, the pattern formed,
and Dancer inexorably a part of, it. But the pattern was in
danger, that disintegrating haze of its radical factor crying
out for help.
And Dancer, finding the pattern that was Mheric's sons
suddenly and not surprisingly within reach, lifted a hand,
and this time did not flinch when realization flowed through
that touch.
"You never told me patterns could be individuals,
Mother."
{And you should, in a measly twenty-two years of human
existence, know all your mother knows?)
But there was an excitement, a thrill of discovery color-
ing her thought.
"You didn't know either, did you? You haven't seen
this before."
{The universe always has secrets, human. When we un-
ravel one, it creates others to keep us humble. Such is the
beauty of life.)
Mother waxed philosophic and pompous: Mother was be-
wildered, and strove to hide the fact.
The web was certainly Mheric's sons. The solid core was
the eldest, the fluctuating pattern the youngest, the radical
haze...
That oneMikhyel was the name memory supplied
was gravely ill, and in tracing the source of that illness,
Anheliaa's fate came clear. The new pattern had taken
down Rhomatum, but not without penalty, and the back-
lash of Anheliaa's defensive bolt and . . . Mikhyel's . . .
physical weakness accounted for the new web's instability.
Or did it?
Dancer traced the source of the disruption, not to weak-
ness, but to willful destruction. The radical . . . Mikhyel had
linked itself to the darkness of Rhomatum, and was de-
stroying itself along with those deteriorating edges.
"He's trying to kill himself, Mother."
"He's trying to kill Anheliaa. Quite different."
"But he'll take himself with her!"
"Yes. Curious, don't you think?"
"Curious? It's horrible."
"Oh, that's a matter of opinion. Tell me. Dancer, is he
aware of what he's doing?"
"I don't believe so. It feels deeper, more basic. . . . Pro-
tection. Mother, he's protecting his brother from her, and
killing himself to do it."
"Why?"
"Love. Family." Dancer closed sense-disrupting eyes, the
better to analyze that inner revelation. "Responsibility."
"How useless. Especially since his destruction will de-
stroy an essential part of the brother he's supposedly trying
to protect. You humans are so ... connected. So de-
pendent, ..."
"Not all humans. Mother."
"Not you?" Mother asked aloud and out of Dancer's
thoughts.
"I've no family to die for, Mother."
Dancer felt wetness.
Tears.
Jealous tears.
And Dancer wondered what it must be like, having a
family, remembered having had a brother, once, or perhaps
it had been a sister, and the warmth of a shared bed and
loving arms.
Remembered being sent away to live with Grandmother.
Remembered too clearly the chill and emptiness of
being alone.
And sent, on the wave of that remembrancefor that
lost sibling, for Grandmotherreinforcement to the veil,
strengthening the haze, stabilizing the color, forcing the pat-
tern to fruition.
"You'll release Anheliaa."
"It's the only way to release Mheric's son."
Disgust/acquiescence/endorsement:  one  of  Mother's
more confusing signs.
"You should care about that?"
"I don't know if I should, Mother, but I do."
"Well, good morning, sunshine," said the blur on the far
side of his lashes. " 'Bout time you poked your nose above
the horizon."
Gentle voice, a bit ragged with exhaustion about the
edges; a voice one part of him had feared never to hear
again, and another part wondered whence such paranoia
arose, as his eyelids again drifted downward.'
Pressure on his hand, the warm one, the one nearest the
window felt as if it were encased in ice, and a touch to his
face, a thumb that stroked his cheek as if encouraging his
eyes to reopen.
Mikhyel bhnked slowly, and when that proved effica-
cious, biinked again, as the blur on the far side of his eye-
lashes slowly developed solid patches of light and shadow,
as sunlight, streaming in through sheer draperies, turned
blond hair into a shimmering halo, and as two small patches
of clear morning sky appeared in that area where the gods
intended eyes to be.
"Nikki?" The whisper that escaped his throat was barely
audible even to himself; a second attempt, coming on a
startled gasp, produced better results:  an affectionate-
sounding chuckle.
"Can't fool you, can I, big brother?" asked the vision.
It was Nikki.
Relief flooded through him. A dream. It had all been
nothing but a bad dream.
With images of Nikki writhing under Anheliaa's mental
lash haunting every dream-instant, he'd fought waking with
every unconscious breath, wanting Nikki safe, wanting An-
hehaa dead. But he knew now his fears had been un-
founded. Nikki, Anhehaa, the rings: it was all fever dream,
born of his confrontation with Nikki at Armayel and his
conviction the boy would challenge Anheliaa despite any
warning and disappear as Deymorin had disappeared.
But Nikki had had more sense than he'd accredited him.
Nikki had avoided Anheliaa. Nikki was here. Safe.
"How are you feeling?"
That was easy: terrible. The nightmare that was the drive
home, his own collapse, that had to be real, else why was
he so tired and sore, and why Nikki's worried presence,
here in what was irrefutably his own apartment?
But one couldn't say that to one's younger brother. One
had to set a brave example, because one remembered one's
own example: an older brother, crippled as a result of one's
own stupidity, smiling and saying it didn't really hurt,
though the face was pale, and the eyes clouded with un-
shed tears.
He swallowed hard and managed more voice, though the
effort sacrificed what smile he'd conjured. "Better than I
deserve."
Another squeeze compressed the warm hand and he
wondered if the sound he heard was indeed the bones grat-
ing, the way it felt. "That's a matter of opinion," Nikki said
gently, which was very kind, if untrue.
His eyes drifted shut again. Tired. Very tired. A light tap
to his cheek, another, harder, when he didn't respond.
"Tired, Nikki. Very ..." His voice failed into a yawn,
that ended in a squeak of protest as Nikki's other hand
contacted his face in a stinging slap.
"Sorry, old fellow, Diorak says to keep you awake this
time."
"This? . . ." He forced the lids up. "How long . . ."
"Three days. Four nights, though."
"Rings. Sicker than . . . thought."
"You had a relapse the first night. My fault. I should
never..."
"Don't . . . silly."
He hadn't the strength to say what he was thinking, that
he was just relieved Nikki was still talking to him, after his
deception and the things he'd said at Armayel. Instead, he
tightened his fingers, felt Nikki's other hand close over the
top, a reassuring warmth that would leave, once he was
well. He knew that, as he knew it was only Nikki's generous
nature keeping him here now. He tried to be thankful Nikki
had waited before leaving him to seek the brother he loved,
the only person (so Nikki had said, and surely Nikki knew)
who had ever really loved him.
Love had always confused him. He wasn't certain he was
capable of it. He did understand responsibility and purpose,
and he suspected that once Nikki left, the aching void he
was sensing in so very large a portion of his person would
prove nothing but a momentary lack of responsibility and
purpose.
He also knew that, right now, Nikki's hand warming his
was the most valuable, most desirable occurrence in the
world, and tried not to think how that generosity deepened
the pit of debt in which he wallowed. Debt to Deymorin
for his leg, debt to Nikki for lying to him, debt to Gareg
for his hardheaded blindness, debt to them all for not
countering Anheliaa when it mattered. . . .
His eyes tingled. He biinked to spread the moisture over
their dry, scratchy surface, turning his head away from
Nikki, lest Nikki assign more significance to that wetness
than it warranted.
Hair tickled his neck, caught beneath a shoulder when
he shifted to avoid it. He tried to raise a hand to pull it
free; found even that small effort beyond his ability, and
swore softly, at the recalcitrant hair, at his weakness, per-
haps at the world in general.
A hand lifted his head from the pillow, another eased
the offending strand free, and Nikki was standing over him,
settling additional pillows behind him, propping his head
up.
"Thank you," he said, before Nikki pressed a cup to his
lips and ordered, "Drink!"
He obeyed meekly. Fruit juice, he thought. Or soup. Hot,
cold, sweet, salt, one would taste much like the other.
Whichever it happened to be, it made keeping his eyes
open a bit easier, though everything remained slightly
fuzzy. He was beyond caring about that or anytiling else
except the fact Nikki wanted him to stay awake and so he
must keep his eyes openuntil he spotted the brush re-
flected in the mirror: a brush that meant relief for a scalp
that felt as if Anheliaa's lizards were nesting in it.
And him without the energy to so much as lift his hand.
He sighed. And stared. And sighed again.
Golden laughter bounced off the walls, and the reflected
brush disappeared from the reflected bureau top.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Nikki," Mikhyel said, trying
to help. "I didn't realize myself how weak I was getting
had worked myself stupid the night before and hadn't the
sense to realize"
"Don't you see?" Nikki interrupted. "That's what I
Why I"
Nikki waved a frustrated hand through the air, clenched
the hand to a fist and let it fall to his knee. He shook his
head wearily and silently replaced the pillows at Mikhyel's
back, then retrieved the brush from the floor, and returned
to the bed as though the interruption had never taken
place.
Mikhyel collapsed into his pillows, but refused to turn
away from Nikki's determinedly oblivious face, couldn't
find it in him to object when Nikki calmly pulled his hair
forward, smoothed the newly acquired tangles, and sepa-
rated the mass into sections for braiding.
When he'd finished, Nikki tied the plait off, and
smoothed it gently. Then he just sat, his hand resting ab-
sently on Mikhyel's chest, and stared sightlessly.
It was a look Mikhyel knew from the inside, as he knew
the reason for Nikki's distraction. Once and long ago, he,
too, had felt guilt weighing him down, crushing his ability
to reason; he, too, had felt that overpowering need to do
something, anything for the brother lying helplessly in bed.
Deymorin had come out of his fevered coma filled with
forgiveness, nobly assuming a guilt that wasn't his, laugh-
ingly dismissing the accident (as Deymorin insisted on call-
ing it) that had crippled him for life as a relatively cheap
lesson in stupidity. But Mikhyel had rejected Deymorin's
forgiveness, had turned from the comfort offered, too filled
with the guilt of that night to foresee what his rejection of
the offer would do to them both, himself and Deymorin.
Because Deymorin had never repeated the offer ...
which was only right, because the truth was, it had been
his fault Deymorin was on the Tower ledge in the first
place, his fault they'd fought and Deymorin had slipped. If
he'd done as he should have done all those years ago, he'd
have sent the woman away the instant he found her waiting
in his room. Then Deymorin and his cohorts would have
gone away and Anheliaa would never have found them
crouched in the hallway outside his bedroom, would never
have opened that door. . . .
Bile rose; he choked it back.
His fault, as his illness was his fault not Nikki's, and when
those grief-stricken, sky-blue eyes filled, and Nikki rose,
still with that blind look, to leave, he acted for once on
pure instinct. He never asked, never offered in words that
which Deymorin had offered, never gave Nikki that chance
to think too much. Instead, he caught one shaking hand,
and pulled Nikki back, and when Nikki protested, slid his
other arm around the boy's neck, drawing his brother close,
holding him as he'd wanted to be held all those years ago.
As Deymorin had tried to hold him.
But Deymorin had tried to absolve the unforgivable.
Nikki, being innocent and gentle and deserving, could ac-
cept the dispensation his older brother offered, never real-
izing whatever small guilt might have been his disappeared
the instant his arms closed around Mikhyel's waist and his
nose burrowed into Mikhyel's neck.
Spasmodic quivers shook them both and left them gasp-
ing slightly for breath, when at last they eased. Nothing so
organized or unmanly as tears. Just exhaustion. His and
Nikki's.
Four nights, he'd said.
"Nikki?" he murmured.
Nikki's head turned until Mikhyel could feel the warm
breath brush his chest. "S-sorry, Khyel." He heaved with
a sigh, and burrowed again into Mikhyel's neck. "Just . . .
tired. Give me . . . moment. I'll . . ." A wry, breathy chuckle
stirred the braid's end-tuft. ". . . get out of your hair."
"No rush." He tightened his hold. "Want to know what
this is all about, anyway."
"Not . . . now. Later . . . maybe."
"Now, Nikaenor."
"No!"
Nikki tried to pull away; he held on, desperation lending
him strength, suddenly certain that if he let go, Nikki would
disappear forever. "Is it because I was a fool and let myself
chill? That's not your fault, brother. I'll share with you the
sin of stupidity, but nothing more."
Nikki quite strugghng and collapsed against him, holding
him now with similar desperation. "That's . . . not all."
The words were barely audible, and in that desperation,
he read a fear to match his own, as if Nikki, too, was afraid
of rejection. Nikki was no fool, was not one to overreact
on a triviality.
"Years ago, Nikki," he said on a slow and painful mem-
ory, "I pushed one brother away so hard he's never for-
given me. I may be a fool, but I'm selfish enough not to
let that happen twice. I don't know what you've done, but
I know you, I trust you and your motives, regardless the
outcome. But whatever's wrong, maybe I can help. Won't
you at least let me try?"
Nikki's stranglehold eased, his chest heaved with a sigh.
"I've ruined everything."
"Couldn't if you tried, fry, as I discovered years ago. The
world's too large, the variables far too many. What is it
you think you've done?"
"The Council. Gareg and the flooding. They were press-
ing for a report, Mikhyel, demanding to know if. you'd
stopped Gari. I put them off till yesterday, but I didn't
know if you'dif you wereyou were so ill, Khyel, so I
... I tried to handle things. Instead, I ruined any chance
you had to bring them around."
Too tired to worry, too filled with relief that Nikki was
alive and well, Mikhyel chuckled, and answered lightly:
"You faced the Council solo? Brave lad."
"I'd say, rather, stupid. They laughed. Then they told me
to leave. They wouldn't listen."
"Did the same to me, at first, Nikki. Did the same to
me." He heaved a breath against Nikki's weight. "Humili-
ating, isn't it?"
"Y-y-yes. But that's not"
"They aren't laughing at me now, Nikki. And they won't
at you, in a year or so. I had no idea you were interested,
or I'd have had you sitting in with me before now. I owe
you for trying to explain the situation to the old . . . well,
never mind. Relax. No need to fret. It'll be fine."
"But Anheliaa. The rings . . ."
"Later, fry. Anheliaa can wait. Justdon't leave me
yet, please?"
Nikki's trembling slowly dissipated, and Nikki's apparent
weight increased. His breathing steadied.
Nikki was asleep.
And safe in that lack of consciousness, Mikhyel stroked
the curls that brushed his chin, gently separating the
strands,  welcoming  the  pressure  that  made  breathing
difficult.
He had no illusions about that promise. Nikki would
leave, and Nikki would find Deymorin and some pretty
shepherdess, and never come back, never sit on Council
with him, and Anheliaa would have to settle on him as
Princeps and as sire to her precious heir, flooding or no
flooding, war or no war. In the meantime and forever after,
he'd have this moment, and treasure it
Without warning, the door opened, and Diorak stepped
into the room.
Mikhyel raised a finger to his lips.
"I've been waiting for this to happen," Diorak said,
keeping his voice low as he settled in a chair. "Young fool
hasn't slept in three days."
Mikhyel winced, wondering at whom the epithet was
aimed. "All because of me."
"Because of you, yes. And because of Anheliaa."
"Anheliaa?" he asked, surprised.
He nodded. "He's been driving us all to distraction, flut-
tering back and forth between your rooms and her apart-
ment door."
A sane man would have been shocked. Instead, a part
of him seemed already to know, a part that turned cold
and asked: "What happened?"
"Evidently, the rings collapsedat least power was to-
tally disrupted for several minutes. She reset them, then
collapsed herself. She was comatose until early this morn-
ing, when she, bless the rings, awoke as if from a proper
night's sleep."
"When did it happen?"
"The night you returned to Rhomatum. You took far
too long. I've warned you"
"Was she alone?" He interrupted, the cold inside a solid
ice-lump now.
"Your brother was with her. No one else. You really
must do something about the Tower Guard. It took them
far too long, following the alarm, to organize and access
the ringchamber. They've gotten complaisant."
"Rings, man, it was Nikki in there with her. Why should
there have been a Guard present? Why should they have
worried?"
"What makes you think she was safe with him?"
He resisted an instinctive urge to shield Nikki. Anheliaa's
threat was long since past, and such a display would only
exacerbate Diorak's already ill will.
"Did he say what happened?"
"Only that they argued. He's been quite closemouthed
about the entire incident.  Unforgivably so, in some
opinions."
"As you just reminded me, I've been gone too much.
She's overworked, exhausted. If they arguedeven over a
supper menuwell, you know how obstinate Anheliaa can
be. Nikki must have been terrified when she collapsed and
there was no one to turn to. In all probability, he feels
altogether too responsible for the disaster. I'll talk with him
when he wakes. I'm certain there's a perfectly reasonable
explanation."
"Don't depend on it. And don't automatically accept
what he tells you as truth."
Mikhyel felt his hackles rise: damned if any physician,
regardless how old a family retainer, had any right to ques-
tion a Rhomandi's actions. But, he reminded himself firmly,
Diorak was Anheliaa's physicianhad been for thirty
years. He deigned to treat the rest of the Family. Not sur-
prisingly, Diorak had his prejudices.
"As for the Guard," he said soothingly, to halt those
prejudices in their tracks, "with that new shielded hatch
she installed, they couldn't access the room if the rings were
down. Anheliaa's design, Diorak, not mine. Anheliaa's
overconfidence in her rings, not mine. Do you care to argue
with her on that account?"
Diorak grumbled something inaudible.
"And Anheliaa?" he asked. "What does she say about
the accident?"
"She's volunteered nothing, and I've not asked. I won't
allow anyone, especially that brother of yours, into her
room at this time. Her condition is much too fragile. In
fact, I must return to her now."
Diorak paused at the door.
"You don't know the whole, boy. The City's in an up-
roar. So are the satellites. There's talk of liability suits ev-
erywhere you go. Council's frantic."
Liability.  Wonderful.  One  of those  damned contract
clauses Anheliaa had insisted Council endorse: the satel-
lites' declared price to divert power from them for tapping
Khoratum. Anheliaa had promised them uncompromised
power, and they intended to hold her to it.
"What disrupted the rings? Do we at least know that?"
"Your brother hasn't said, but there were bits of wood
and steel everywhere, including several impaled lizards. The
maids were not amused."
The door slammed behind him; Nikki stirred; Mikhyel
quieted him with an absentminded squeeze.
Steel and wood. Deymorin's sword-cane.
The rings.
The nightmarewasn't.
Mikhyel closed his eyes on a world gone suddenly liquid.
Squeezing in between Vandoshin-the-priest and another
large fellow, Deymorin set his shoulder to the supply wag-
on's tailgate and heaved. With a reluctant, sucking pop, the
mud released the wheel and the cart surged forward onto
the bed of twigs and leaves. The mules leaned willingly into
the harness and hauled the cart up the hill to dry ground,
and a weary cheer rose from the onlookers.
Deymorin and the other four mud-covered but trium-
phant men staggered from the bog with the help of several
willing pairs of hands. The shepherdess observed her min-
ions from a perch atop a large rock, well beyond range of
flying filth.
"Well, it used to be a road," the other man muttered
sourlyKorrigen, if he remembered correctlyand Dey-
morin slapped a muddy paw on the one unsullied spot on
Korrigen's shoulder.
"Never mind, old fellow. The rains this year ..." He
paused, recalling time lost, then revised smoothly: ". . . last
year washed out at least three historically reliable roads in
the valley. One entire section of what once was top
wheatland in west county had soured by summer's end. A
vegetable patch or two have likely followed by now."
"I heard Rhomatum had bumper crops last summer,"
Kiyrstin commented, propping chin in hand and elbow to
knee and squinting into the sunlight. "Rumor has it Anhel-
iaa has figured how to make rain in the Betweens at her
whim."
"If she has, she's a fool," Deymorin said without think-
ing. "Yes, we had rain all summerin the north end and
on the west side. Lousy for hay, but it made for excellent
cropswhere the land wasn't underwater. Unless the pat-
tern has changed more than this" He waved a hand at
the mudpit that had been a road. "would indicate, the
whole valley will foul, if we don't do something soon. It's
a damned mess, and we're still high ground here."
"We?" Using the back of her knife, Kiyrstin flipped mud
from her boot heel, her eyes downcast and unreachable.
"Isn't that the farmers' problem?"
"It's anyone's problem who wants to eat" he replied,
his temper heating at the old argument, cooling immedi-
ately when her calculating gaze lifted.
Satisfied. Piecing him together. Culling the salient bits
from his conversation as she had been for the last three
days. Bits she was increasingly effective at teasing out of
him despite his better sense.
"Not the attitude of most dedicated city-folk I know,
Rags. Are you Rhomatumin so different, then?"
"I suppose it depends on who you ask. I've a Between
farm or twohelps to settle the bar-debts"
"Or pays for a mistress' jewels?"
He assumed a wopful expression. "Ah, shepherdess, for
that, one must have a mistress."
"And you don't? How disappointing. And here I'd had
you with at least four or five."
"five?" He cast a glance down his extremely muddy per-
son. "Shepherdess, I . . . don't know how to tell you this,
but ... the ladies of Rhomatum have somewhat ...
higher standards."
She hissed and flipped mud from her knife tip at his
face with deadly, and not altogether friendly, accuracy. He
laughed and dodged, taking it on his ear rather than be-
tween the eyes, then reached a hand to help her down from
her stony perch. She slapped his hand aside and slid lightly
to the ground.
"Mistress?" A light, breathy voice arrived on a spattering
of pebbles: the mule-boy, slipping and sliding down the
forward trail. "Found a place, I did. Good 'n' level. Mostly
dry. Got grass fer th' mules. Needs to rest, they do."
"Very well, Zandy," Kiyrstin answered, "We'll stop
therefor the night, I think. We're all of us exhausted. Tell
the others, will you?"
"Yes'm," the boy said, and was off in a flash of dark
eyes, a flop of darker hair, and a light, skipping stride.
"And, Zandy," Kiyrstin called after him, and he bounced
to a halt facing them. "If you want supper tonight, remind
Van to send someone ahead for Carlonio and Basliisi."
"Yes'm." And he was off again, yet one more strange
member of a very strange party. Some twenty-odd, there
were, all out of Mauritum in one way or another, some
with the casual but alert poise of trained fighters, others
with the shifty moves of streetscut and prison bait; and then
there was romMaurii, the sleek, deceptively powerful priest,
Kiyrstin, the by no means shepherdess, and the boy.
A strange company, indeed, and bound for Rhomatum
for reasons as mysterious as they'd been three days ago.
Three days of deadlock, the shepherdess and himself.
That first night, she'd taken her priestly cohort off into
the shadows, and romMaurii had returned alone, full of
pleasantries and little else. Whatever the unspoken and in-
stant dissonance between them that had loosened the
priest's tongue at the first, it had been effectively silenced.
The priest, waiting for them as they followed the wagon
up the hill, reached out to stop Kiyrstin, who waved Deym-
orin on.
Hard to believe those two hadn't pieced Just Deymio
and Deymorin Rhomandi together. Unless they didn't
know. Unless Mauritum was even more ignorant of Rho-
matum than Rhomatum of Mauritum. He supposed it was
possible that they were as notorious in their own city as he
was in Rhomatum. Perhaps they were biding their time,
waiting for him to reveal his knowledge of their doings.
Certainly they were wasting no time crossing the Khara-
tas and descending into Rhomatum. They'd encountered
snow the first day, including a short patch that was as diffi-
cult a passage, in its own way, as the bog now lying behind
them. They had moved steadily downward ever since, rising
well before dawn and travelling well into the night, the two
men, Carlonio and Basliisi, always a step ahead, preparing
a campsite with firewood and fresh meat.
And always avoiding the Persitum Leyroad. Assiduously.
Failing information to the contrary, a man might assume
his companions were in a hurry to put Persitum (and by
extrapolation, Mauritum) well behind them. Made a man
wonder what sort of treasure lay hidden within the tarpaulin-
covered wagonother than the chest containing a strangely
varied choice of clothing. Certainly the bedrolls and other
supplies carried within could have been packed on the
mules' backs, had speed been the only consideration.
Obviously, he thought, a backward glance intercepting
frowning suspicion from the priest and uncertainty from the
non-shepherdess, speed was not.
By the time Kiyrstin entered the camp with Van, the
mules were free of their harness and Zandy, with the help
of Damn-his-endlessly-useful-hide Deymio, was rubbing
them down.
"If you value this project at all, Kiyrstin, get him away
from the boy," Van said, and walked abruptly away before
she could object to his attitude.
Unfortunately, he was right. For all she didn't share his
absolute distrust of the Rhomatum, it was only prudent to
secure Deymio's loyalty before he enchanted the boy as he
had everyone else.
Easy, helpful, diffident ... with everyone but herself.
Somehow whenever their paths crossed they generated
sparks as reliably as fur in a Tower.
Still, (she smothered the grin that threatened) that sizzle
was not thoroughly unpleasant. Was, she had to admit it,
quite stimulating, more often than not.
Three days and never another question, not about who
they were, not about where they were bound, or why they
moved with such obvious intent or what that intent might
be. Each day gaining strength, though he hid the fact.
Or (she revised her thought honestly) he simply didn't
announce the fact. When necessity called, as with the stuck
cart, he didn't hesitate to lend a (very substantial) shoulder.
But she'd seen him each night, after the camp slept, stretch-
ing and testing muscle and bone, seen him on the trail,
pushing, always pushing. He'd even, wonder of wonders,
accepted her offer of another try at his back, though he'd
insisted on slightly altering the technique. He'd claimed it
helped.
Trying to turn her up sweet, that's what he was doing.
When she reached the mules, he was leaning over, one
fore-hoof braced between his knees, flipping mud out of
the crevasses as dexterously as any farrier.
"Hah, Rags," she said to the top of his head, "Now we
know all your secrets."
His head jerked, flipping his hair back so that he could
stare up at her, a frown between his dark brows.
"You're a stablebrat, born and bred."
The frown cleared in a ringing laugh, and he stood free,
releasing the hoof and giving the large mule a friendly slap
on the shoulder.
"More right than you know, shepherdess," he said, and
to Zandy: "He's all right, son. Just go stand him in the
stream a while."
"Yezzur," Zandy answered. "Thankee, zur."
"Pleasure, lad. He's a good fellow."
"Thankee, zur."
"Where'd he come from?" Just Deymio asked as they
watched the boy lead the beast away. There was a warmth
to his voice and a smile on his face; he was a man comfort-
able with youngsters, even fond of them. Contrary to Van's
notions, rather than keeping him from the boy, perhaps this
was the real means to securing Deymio's loyalty.
"Hard to tell," she answered. "He doesn't seem to have
much of anyone."
"An' don' need nobody neither, mistrus!" A grin flashed
back at them, their words evidently carrying on the breeze.
"Quite a character." Deymorin laughed. "I'd like to
make his closer acquaintance."
"That . . . might be arranged." A sidewise glance caught
a puzzled look. She grinned and said, "Go scrub. Rags,
you're a walking mudpit."
Consciousness happened on the sweet scent of warm
honeyberry wine and a faint scritching sound. Nikki yawned
and stretched, feeling relaxed and rested for the first time
in days.
Recalling the circumstances of his last waking moments,
he realized, in some embarrassment, that he was still
dressed and sprawled across Mikhyel's bed rather than
his own.
The sweet smell emanated from a decanter underlit with
a warming-candle's glow and setting on Mikhyel's desk situ-
ated near the window at the far end of the room. Mikhyel
himself, head propped in his right hand, scribbling rapidly
with his left, was the source of the scratching noise.
Elbow, ink bottle, and wine goblet acted as paperweights
to hold a large scroll open for study. A scroll Nikki recog-
nized well. He'd worked hard enough, in the long nights
waiting for Mikhyel's fever to break, preparing it.
Nikki had that desk moved in from Mikhyel's study so
he could watch over his brother while he worked exactly
as Mikhyel now was, with the heavy drapes propped, just
so to shed light on the desk without disturbing the sleeper.
During the endless hours he'd created a meticulous com-
posite of all the contour maps Mikhyel had brought back
with him from Armayel, making a single map showing the
entire valley and the surrounding foothills. Painstakingly
tracking natural water flow patterns, he'd found at least
two areas where the vast bulk of the runoff channelled into
a relatively confined area. Dams built there, where the rock
for construction was plentiful, would stop the majority of
the water flowing into the valley and create natural road-
ways for transport of goods between the leys, and reservoirs
of water to tap in times of drought.
He'd been so certain it would work. And yesterday, not
knowing when (or if) Mikhyel would awake, he'd presented
it to Council
The scratching stopped.
"Dammit, boy," Mikhyel muttered, "If you were
awake..."
Nikki gulped, uncertain whether he wanted to draw at-
tention to the fact that he was, a decision made moot when
Mikhyel glanced up, his shadowed face darkly frowning.
Worse than he'd feared. Word must have come from
Council as he slept.
He turned away from the frown, and sat up, swinging his
legs off the mattress. He'd so wanted to explain to Mik-
hyel first....
"Khyel, I'm sorry. I'm so"
"Sorry?" Mikhyel interrupted him abruptly, distractedly.
"Whatever for? How Gareg and I could have missed it . . .
You said you talked to Council. About this? Surely they've
begun organizing labor crews. There's no time to lose, what
with the spring thaws already well underway."
"I . . ." Nikki biinked, wondering if they were discussing
the same topic. "No. It's stupid. They said"
"It's not stupid, Nikki. It's the obvious answer. Who told
you otherwise?"
Everybody, he wanted to say, but he paused, unwilling
to point out the plan's obvious flaw, at least for a moment.
Mikhyel's response was gratifying; Council's had been ...
less enthusiastic.
He found his boots propped against the bed steps and
pulled them on. "You really think it would work?"
"You know the answer to that." Mikhyel's eyes scanned
him, a frowning deliberation. "This is what you meant
when you said you'd ruined everything? Council laughed
at" He broke off with a short, harsh laugh. "But they
would: you're only seventeen, after all. Well, let them
laugh, Nikki. Just don't let them get to you. Don't let their
blind conservatism undermine your conviction. A leader
can't do that, Nikki. A leader must trust what he knows
and act on it."
A leader. He wasn't a leader. Wasn't any kind of a
leader.
But one remembered Anheliaa's assertions, and Mikhy-
el's warnings, and most of all that sense of Mikhyel up in
Anheliaa's Tower, and one said slowly, testing the waters
of waking reality:
"A wise man knows his own limitations and listens to
those who might know more. I didn't expect them to adopt
the plan without debate. I'm not the Princeps. Neither have
I Deymorin'sor youroverview of all the economic and
political ramifications of such an undertaking. I just wanted
them to consider it. They . . . declined the offer."
"They won't decline it now," Mikhyel said firmly, and
jotted another note on a scrap of paper and stuck it firmly
atop a growing stack on the notepin. "Overview be
damned. We've an emergency situation and if they don't
act quickly, bailout will be a thousand times more expen-
sive. Trust me on this, Nikaenor. There are details to fig-
uremoving that much rock, reinforcing the dam structure
for heavy loadsbut that's what engineers are for."
"Feasibility was never in question."
"Then what is?"
"As Councillor Bernard pointed out, the northeastern
reservoir would also cover a good portion of Khoratum
Ley. Khoratum is growing. It's a major importer at the
moment, and will be for years to come. City merchants
expect to be able to load trade goods at one end and have
them transported uninterrupted to the other. They'd never
countenance such an obstacle to traffic flow. Particularly
not a fair-sized lake."
"And did you point out to them that floater-track works
below water as well as above, and that, should the tracks
fail, goods can be floated across water as well as suspended
from balloons? "The worst that can happen is two thriving
port towns on either end of the lake."
Nikki shrugged. He'd had such arguments prepared, but
had never been given the opportunity to voice them. Coun-
cil didn't want to talk about that. Council didn't want to
hear that half the vegetable crop wouldn't be in the markets
this year; that not acting promptly would mean hundreds
of 'tweeners thrown onto the City charity lists for which
excess yield would not exist. Hundreds who could be plow-
ing fields and tending crops and keeping Council's house-
hold costs down.
Mikhyel turned his frown back to the map. "Those fools
will listen if I have to assume Deymorin's authority to force
them. Dammit! Why couldn't he be here? He has the posi-
tionand the personal charisma, when he cares to use it,
damn himto make anyone cooperate."
"Anyone except Anheliaa."
Mikhyel's shoulders drooped. "Except Anheliaa."
Sagging shoulders, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks: fever and
worry had his older brother looking twice his age and more.
Whatever Anheliaa's 'truth', cooperationor capitula-
tionhad not come easily for Mikhyel. And a man who
had experienced Anheliaa's incentives, a man who looked
now on a brother whose eyes mirrored a lifetime of horror,
had to wonder how much Mikhyel had endured over the
years, and at what cost.
"What happened that night, Mikhyel?" Nikki asked at
last,  never  doubting  Mikhyel  would  know  which  night.
"What exactly happened?"
Mikhyel's haunted gaze sought the brandy's warm glow.
"I told you. Anheliaa proposed her planhe'd have none
of it. She insisted. He refused. And then ..." His head
dropped; he covered his eyes with his fists. And when he
continued, his voice was thin, shakingand not altogether
rational. "The rings were spinningso rapidly, they were
this silver . . . cloud . . . in the room. The energy . . . was
enough to make your hair stand. Then ... he was on the
floorin pain. Awful pain. I .. . felt it, too. Almost. And
there was nothing I could do ... no enemy. No weapon.
Nothing. And then . . . I hardly remember . . . I must have
been mad. . . ."
It was as if Mikhyel had forgotten his presence, as if he
talked only to himself.
"You threatened the rings, didn't you?" Nikki said gen-
tly,  drawing him  out  of that  horror into  a present-day
haven. "To stop Anheliaato save Deymio. You threat-
ened them with your bare hands."
Mikhyel emerged from behind blanketing hands. "How
did you know that?" he asked faintly. "Did she tell you?"
"I know what you did the same way you know what
happened between Anheliaa and me the night you
collapsed."
Mikhyel's grey eyes widened, the faint green ring around
the iris darkened, growing eerily pronounced, a horrified
gaze Nikki returned without flinching, knowing the source
of that horror from the inside, though for him, it was far
from horrifying.
He'd seen things, knew things about his brothers he could
only know through his brothers. He'd heard Deymorin and
Mikhyel, had felt them inside, as he'd felt Anheliaa when
she used the rings to force herself into his head, only their
presence had been anything but painful.
He'd dealt on a personal level with that strange threeway
communion while Mikhyel hovered in the balance between
life and death. Over and over he'd relived those glorious
moments when he and his brothers had been one, until he
remembered, as clearly as if he'd been there in Mikhyel's
flesh, the lengths Mikhyel had gone to that night to save
Deymorin.
In that same way he knew Anheliaa was, at least in part,
wrong in her assessment of Mikhyel's loyalties. Had been
certain ever since he'd confronted Anheliaa and felt his
brothers in the Tower with him.
He and his brothers had built their lives around the as-
sumption they had no power over the rings. Even consider-
ing this new evidence, he had no reason to suppose the
position of ringmaster was a part of any future of his. But
together, he and his brothers had defied Anheliaa's ring-
enhanced domination, and as a result, Anheliaa would
never again have quite the same power over him; to pre-
tend otherwise was to willfully be the blind fool Anheliaa
called him.
That the threeway communion had happened was fact.
How it had happened, why, and what its implications might
be were simple mysteries, unknowns to which there were
knowablepotentially excitinganswers. Answers never
even suggested in the histories he'd read, but which lay at
the very heart of the Tamshi tales.
Almost, one was tempted to go to Anheliaa for answers.
Almost. One was also not stupid.
Whether or not that moment of shared experience ever
repeated itself, he, at least, had been profoundly affected.
As had Mikhyel, though hardly the same way. He knew,
thanks to that moment, heand his brotherswere ...
different.
But he couldn't force that realization on Mikhyel. Of the
three of themhimself, Mikhyel, and DeymorinMikhyel,
the lawyer, was the most insistently pragmatic, his entire
life based on rules and absolutes. Mikhyel would deny this
wonderful, magicalthingthey shared until it withered
and died through disuse.
Deymorin, on the other hand and wherever he was with
his fire and his redheaded woman, would trust his own
senses and wonder how best to use the ability to topple
Anheliaa once and for all.
He'd felt that in the shared instant, as surely as he felt
Mikhyel's resistance now.
Himselfhe'd tried for all those long hours sitting beside
Mikhyel's sickbed to reestablish that moment, to contact
his brothers again. All those efforts had proven futile, and
now he wanted more than anything to go into the hills to
where those with the old beliefs still practiced, to seek out
the old tales about the nodes and their power, to find prece-
dent for what they had experienced and what it all meant,
and how best to use it for all mankind.
But that would have to wait. Thanks to that shared mo-
ment, he knew for certain now that Deymorin was alive.
He had to find Deymorin, save Deymorin from Anhehaa,
or bandits, or whoever had held him away from his family
for so many months, and then they could decide together
what they'd do next.
As for Mikhyel, who had been part of that experience,
but feared it: Mikhyel would never join them in that quest.
Mikhyel, whose horror continued to manifest in his face,
would remain here and fight the Council over the obvious,
secure and contentif never quite happyin the safety of
the known.
He slid off the bed. "Get some sleep, Mikhyel. You're
going to need it, if you honestly expect to convince Council
to implement those plans."
"But you'll be there, too. You'll want to explainget
the credit. I will support you, Nikki. It will be different
this time."
Nikki shook his head. "I don't care to match wits with
them any longer, Khyel. That's your forte. Besides, I've
other meetings to attend tomorrow morning."
"What 'other meetings.' "
"The message came just before you woke up." Nikki
raised an eyebrow, and grinned without actually feeling
much in the way of humor. "Anheliaa has . . . summoned
me."
"And then you turn this little knob and - . ."
The small ley-like lamp radiated a non-ley yellow into
the forest shadows.
"Intrustin', hub?"
The youngster's eyes glowed in the unnatural light, obvi-
ously proud of his master's creation. At the machine's side,
the man-mountain, who was the boy's constant companion,
turned the crank with methodical regularity in a rhythm as
hypnotic as Anheliaa's spinning rings.
And the result was, Deymorin had to admit it, 'intrustin'.'
Funny how one could misread a situation so thoroughly.
He'd seen this Zandy hovering in the shadows, had as-
sumed he was son to one of the men, a cutpurse in training,
perhaps. Or perhaps, since he never strayed far from the
cart, relegated to mule-grooming by happenstance of being
the youngest.
He'd never once suspected the youngster was the heart
of the entire operation . . . if, in fact, he was. If, in fact, this
wasn't some sort of elaborate illusion, and the boy's guile-
less delivery designed to set him a false trail.
Kiyrstin had her eye on him, likely expected him to bolt
at any moment. Which he might. He knew the measure of
his captors now, and knew the lay of the land they travelled
better than he knew the streets of Rhomatum.
And he had brothers to save; revenge to wreak.
If, on the other hand, the boy and his contraption were
legitimate, he might just delay his departurefor the sake
of that revenge, if nothing else ... as the two watching
silently from the cart's far side undoubtedly hoped. A man
had to wonder, who was the object of such interest, just
who his host/captors believed him to be, and what use they
thought to make of him.
He smiled easily and set an arm on the boy's shoulders,
waiting for some tension in the boy, some sense of evasion,
while he inspected the contraption from all angles, poking
and prodding cautiously, looking for some hidden mecha-
nism, a trapdoor or mirrorsall those contrivances the
skeptics like Mikhyel claimed magicians used.
Himself, he'd always just enjoyed the show.
The somewhat undersized magician evidenced no objec-
tions until his snooping led him to a rather ordinary-looking
wire strung around the smaller box.
"I wouldn't, zur," the boy said, wincing.
A downward glance encountered honest brown eyes
filled  with  misgiving;  thin  shoulders  relaxed  when  he
pointed to the wire without touching.
"What's it for?"
"Protection." The boy sounded quite smug. "Figgered
this'n m'self, I did."
"Protection?"
" 'Member when y' corned inta camp th' first time? Y'
got all tingly, din'cha?"
He nodded cautiously.
"Well, y' see, when the lode-stuff goes through the lines,
if y' touches the lines, yer finger gets all tingly. I was 'speri-
mentin' one night, an' discovers .that tinglin' can get'cha a
long ways away. So's if we makes this ring-like of thick
wire and runs th' stats throughs it, a circle of th' tingly goes
'round the camp and keeps th' wild critturs away. Gots
somethin' f do with th' ley, I thinks, cuz it surely do tingle
more the closer we is to the leys. Wasna s'posed fget you,
zur. I'm mortal sorry for that."
"Can't argue with its effectiveness in that sense, son. And
you say it's all from thiswhat did you call it?"
"Lodestone Static Encapsulator." The boy enunciated
carefully around the rather oversized words. "It's like ley-
power, don'cha know, but different. More like lightnin's"
"Lightning?" He dropped his hold on the boy, took a
step back from the box in only partially feigned alarm.
The boy laughed and grabbed his arm, pulling him back,
his confidence and ease, in the way of boys, growing with
the awareness he controlled something that made adults
nervous.
"Perfec'ly safe, 'tis, zur. But lightnin' makes th' bulb
glow, too, so m' master says. He says as how they's related,
summat, but it's not sudden-like th' way lightnin' does.
Keeps on so long as Tomly here keeps turnin' this 'ere
handle."
The boy patted Tomly's huge arm, got a half-wit's grin
in response. Tomly was a big, good-natured fellow, who
kept close to the boyor vice versa. Deymorin had as-
sumed the two had gravitated to one another in response
to such an overwhelmingly adult population. Considering
the potential value of the boy's knowledge, however, their
relationship took on rather different overtones.
"Best of all," Zandy was saying, "it can happen any-
wheres and anyone can make 'er happen. No rings. No
ringmasters."
And wouldn't Anheliaa love that. He didn't react, didn't
care to betray that fascination to this boyeven less to the
others  watching  his  every  move  from  the  shadowed
woodsbut the boy had hit his interest squarely with that
comment. If this contraption could put Anheliaa effectively
out of business, damned right he was interested.
Kiyrstin had sent him off with the boy, Kiyrstin was going
to no small effort to protect this boy's invention, therefore,
Kiyrstin was also interested in it for her own reasons,
which, as yet, were not the least bit obvious.
"And you say wires contain it? Direct it?"
The boy nodded.
"Master says it stores th' static, don'cha see? Th' lode-
stone collects it, like it were metal film's. Squeezes 'em
down-hke an' then sends th' stat through th' wire. Jus' like
leythium an' th' leys."
Not quite. Leypower was everywhere within the energy
umbrella. A leythium crystal web, properly aligned within
the leyflux, glowed with light and heat. Leypower just was,
like sunlight. This total, routeable, containment ... How
could one possibly explain such a phenomenon?
Deymorin scanned the contraption again, still suspecting
trick devices sustaining some illusion.
"All this to hght that one small lamp?"
"0' course not." The boy sounded personally insulted.
Deymorin hid a smile.
"So what can it do?"
"Dunno, zur. Not for certain. But Master Harlik, he says
a big 'un could do for a whole city. Everything the leys
domaybe more."
Deymorin nodded, accepting that prideful exaggeration
without a flicker. He'd been fourteen himself, once.
"Master Harlik?"
"M' master. 'Ee were assistant f Master Alchemist Kor-
mac at Khaythnarum Node. They makes"
"I had quite a collection of Khaythnarum glasswork,
once upon a time. Smuggled in, of course. And an aunt
with expensive tastes in Mauritumin jewelry. I'm quite fa-
miliar with the manufactory's output, lad."
"Yezzur. Ye'd be 'mazed those what ain't," the boy
grumbled, obviously a proud native of the remote island
node. "Well, zur, they was havin' lots o' trouble with
sponspontanyus arcing in the chem labs, 'specially
durin' storms 'n' such, an' they been havin' lots of 'em,
storms, that is, wi' lots o' lightnin'. Even" He grinned
with an adolescent's grotesque reverence. "tornadoes. I
meself saw five of 'em touch down in one day only a year
since. It were truly wonderful."
Deymorin laughed. "And was your master's task to de-
vise a mechanical solution to these problems?"
The boy nodded vigorously. "How'd 'ee guess, zur?"
"Not an uncommon effortmost minor nodes have tried
at one time or another. Generally with less than impressive
results. The lightning rods we use in the betweens are ap-
parently far less attractive to the gods of lightning than the
ringtowers themselves."
Zandy cast him a suspicious sidelong glance. "Ye don'
really believes in 'em things, do 'ee, zur?"
"What?" He assumed his most innocent face. "Light-
ning rods?"
The boy laughed. "Naw. Them lightnin' gods." And in
an undertone, with a flicker of bright eyes toward the shad-
owed witnesses to their little meeting: " 'Ee does, ye
know."
"Van?"
Zandy nodded. "Gotta be careful what ye jokes 'round
'im."
In the same low voice, he said: "I will. Thanks."
The boy gave a quick, conspiratorial dip of his head.
"But you don'tbelieve in the lightning gods."
"Cain't be gods what makes it, or I'd be a god, now
woul'n't I? And I acks you, zur, does I looks like a god?"
Deymorin controlled a quivering lip. "Well, I don't
know. If I say no and you are, you might take exception
and strike me dead. If yes, and you aren't, I look a fool.
Since I'd rather be a live fool, I'll say: Absolutely, you are
a most wondrous god, Alizant the Great of Khaythnarum
Node."
Giggles exploded into gales as Deymorin got down on
one knee and bent his head in a properly worshipful pose.
When the boy grandly bid him rise, Deymorin, feeling all
restrictions falling, asked: "And where was your ringmas-
ter? Why couldn't he keep the tower safe?"
"Ain't got a master, zur. Khaythnarum ain't a big node,
y'see. Th' ringdirectorsth' ones what are any goodtihey
wants like everythin' f go f th' big cities and run th' com-
munication lines or th' 'ospitals. Those we ends up with
cain't never seem f manage both th' storms an' th' kilns.
Th' kilns drinks a lotta the ley, don'cha see? And Mauri-
tum, it ain't got extranot fer us. Th' factory owners, they
wants all th' ley fer th' kilns an' lights an' spinnin' tables
an' 'platers. They figgered f takes their chances on th'
weather, and then blamed m' master whenever lightnin'
zapped th' ringtower."
"And this smaller one, the . . . potentiator . .. was the
result of your master's attempts to divert these storms?"
The boy nodded again. "His 'n his partner's. Their mas-
tersthey threatened f toss 'em out, said they was crazy
and wastin' time, so they quit 'sperimenting. Tha's when I
aksed could I borrow the gens and go to Mauritum, an'
they says takes it 'n' go 't 'ell, beggin' yer pardon, zur,
an' tha's where I mets Mistress Kiyrstin and Master Van,
don'cha see?"
He was certainly beginning to.
"At the Mauritum Tower?"
"Yezzur."
So: Kiyrstin the shepherdess was a lady of Mauritum
no more than he'd already assumedand of the tower,
which he hadn't. Deymorin lifted a brow toward the shad-
owy observers. "Can't say I think much of your masters
or theirs. You say a city would require a larger encapsula-
tor. How large? And could you surround a city with that
... tingly?"
"l~unno, fer certain, zur. Master's not fer sure. It's what
we wants th' money for."
"Money?"
"Thank you, Zandy." Kiyrstin stepped intp the glow. "I'll
take it from here. Deymio?" She jerked her head toward
the main camp, and Deymorin followed her to the fireside.
They settled there, himself, Kiyrstin, and Vandoshin, well
away from the other evening conclaves. Zandy cast him a
hopeful look as he passed, moving, with his large shadow
in tow, to the far side of the fire, where a round of Capitula-
tion was just beginning. Elsewhere, an occasional grunt of
despair or satisfied crow marked other games of chance in
progress. A few sat solo, one repairing a hole in a shirt,
another diligently scrubbing mud-encrusted harness, still
another repairing a sandal strap.
A handful were indeed exiles from Rhomatum, he'd
learned through bits and pieces of overheard conversation,
and those were scoundrels of the first water. Three he knew
(by street reputation only) and would himself have opted
for their removalhad  Anheliaa  bothered to  consult.
Some, like Korrigen, were of that annoying breed of bandit,
leywayers, individuals who sabotaged the floater-track be-
tween nodes, intercepting freight haulers or some lord's pri-
vate transport.
The balance were, from their accents, out of Mauritum,
and, from the way they looked to the priest for orders, men
who'd accompanied Vandoshin from the Tower, possibly,
from the way they carried themselves, detectors of the
Mauritum Guard itself.
For the most part, they avoided him, on orders, he imag-
ined, from their leaders. One guilt-ridden sod avoided him
with almost humorous diligence, ducking into shadows, or
dipping his unkempt head each time Deymorin's gaze
chanced to cross him. Not someone he remembered meet-
ing, not someone who knew him, or he'd have been be-
trayed to Kiyrstin long since.
Or perhaps he had and Kiyrstin was waiting the moment
to spring her knowledge on him.
All in all, enough to make a Rhomatumin Princeps, even
an exiled out-of-favor Princeps, just a bit cautious with his
mouth and his drink, and his currently nonexistent but emi-
nently refillable purse.
"How do you do it, Just Deymio?"
"Do what?"
"Van and I have been trying for months to get his mas-
ter's name out of the lad."
He chuckled. "Obviously, you both lack younger broth-
ers. For one thing, never call a fourteen-year-old 'Zandy.'
Eleven or sixteen, you may get away with it. When you're
fourteen, you're 'Alizant,' And very aware of the fact, and
very suspicious of adults who don't intuit the difference."
"I'll keep that in mind. And how many brothers have
you raised, Deymio?"
"Enough to know when someone's trying to weasel infor-
mation out of me."
They all three laughed, the polite, civilized laughter of
politicians and spies. Laughter designed to express a knowl-
edge of barterable secrets held with prices pending.
"So," Kiyrstin leaned forward eagerly, "What do you
think?"
"About that?" He inclined his head toward the shad-
owed cart.
"Naturally."
" Vwtrustin' ' . . ."
"But . . . ?"
"For all I know, Mistress Kiyrstin, it's a clever trick. For
all I know, you're traveUing entertainers and he's your ma-
gician-in-training. Incidentally, he's quite good. Quite in-
genuousa new look to an ancient profes"
"Oh, shut up." She frowned irritably. "You know damn
well it's for real."
"Do I? Tell me, Kiyrstin of Mauritum Tower, why didn't
Garetti, starved for power as Mauritum claims to be, leap
at the chance to free himself of Rhomatum tyranny and
grant the lad all he wished?"
"What do you know of Garetti and Rhomatum?"
"Me? Why nothing at all, lady of Maurii. As for the
boy's little toywhat difference does it make what I think?
You obviously intend to back him. He needs money; take
him to those who have it."
"And you don't?"
He flourished a hand: "As you see."
A muscle tightened at the side of her mouth. "Actually,
money is only part of our goal. We also seek what one
might term asylum, and the ability to set up the boy's shop
in safety, perhaps an introduction to reliable craftsmen:
metalworkers, chemists, that sort of thing. I'm not certain
what all he might need."
"The boy's shop?"
"From what the boy has let slip, his so-called masters
had little concept of how the machines work, and their
development appears to have been virtually accidental.
Certainly useful applications will require a better under-
standing of the strengths and limitations of the static.
Zandy is a bright lad and I'd like to see him given a chance
to explore those unknowns. And I'd like to see him secure
for lifeaway from such leeches as his former master.
Zandy pretends otherwise, but I doubt, regardless of his
venture's success or failure, that he'll ever get support or
interest from them."
"Unless it proves profitable to take credit."
"Precisely. Step in when all the risk to purse and reputa-
tion is over. I'm not fond of that attitude, and I rather
fancy the notion of foiling at least one perpetrator."
"I see . . . purely altruistic."
"Hardly. I intend to profit as well. And I don't mind
sharing that profit. As for Rhomatum, that's where we
hoped you might help. Our success might depend on a
somewhat more intimate knowledge of those we approach
than we currently have. Mauritum elite were less than re-
ceptive to what we considered the obvious possibilities of
the boy's machine. We're hoping Rhomatum might be
more broad-minded. You're Rhomatum."
"Ergo, I might provide that intimate knowledge."
She nodded.
"So might half a dozen of your fellows here."
"They're not likely to know those we need access to."
"And you beheve I am? Would?"
"Come, Just Deymio, the innocent doesn't become
you. Would you back it? Will Rhomatum?"
"Would I support a realistic, universally available power
source? Probably, though I'd require more evidence than
I've yet seen before committing any resources to it. Anhel-
iaa dunMoren will laugh you right out of the valley, and
her tame Council will provide the catapult."
"I wouldn't expect Anheliaa's interest any more than any
other ringmaster's. They've too secure an existence with
the status quo. I'm talking about the Rhomandi. The
Princeps of Rhomatum."
"Oh, my," he said, and a grin spread in spite of his ef-
forts. "That is rather different, isn't it?"
"I've heard he's far more liberal than Anheliaa. Cer-
tainly, if our understanding of Rhomatum history is at all
accurate, he carries more power within the City than Maur-
itum's Minister Paurini."
"My, my, my. Mistress Kiyrstin," he said with an airy
lightness he in no wise felt. If she was this interested in
the Princeps of Rhomatum, she should have drawn some
thoroughly obvious conclusions, and one had to wonder
why she persisted in the farce. "What did happen to your
'tween-ley speechifying?"
"Stuff it, Rag'n'bones. Could he be persuaded?"
"Why, how would I know? Me, a common criminal?"
"Criminal you may be, Just Deymio, common, never.
And I'll wager you're on more than passing acquaintance
with the Rhomandi."
"You're casting blind and hoping I'll snap, woman," he
said coldly. "Say I do know Rhomandi. Say I even think
he might like very much to discuss this topic with you. Say
I think he might kick you out on your shapely derriere. Will
either change your decision to proceed to Rhomatum?"
Her mouth thinned. Her booted toe tapped a solidly
grounded rock.
"If so," Deymorin continued, "I'd suggest you forget the
entire affair and go home to your husband and make
babies."
"What we were hoping for," Vandoshin said into a sud-
denly hostile silence, "was a . . . fellow spirit, if you will. If
you did know the Rhomandi, we were hoping you'd help
us present the child to him. Perhaps warn us of possible
offensive approaches to avoid. We know differences exist
between Mauritum and Rhomatum customs, but we don't
know what those differences are and only rumors about the
Rhomandi himself. We wouldn't know him if we saw him."
"I see. And what, romMaurii, is a priest of Mauritum
doing supporting such a heretical machine?"
"Heretical? Unusual term to sit on the tongue of a citi-
zen of Darius' supposedly atheistic descendants."
"Old memories die slowly. Besides, we've very few athe-
ists in the Rhomatum Web, just a number of skeptics where
it comes to ringspinners calling themselves priests."
"I see. Well, I'veleft the fold, you might say. A descen-
dant of Darius ought to appreciate that."
"I might, if anyone bothered to give me a reason why
you left, or why a Mauritum lady is running around the
woods alone, clothed in rather less than courtly attire, talk-
ing like an ignorant transient."
The Mauritum lady in question lurched forward, but Van
caught her arm and pulled her back down beside him, a
resignedand one might say slightly boredexpression on
his face. "What Kiyrstin tells you is her business, but in my
own defense, I might point out she is far from alone."
"Oh? And are you prepared to defend her honor?"
"As to that," an enigmatic smile crossed the hawk-face,
"she defends her own quite adequately, and you do her an
injustice to mock her thus, Rhomatum."
"Whatever." He was increasingly impatient with them
both.
"As for myself, I was present when the boy presented his
case to Master Garetti. He received a rejection expressed in
such terms as you might suspect. I disagreed with my mas-
ter, and was informed that a man of my obviously aberrant
notions would do well to make himself . . . extinct. Discre-
tion suddenly acquiring virtue status, I followed Garetti's
suggestion, taking a handful of my support staff who agreed
with me. We intercepted the boy and his cart and offered
our services, such as they were."
"And Mistress Kiyrstin was one of your staff?"
"Hardly."
"Where did they" Deymorin nodded toward the Rho-
matum exiles. "enter your plan."
"Suspecting Rhomatum might be the boy's most realistic
goal, Ireleasedthe handful of Rhomatumin citizens in
Mauritum prisons."
"Using your priestly status to effect the release, of
course."
"Of course."
"I still find it difficult to understand why one of your
background would forsake it all for what might be no more
than a toy."
"I'm not a fool, Rhomatum. If this" It was Vando-
shin's turn to gesture toward the shadows. "proves out,
if there is a viable power to compete with the power of the
leys. I'd rather be in on the ground floor of its development
than near the top of a limited, possibly obsolete within my
lifetime, system."
Near the top. Garetti was at the top, and likely to stay
there for this man's lifetime. Near the top, for an ambitious
man, was frustration, not success. Not a stupid man, this
priest, but a definite gambler. Another traithow had the
priest put it?Darius' descendants should appreciate.
Well,  this  descendant  required  just  a  tad  more
convincing.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, romMaurii, but economics
isn't exactly the only issue at stake here. Won't your Maurii
take exception to tnis defection of yours?"
"I'm convinced the gods of the nodes, if they in fact
exist, obtain far too much entertainment value from us hu-
mans and our little power games to trouble themselves with
one believer more or less."
"I always suspected you priestly types were far more
pragmatic than your blind followers."
"And how much contact have you had with us ...
priestly types, you of secular Rhomatum?"
"We have our share of priests, believe me. Even without
ruling the  rings,  your ley-gods  still  wield  a powerful
argument."
"A philosophical discussion I may one day pursue with
you, Rhomatum. In the meantime, will you join us?"
"And if I say no? Will I be free to leave you and your
band of cutthroats?"
"Have you reason to believe otherwise?"
"I wasn't exactly invited politely to come this far. I've
been watched every moment, waking and not. I'd say this
does not constitute freedom to come and go as I please."
"You may leave any time you like," Kiyrstin stuck in
dryly. "But unless you want to be hanged for a thief"
"I'd do well to leave the clothes behind?"
Her smile held all the sweetness of a she-wolf.
"Charming. Well, Van? What happens if I say take your
contraption and throw it into the nearest lake?"
"I suggest you ask Kiyrstin."
This batting responsibility about like a Pursuit pellet
began to pall.
"Shall we test the hypothesis and see?" Deymorin stood
up. "You, Kiyrstin of Mauritum, may take your precious
encapsulator and toss it into the hereafter, for all I care."
He took several steps into the shadows. "Unless, of course,
you care to explain your part in this whole affair."
Another step.
"Why should I?" Her irritated call followed him.
"You've done nothing but evade my questions since I
hauled your ass out of that lake!"
"Because, my dear, you need me. I didn't ask you to . . .
haul my ass out of that lake. I'm appreciative of the fact
you did, but damned if I'll let you hold that over my head
as some sort of obligation. Perhaps I'd as soon have
drowned. Perhaps still. I'd rather die than return to the
Cityor back some unknown's power play against the
woman who tossed me into that lake."
"Would you?" And when he took another step as his
answer: "Dammit, Rag'n'bones, get back here."
"If your intent was simple humanity, you'd have let me
stay in the forest that first night. You've a use for me
probably have had since you 'hauled my ass out of the
lake.' " He took another backward step. "I've little enough
reason to trust women, shepherdess. Particularly ones who
masquerade as something they most assuredly are not."
"All right. All right." she hissed. "I had my suspicions
early on. You're not under any damned obligation, but we
could damnsure use your help."
"Say please."
A stubborn silence.
Another stepaway.
A sullen: "Please . . ." And a muttered: "Dammit."
He sauntered back to the fireside, hands sunk deep inside
his borrowed coat's pockets. "So, Mistress Kiyrstin, what
did you do to earn entrance into this elite club of
refugees?"
"I killed someone." Her eyes flickered toward him under
scowling brows, daring him to laugh. "Or, at least, I tried."
"Oh. Didn't you succeed?"
"No. Dammit."
"Ah. But I'm certain she deserved it."
"He did."
"He? The plot thickens. And who was this hapless
victim?"
"She deserves it? He's a hapless victim?"
"Forgive my prejudice, m'lady. Who was this villainous
scum?"
Her smile again came from that decidedly wolfish ances-
tor. "My husband."
From somewhere deep inside, somewhere past the mem-
ory of his initial speculations regarding this woman, laugh-
ter bubbled. Bubbled higher, and ultimately overflowed.
Lidye, Nethaalye, even Mirym: Anhehaa wanted witnesses.
"You wanted to see me. Aunt?" Nikki asked from the
(open) doorway to Anheliaa's private apartments.
Surprisingly, she'd not tried to force this meeting into
the ringtower. Not that she'd get him there without an
armed guard and in chainsan option he no longer consid-
ered beyond her.
"Come in and shut the door, boy." From her voice, An-
heliaa's strength was back.
"But"
"I said come in."
"Yes'm," Nikki, disconcerted in the presence of the
women, mumbled and did as she bade him.
"Well?" Anheliaa demanded, the instant he turned back
to her. "Have you come to apologize? If so, get on with it."
"Apolo" Temper flared. "I've come, madam, because
you ordered me to come, and for no other reason."
"I might have known. It would be asking too much of
the gods for you to have come to your senses on your own
and in less than a week."
"I'm far more inclined to thank the gods that I've come
to my senses after eighteen years."
"Yessss ..." The single word was more hiss than ac-
knowledgment, "I'm sure you are."
Lidye sat next to Anheliaa's bed, chin hfted in perfect
imitation of his aunt's most imperialistic look. A look he'd
face the rest of Ilis life if he remained here and danced to
Anheliaa's rings.
Nethaalye, she of the absolute horror of sickbeds, who
had avoided Mikhyel's, never so much as coming to the
door to inquire as to his health, sat on Anheliaa's other
side, her face impassive. In all the years of their engage-
ment, Nikki had never seen a single sign of passion pass
between his brother and Nethaalye, and yet, in all that
time, neither had he ever heard Mikhyel challenge that pa-
rental choice.
As he himself hadn't challenged Anheliaa's choice, until
three days ago.
From the start, Deymorin had known it was wrong. Of
them all, only Deymorin had recognized the trap Anheliaa
laid. Only Deymorin had had 'the sense to tell her to go to
hell . . . as he'd purportedly told their father upon the pa-
rental attempts at matchmaking him with the newborn
Nethaalye, defiance which had passed Nethaalye on to five-
year-old Mikhyel.
Anheliaa's third witness, Mirym, sat silently in a corner
behind her ever-present needlework frame . . . and watched
him . . . expectantly.
"Anheliaa," he asked, unable to take his eyes from Mir-
ym's, "may we please speak alone?"
"So that you can attack me again? I think not!"
He tore himself from Mirym's mesmeric stare to face his
aunt squarely. "Try another, madam. Too many know
differently."
"Your word against mine. They'll know which to
believe."
"They? Council? After what you did to Deymorin? And
to me?"
"Again: your word and mine."
"And Mikhyel's."
"Mikhyel is mine."
There it was again. That confident claim. And what evi-
dence did he really have to the contrary? A feeling, ghostly
after four long days. And as he'd put it to Deymorin, what
other example had Mikhyel had? Even when, at five, he'd
been convinced to accept Nethaalye as a life partner, he'd
been learning to put the Tower and Rhomatum above
everything.
Possibly even above his brothers.
He felt the impetus to fight seeping away. What differ-
ence did it really make, after all? If Anheliaa was right
about Mikhyel, and he was wrong, let Mikhyel be Princeps.
He was the only one of them half-prepared for the job,
anyway. If he left the City, Anheliaa would take extremely
good care of Mikhyel. And if she wanted Lidye as her
successor? There was precedent. Let Mikhyel marry both.
It was all politics anyway.  Love. Family.  Loyaltythose
were just words to people like these. Politics and power,
that was all they cared for.
"Tell Council whatever you like," he said wearily, "I'm
leaving anyway."
"Leaving? And going where?"
"After him."
"Him?"
He didn't bother answering: she knew.
"Not until after you marry."
"Madam, I do not intend to return. What could you or
Lidye possibly want with a nonexistent husband?"
"You'll be back."
"Only in chains."
She laughed. "You're already in chains, boy. You've an
easy life here. You've no means of your ownno aptitude
for any gentlemanly position. If you leave, I'll cut off your
fundswe'll see how long you last, then."
"I have considered all that.  I'mprovided for.  I'll
manage."
"I'm certain you think so. We'll see how you fare when I
cut off your allowance and freeze your assets at the bank."
She had no right, but he couldn't doubt she'd manage.
Besides, he'd thought this out already, during the long
nights at Mikhyel's bedside.
"I've not wasted my entire life, madam. I'm quite knowl-
edgeablein many significant realms. History. Politics. E-
co-no-mics. I'm sure there are those in Mauritum who will
find me . . . eminently employable."
Her smile faded. "You wouldn't dare."
"No?" And for once, he knew he had her at a disadvan-
tage. She didn't dare let him into the hands of their ancient
adversary, not without knowing exactly how much he knew
or how much he was willing to sell.
Settling into a nearby chair, he leaned back, elbows on
the rests, hands casually across his stomach, and awaited
Anheliaa's response.
"All this to find that undisciplined brother of yours?"
He nodded.
"And where do you think to travel to? Using what for
capital? Travel expenses? Bribes?"
"There are plenty who will aid me for the sake of their
Princeps."
"You're a fossil, boy. You live on antiquated notions of
the world. If you go looking for that person, you'll need
bribesand protection. Bodyguards don't come free.
You've never had to budget, never even had to balance a
bank ledger. How do you know what you'll need?"
"I can manage."
"And if I offered to help?"
Hope surged, but it had an uphill battle against suspicion.
"In return for?"
Anheliaa's hand crept to Lidye's, clasped it hard enough
to make the girl wince.
"You cannot leave her unprotected."
"Unprotected? From whom? And what?"
"She came here at your request, has certain expectations.
You must give her the security of position."
"Your request. But I won't quibble the point. What
makes you think I'll marry anyone nowparticularly of
your choosing?"
"Your word, boy."
"Given under duress and false pretenses."
"Given nonetheless."
"I don't care."
"Then you've no honor left. No pride."
"Possibly they were burned from me four days ago."
"Two can play your little game, boy. I'll press charges"
He felt a surprising urge to laugh. "Go ahead. Give me
the chance to voice my storyand my suspicionsin court.
Just remember, it will be before the Council as a whole,
madam, not you alone."
"Let me finish, damn you." Anheliaa surged forward,
gasped and fell back into the cushions. Lidye leaned over
her solicitously. Nethaalye seemed not to notice. "Thank
you, my dear," Anheliaa whispered weakly. "Such a sweet
child you are."
"What else, madam?" he asked brusquely. "I'd appreci-
ate some economy of time. I've a meeting I promised to
attend this morning."
"You're at that meeting. The one your brother is holding
with Council is no longer your concern. You've already
renounced that interest."
"Then I've travel arrangements to make."
"Travel arrangements. And where do you intend to
travel to? Where will you look for this oh-so-important
sibling of yours?"
He thought of that brief glimpse of campfire, the un-
known woman, but that vision gave no clue of direction.
"I thought so. All right, boy. Here's the rest of my bar-
gain. You marry this charming womanfar better a bride
than such as you deservesfulfill your part of the bargain,
and in addition to not pressing charges and allowing you
to retain your draw on the bank, I will endeavor to locate
your worthless brother."
A surge of hope. "Via the rings?"
She nodded. A single, curt dip of the chin.
"You'll have your weddingtonight. This afternoon.
Right now. Bring the witnesses"
"Don't be silly. There are arrangements to be made
invitations"
"Tomorrow at the latest. That gives you time to notify
her parents . . ."
"And her wishes?"
Lidye twitched, obviously less than delighted with this
cavalier deployment of her future. But Lidye had made her
choice, as far as he was concerned.
"She wants to marry into this family," he said. "She
doesn't care when or under what circumstances. I doubt
her family cares. That's between you and them. I'm ...
incidental."
"How can you say that?" Lidye cried.
"Easily, madam. Now, Aunt, I want to know where my
brother is."
"After the wedding."
"No."
"Don't you trust me?"
"No."
Laughter, harsh and cold.
"Perhaps you're right. After the ceremony, then, no ear-
lier, but before the contract signing. And don't argue,
boy. I've no strength to manage the task at the moment.
The mere thought of That Person exhausts me. You make
your travel arrangements, Lidye and I will handle her fam-
ily and the wedding details."
"Fine."
"And, Nikaenor."
"What?"
"Don't make plans to leave directly following the
ceremony."
"Why not?"
"You've one other duty to perform."
"One other . . ." Suddenly, he realized Lidye was not just
looking at him. She was looking at him. And as suddenly,
he felt rather like a spider in Ohtee's sights. "It can wait."
"No, it cannot. Something could happen to you on your
. . . quest. You've already threatened never to return. You
try to limit my scope, boy, and I won't allow it. The Tower,
Rhomatum, and the future are more important than any of
us. I'll not compromise them on your whim."
"I don't believe in your adeptor any of your theories."
"Believe what you want. You won't be allowed to leave
until Lidye's condition is assured."
"Then you can forget the entire matter. I'll take my
chances finding Deymorin alone."
"Nikaenor dunMheric," Lidye's voice rang out, "you in-
sult me."
"I?" He laughed, that seeming the only alternative left.
"You've a strange way of analyzing a conversation,
madam."
"Stop it, both of you," Anheliaa snapped. "Behaving like
gutterbrats. Nikaenor, I'll compromise. The morning after.
Grant me one night."
"You must be joking."
"Do as you're told until the day after the wedding, and
I'll find your brother for you. And I'll give you an open
account at the bank. Otherwise, I'll call the guard, have
you arrested, and take my chances with the Council."
Trapped. And no way out without a tangled lawsuit: if
he told the truth, lawsuits would happen and if he was in
the middle of a lawsuit-or in prisonhe couldn't rescue
anyone.
All politicians lied, when it suited them. Mikhyel had
taught him that. If it suited Council to believe Anheliaa,
they would.
Avoiding Mirym's eyes, he muttered past the invisible
noose tightening about his neck: "All right, madam. I
promise. One night."
"So, Rag'n'bones, what's the verdict?"
Deymorin sneezed into the double handful of water he'd
raised to his face, stared down into his hands in some dis-
gust, and let the water dribble free as he swung on the balls
of his feet to face his tormentor . . .
... and the barrel of what appeared, from his vantage,
to be something just short of a hand-held cannon.
Firearms.
Bandits, indeed.
"Verdict?" he asked.
"Willingly or not?"
He biinked. "Excuse me, did I miss something? What
happened to my freedom to leave?"
"You're still here. So, are you with us? Or do we con-
sider you merely a good will gift for Anheliaa?"
"Oh, I see. That's the current option, is it?"
Kiyrstin swung the miniature cannon suggestively. "Time
to get going."
"Can you really hit anything with that?"
"Try me."
"Think I'll pass, thanks anyway." He swivelled back to
the stream, splashed another chilly handful over freshly
shaven cheeks, and stood up, flipping the last of the damp
from his hands. He pocketed Van's borrowed razor and
headed upstream toward the breaking camp.
"Well?" Kiyrstin pattered up beside him, thrusting the
gun into the sash at her waist.
"Planning on blowing your foot off?"
She snorted. "Don't worry. We avoid the leys."
"There are other means."
"I'm careful."
He shrugged. "It's your personals."
She stopped. Her hand clamped his arm and forced him
to stop and face her.
"You listen to me. Just Deymio," she hissed. "I've had
about enough of your 'humor.' Despite what you think of
me, the way I dress or the way I speak, I don't deserve
no, dammit, I won't tolerate your attitudes. I deal daily with
two dozen men of highly questionable repute, have done
so for the better part of a year now, and none of them
would think of using the tone and language I've endured
from you. I do what I must for a cause I believe in, because
I've spent a lifetime watching people like you walk all over
people like Zandy and these others. Most 'bandits' simply
want a few of the amenities people hke you bask in daily.
I see a way for them to have those amenities, and I'm not
going to allow someone like you to ruin their chances."
"People like me," he repeated, mildly amused at her ve-
hemence, but also a bit touched. Possibly it was the sun.
"What sort of person is that?"
"A pampered, game-playing, self-indulgent son-of-a-
whoring-bitch Citizen."
"Oh? Have you met my mother?"
"Damn you!"
He caught the hand flying at his face. "The lady speaks
with the intensity of close acquaintance." He tightened his
hold when she attempted to evade his touch. With a finger-
tip still showing its last manicure despite recent close associ-
ation with mud and grit, he traced calluses and lines of
ingrained dirt across her palm, lingered over the partially
healed remains of a blister. "Just how old are these,
shepherdess?"
"Old enough." She jerked free, turned away, and leaned
a fisted hand against a tree. "Why, in the name of all the
gods, do you keep baiting me?"
"Why?" His answer surprised even himself. "Because
it's fun."
"Fun?" She whirled.
This time, it was a fist and remarking the strength re-
quired to deflect it, he considered himself fortunate the
blow didn't land.
"Yes, woman, fun." He caught and held her wrist with
controlled exertion, having no desire to hurt her. "As bait-
ing my brothers is fun. You've wit and a sense of humor,
when you care to use it. Intelligence . . . Rare enough quali-
ties in a man. Virtually nonexistent in the so-called ladies
I've known. You intrigue me."
The glare facing him softened, but the jaw set deter-
minedly. She was attracted to him, he'd seen the look too
often to mistake it, but she chose not to act on the feeling.
That reluctance in itself intrigued him, but because she so
determinedly denied the attraction, he endeavored not to
encourage it. He was no green boy to make errors in that
department.
He was, however, curious. Somehow, he didn't think the
fact she was married was the source of the denial; difficult
to equate love or loyalty with a man she'd tried to kill. She
didn't fit the mold of the woman scorned. She didn't fit any
familiar mold well.
"And who, madam," he asked, out of that thought, "is
that husband you so sadly failed to send to Maurii's sev-
enth hell?"
Her captured hand tightened to a fist. Her chin lifted in
a challenge.
"Garetti."
Garetti. Only one person out of Mauritum would need
no further identification: the ringmaster himself, the High
Priest of Maurii. A single muttered word that should hold
the power to chill any prudent man.
Perhaps he just wasn't prudent. Perhaps he was simply
beyond impressionable where it came to corrupt ringmas-
ters. He laughed. Laughter that grew as the imphcations
crystallized.
This time, her off-hand blow caught him full in the face,
bringing him partially to his senses. He released her.
Unfortunately, the only thing he could think to say was:
"Too bad you missed."
Fortunately, he retained sense enough to duck.
"Nikaenor? Please, Nikki, wait." It was Nethaalye's voice
chasing him down the hallway.
He paused, quivering with anger toward her and every-
one who had witnessed that humiliating scene in Anhehaa's
room, and turned slowly, striving to control that fury.
It wasn't Nethaalye alone, but Mirym as well. Two of the
witnesses. How lovely. But their faces as they approached
him from the stairwell evidenced only an honest-seeming
concern.
"Nikki, how is he?" Nethaalye asked, the moment she
was within easy earshot.
"Who? Khyel?" He clenched his jaw on the answer
he most wanted to give her. "Aren't you a little tardy in
your concern?"
"Don't take that tone with me, Nikaenor dunMheric. The
least you might have done was notify me he'd taken ill."
"As I recall, I did. And received an answer, the gist of
which I'm too well-trained to repeat. Dammit."
"I repeat, I received no message."
"Well someone sure as hell did. You were 'indisposed'
and had 'taken to your bed.' "
"From my maid, then. Anheliaa's maid, on loan. Need I
say more? I'd gone to bed early, Nikki. I never knew."
"You could have come after"
"No, I could not. Your brother and I have agreements
you are not and never shall be privy to, Nikaenor, and I
take no shame in that secrecy. But I do care for him, in
my own way, a way you've no right to judge. I ask you
again, how is heT'
Mirym simply glared at him.
Deprived of anger, he just felt . . . overwhelmed.
"Awake, now," he said. "And working. Why don't you
come and see for yourself?"
Anger tightened her brow. "Anheliaa won't let me, she's
made that quite clear. For Mikhyel's sake, at the moment,
I won't question that. After your wedding" Her glance
this time was full of sympathy. "Nikki, I'm so sorry . . ."
He shook his head, denying that sympathy. "It's neces-
sary. And it will be worth it if it gets Deymorin back where
he belongs."
She nodded, and stepped close enough to set a hand on
his arm. Then: "I can't go to him, Nikki, but I've convinced
Anhehaa to let Mirym help attend him. She's ... quite
wonderfully useful."
He was certainly in no position to argue that. He looked
past Nethaalye's arm to Mirym. "Is that what you want?"
She gave a brief, emphatic nod, and set her hand on his.
Death by slow division was possibly too good an end for
the bastard.
Kiyrstine romGarettishe was able to think of herself
that way for the first time in monthslaughed until her
sides  ached;  dropped  cross-legged  to  the  ground  and
laughed some more; paused to tell Zandy, who stuck his
head between two bushes demanding to be let in on the
joke, that it was none of his business and to inform Van
that they'd be late on the road today, if they broke camp
at all; then laughed again.
The Rhomatum was scum of the first order, filled with
secrets and falsifications, yet she found herself spilling out
details of the failed assassination and not giving a ring-sent
damn. Seen through his rather warped sense of humor, the
terror-filled, life-threatening night took on a whole new
aspect.
They'd had an argument, she and Garetti. All she'd
wanted was that he give poor Zandy's machine a second
look, consider the encapsulator's potential; a battle (she
later learned) he'd been waging all afternoon with Vando-
shin romMaurii.
Garetti had thrown her on the bed (his normal method
of ending one of their 'discussions') and she'd simply de-
cided: ". . . that this time, he was not going to get the final
wordso to speak."
"Meaning the advantages of being romGaretti finally
ceased to balance the disadvantages?" Deymio asked, from
his seat on the far side of her tree-trunk backrest.
"Something like," she answered dryly.
"And what did you do? Wave the cannon in his face?"
"I . . ." She picked up a twig and began breaking snippets
off, throwing them into the underbrush. "... caught him
with his guard down."
"Is that what they call it in Mauritum? My, my, shep-
herdess, your antique customs"
The twig followed the snippets; she twisted around the
trunk and shut him up with a punch in the arm, however
his conversational sidestep helped her skip lightly over de-
tails she'd rather forget. Biding her time until Garetti was
thoroughly aroused and struggling with his complex state
robes, calculating her strike to the instant of greatest entan-
glement, she...
"Gave him a piece of you he'd never wanted to contact
a piece of him?" Deymorin suggested blithely.
She choked.
"Thought so. This is getting good. Then what?"
"He collapsed"
"With a most satisfying thud and howl, I trust."
"Quite. Into a heap on the floor."
"Groaning and unable to free his arms from the labyrinth-
ine folds-come, girl, do it properly."
"Girl?" Again, she almost choked. "You are blind,
Rag'n'bones."
"How dare you continue to call me that? When you pro-
vided the wardrobe. Besides, a woman would realize that
in order to arouse a proper sense of identification and sym-
pathy, you must provide more than the bare bones of"
"All right. Rings. 'Groaning and unable to free his
arms from' What? Oh, yes. labyrinthine folds.' Realiz-
ing he was quite at my mercy, I sought a weapon"
"Are we in your chambers or his?"
"Mine. Why?"
"Well, your choices become somewhat limited, then,
don't they?"
"If you only knew. First thing I thought of was a book"
"How heavy?"
She shrugged.
"What was the title. Perhaps I'm"
"/ don't damnwell know!"
He turned an offended shoulder.
"Not heavy enough."
A testing, over-the-shoulder, one-eyed glance. "So?"
"So, I grabbed a manicure knife."
"Manicure knife? What did you do? Cut off his . . ." He
waved his hand vaguely. "You know."
She laughed. "No, though I considered it. Seriously.
While highly satisfactory, by that time, I wantneeded
him dead, and that wouldn't do it."
"Dead," he repeated flatly. "And why, dare I ask, was
that?"
"Come, come, audience. Think. By then, he was
screeching his fool head off, the guards were shouting out-
side the door"
"Why outside?"
"He'd locked the door, and I knew by that time he
wasn't about to let me get that far and live. Anyway, I
settled on that lovely, thick artery that lies in the same
general vicinity, so to speak."
He looked slightly ill. "Remind me never to make you
angry."
"You already have."
"I appreciate your forbearance."
"Certainly. Let's see, where was I? Oh, yes. Garetti was
screeching, the guards were shouting; I mean" She flut-
tered her lashes like a bubble-headed adolescent. "what
could I do?"
It was his turn (at last) to choke. "What indeed?"
"I began screeching, too."
"Whatever for?"
"To mask his screeching, naturally."
"Oh. Naturally. And then?"
"I hit him on the head."
"With what?"
"The book."
"The same one? I thought it wasn't heavy enough."
"I made do."
"How'd you find his head? I thought it was covered
with robes."
"I approximated. I just kept hitting him and screeching
until he shut upand no, I don't know which got him, the
blood or the book. Then I ran to the window and threw it
open, making sure to smear the blood everywhere I touched
although by then, blood covered nearly everything any-
waydropped the knife out the window then stood there
as the guards finally smashed the door down, waving my
arms toward the window, screaming about assassins in the
garden."
His stare was a look of mixed fascination and horror.
"I'mspeechless."
Which had to be a first in his life. She dipped her head
in humble acknowledgment. "In retrospect, I put on a most
impressive hysterical wife act. The guard untying my
hands"
"What?"
"One of Garetti's favorite pastimes."
"That doesn't surprise me, but how did you still"
She grinned tightly. "Talent. Anyway, the guard was
wonderfully solicitous"
"Not to mention distracted by your artfully displayed
charms."
"What?"
"Surely your garments were ripped. Bodice drooping,
perhaps a bared ankle rubbing his . . . you know."
"No, I don't!" she said primly, retaining what little dig-
nity remained, and honestly uncertain what all she'd done
to distract the man. "But he was fully occupied, trust me."
"Oh, I do, dear lady, I do. Remember, I've seen the
charms quite . . . unmasked."
When she'd caught her breath: "The other guards scat-
tered like bugs out the window and down the stairs ...
looking for the assassin, you know, and they never sus-
pected a thing. Meanwhile, my husband was bleeding all
over the floor, another guard had finally located the wound
through the robes"
She tipped her head toward him. "Does it occur to you
that men are frequently blinded by their own prudishness?"
He leaned back, as if to get out of range. "Dare I ask
what you mean by that?"
"Only that it was the last place the guard checked. Very
silly. I'd have thought, with your male obsessions, it would
be a primaryI'm terribly sorry. Have you swallowed
wrong?"
He just waved at her to continue.
"Yes, well, as soon as my hands were free, I rushed to
his side"
"To get" He paused for breath. "in the way as much
as possible."
Her grin loosened. "Precisely."
"You are evil."
"Why, thank you."
"Unfortunately, dear hubby still survived."
She nodded. "Suffice to say, by the time he regained
coherency, I was long gone with a fair bit of capital to my
name, a sackful of rather expensive, locally unmarketable
jewelry, and nowhere to go."
"No friends or family who would take you in?"
"None willing to risk Garetti's wrath1 knew that with-
out asking. So I left Mauritum."
His deep frown left no doubt of his disapproval. Charm-
ingly chivalrous, but it only emphasized his naivete. Let this
man do the treaty negotiations and Rhomatum would lose
its collective shirt.
"I knew where ZandyAlizanthad camped. I knew he
was as much at loose ends as 1. I thought together we
might find a solution. He was willing to hide me in the
cart, regardless."
"Generous lad."
"Yes, he is," she said seriously. "And then ... well,
you've heard Van's side of the tale: here we are."
"Amazing."
"You don't sound half-sincere."
"Oh, but I am, dear lady. I assure you."
But beneath that polished reassurance, doubt lingered.
Or humor. Perhaps that of superior knowledge.
"Rings." She threw a stone into the stream and surged
to her feet, calling a tacit end to the coze. "I don't care
one way or the other what you think. All I want is your
decision. I really don't care to hold you hostage"
"Oh, was that my choice? You'd have been terribly dis-
appointed, you know. Not much anyone would pay to get me
back. Pay you to dispose of me, possibly, but ransom . . ." He
shook his head.
"I suspect differently, Rhomatum."
"You don't believe me? I'm crushed."
She bit back an unladylike curse, conscious of her lan-
guage for the first time in months, and despising herself for
that  returned prissiness.  "You're  not like these men.
You're not like" She broke off. She'd been about to say,
not like any man she'd ever met, but damned if she'd admit
to that. "The difference she perceived could belikely
wasnothing more than a cultural faFade, a difference in
accent and body language. Beneath, he was no better or
worse than Van or Garetti, and she'd been far too free
with her mouth already. "Well? Are you with us?"
He rose to his feet and brushed twigs off his backside.
"Of course."
Simple and straight, that answer. As though she should
already know. As though she was a fool to believe other-
wise. Suddenly, all the prodding and pushing, the bailing
and veiled insultsBecause it's fun, for Maurii's sakeall
her efforts to contain her gut-level responses, all the sleep-
less nights wondering whether to trust him . . .
. . . Suddenly all those factors exploded, taking her con-
trol with them. "What do you mean?" she hissed. "There
is no 'of course' about it."
He shruggedyet another rejection of the possibility of
threat from her quarter. "I assumed you'd realize, when
you woke up and I was still here, that I was"
Deymorin's tailbone hit a rock, his vision blurred and
faded. When it cleared, Kiyrstin had gone, leaving in her
wake only her dulcet tones ordering the men to pack up.
Evidently, they were leaving.
Evidently, his recruitment was completed.
He dabbed gingerly at his lip, twisted with greater care
to splash a final icy handful to ease the throbbing, and
headed into the sounds. He'd earned that cut and more.
He'd been wondering what it would take to make her blow,
and what form that explosion would take.
He grinned behind the back of his dabbing hand.
Now he knew.
"Well, Just Deymio, I see the two of you came to an
understanding."
RomMaurii. Come to collect him, he reckoned.
He dropped the hand. "Very handy with her knuckles
she is."
"As you're not the first to discover." And giving the
bruise an experienced assessment: "Actually, she let you
off quite lightly. Must like you."
"Unlike Garetti?" Deymorin suggested, testing those
waters.
RomMaurii shot a disapproving glance at the innocent
trees still standing between them and the camp. "So she
told you."
He shrugged.
"Thought she might."
"And wished otherwise?"
The ex-priest shrugged. "Her affair. But I warn you,
since I doubt she bothered, most here have no idea who
she is."
"Really? Then why do they follow her orders?"
"Because they respect her."
"Like their sister. Tell me another, priest."
For an instant, he glimpsed the harsh reality behind the
priest's smooth faCade, then: "Because she's the only one
who didn't get sick during the crossing. Hard to . . . take
advantage ... of someone who's held the bucket while
you. -."
"Puked your brains out?"
RomMaurii winced. "Something like.",
And that partial explanation was all he was likely to get.
"Who does know?"
"Myself. The boy. One or two others." The priest's
hawk-face hardened. "No need for you to know who. Just
don't speak of itto anyone. Do, and you're a dead man.
Do you understand me?"
"Oh, I understand." As did some dozen or so amoral
bandits. RomMaurii exited Mauritum with a handful of
professional guards in tow. Kiyrstin gave the orders. Rom-
Maurii's guards backed them.
He decided he preferred the bandits. "I just don't under-
stand, why the caution."
"She takes too many risks."
"Such as?"
"That solo foray into the village for one. Taking you in
so thoroughly for another. This is a dangerous game we
play. Garetti put a substantial bounty up for her."
"Dead or alive?"
"Alive only. He did not, however, specify condition.
Most of these would sell their own mother for that much
gold."
"So why are they here?"
"We're paying them."
"Why?"
"Security in numbers . . . among other reasons."
'(Why- our special interest in her?"
"You think we're lovers?"
"The thought had occurred to me."
Harsh laughter, which could mean any of a number of
things. Bitterness. Unrequited desire. Frustration. Possibly
true humor at the very notion. This current ambiguity was
one with the priest's ever-shifting posture where Kiyrstin
was concerned. Protective one instant, deferential the next.'
But it would explain the other men's hands-off attitude to-
ward the one woman available.
"We're business partners," romMaurii said flatly. "Any
relationship beyond that is ... irrelevant. But I'd advise
you to stay away from her. She was married to Garetti for
over fifteen years. Cut her bedding teeth with him, and he's
not known as a gentle manin any sense of the word."
"Fifteen yearswhat did her family do? Auction her
from the cradle?"
"What would you expect? A love match?"
"Truth?" he asked, though it would explain much.
"Which?"
"All of it."
"I should know?"
"You knew the man, worked with him. Surely you have
some idea."
"Correction, Rhomatum. I worked under him. I know
he's a man who loves power. Having it; using it . . . abusing
it. I'm certain you know the type. . . ."
"I've run across my share."
"Figured. There were rumors. Garetti is a rich and pow-
erful man. Such attract more rumors than long lost rela-
tives.  But  Garetti  also  respects  and  admires  power  in
others. Kiyrstine romGaretti is a powerful woman, in mind
and body as well as politicallyor was, until her Family
disowned her. I suspect controlling her lent a particular . . .
excitement . . . to their intimate life."
"His, perhaps. But no personal confirmation of the
rumors?"
"And how am I to take that?"
Deymorin shrugged. "As you please."
The priest's mouth twitched, and his head tipped ac-
knowledgment of a hit. "I was a minor entity within the
Mauritum Tower. I was never so . . . privileged."
"And you wouldn't tell me if you had been."
"Do you think to rouse a response, Rhomatum? Sorry
to disappoint you."
"I could hope. Easier to help if I know who and what
I'm trying to get into Rhomatum."  \
Laughter, full and easy, from the tree-shadows. "So, Van.
Now do you understand why JD had to join us on our little
foray into the future?"
A shadow detached itself from the trees. Deymorin
leaned against a trunk, arms akimbo, wondering how long
she'd been there, and precisely what she'd overheard.
"Jay Dee?"
Her full mouth twitched. "You started it, Rhomatum.
Just Deymio is so ungainly. Unless, of course, you care to
fill in the blanks . . ."
He felt his mouth twitch in response. "JD, it is,
shepherdess."
"But you are with us?" the priest asked.
"Say, rather, I've decided you're heading my way and I
prefer company other than my own. I'll introduce you to
those you want to meet. Beyond that, it's your hand to
play."
"You think you can accomplish that?" romMaurii per-
sisted. "We've no travel visas, you realize. I've heard Rho-
matum is . . . particular about such minor details."
"I'm quite certain I can get you to Rhomandi."
"You think he'll be receptive?" Kiyrstin asked.
"Think? Woman, I know."
"Why? Personal friend, is he?"
"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were suspicious
of me. Tolerably good friend, I should hope. You might
say, he owes me. I got into this little mess standing up for
his bloody rights."
With what he considered near inhuman forbearance, she
didn't pursue that dropped hint. "But you will take us to
him? Introduce us favorably?"
"Only if we do it my way, shepherdess."
"Meaning?"
"I'll take the boy, his machine, and one other: you, or
romMaurii, makes no difference to me; however, knowing
Rhomandi, I'd advise you, shepherdess."
"Because she's a woman?" romMaurii sneered.
"Because she's not a ringman, priest. Rhomandi has no
use for your sort. Has no patience whatsoever with people
who use the power of the rings to control lives. That's why
I suspect he'll love the lad's toy. That's why I think you've
a chance. But you and your background will not sit well
with him, regardless of your claims to more idealistic think-
ing. Alizant's association with you could possibly make
Rhomandi doubt every claim the boy makes."
"I'll  go,"  Kiyrstin  said  quietly.  And  to  romMaurii's
glower: "We'll discuss it later, Van, but I'm going."
"Fair enough," Deymorin said. "But no others. And as
for visas, we don't try for Rhomatum."
"Why?"
"We'd never make it. Anheliaa would know the instant
one of those men she's exiled crossed a leyline or came
into the City. Hell, she'll know when I do. For all I know,
she'd recognize him" With a jerk of his head toward the
glowering priest. "I want to avoid her and any legal side
issues those men's presence might raise."
"Where, then?"
"Rhomandi will likely be one of two places"
"Not Rhomatum?"
"Highly unlikely. The atmosphere . . . disagrees with him.
He's not what you'd term a politically active princeps.
Leaves that to his brother, Mikhyel."
"Perhaps we should approach this Mikhyel, then."
"Not if you want my help. Mikhyel . . . doesn't approve
of me."
"Speaks well for his judgment. Perhaps I should ap-
proach him alone."
He laughed outright. The image of this termagant taking
on Hell's Barrister was almost attractive enough to make
him admit to everything.
Almost. He wasn't about to enter Rhomatum until he
knew his brothers' current status. "I wish you joy of him."
"I see," she said slowly, contemplatively. "Rhomandi it
is, then. But if not Rhomatum, where?"
"One of his Outside holdings. Darhaven is closest and
most probable at this season. Or Armayel. If he's not there,
the-overseer will know how to get a private message to
him."
"And he'll' dance to your tune?"
"As I say, he owes me."
Another disgruntled mutter from romMaurii, quickly
shushed by Kiyrstin.
Easy smiles. Pat explanations . . .
"All right," Kiyrstin said, "When? Where?"
... patter agreement: it was all faUing into rhythm too
easily.
It was possible that Kiyrstin and Van knew precisely who
and what he was and were simply biding their time, that
this lot of hooligans was the vanguard of a Mauritumin
army. Perhaps this machine was some new anti-ley device
they wanted spirited into Rhomatum. And while he and
Anheliaa had their differences, none were so great he'd
willingly aid and abet a Mauritumin makeover.
But if the boy and his machine were . . . Dammit, no. He
didn't need extenuating circumstances. If they were being
honest, the machine could wait. He'd fund them all right,
put them up anywhere they wanted, if it stood a chance of
putting Anheliaa out of business in the long run.
If they were trying to use him . . .
"Not far from here" he answered after a too-long
pause, "two, maybe, considering today's late start, three,
days, there's a good place to camp. Protected, easy to find,
if you know what to look for. Water. We leave romMaurii
and the men and the larger machine there. If Rhomandi
wants more proof, he can arrange to see the large one.
From there, you, me, the boy and his smaller machine will
head to Darhaven"
"Darhaven? What's Darhaven?"
"His primary stud." At her confused look: "Breeding
farm. He's . . . fond . . . of horses. A breeder of some repute
throughout the Rhomatum Web. He winters his best stock
there for foaling and breeding." And had missed out on all
of it this year, thanks to Anheliaa.
"Oh." Kiyrstin's confusion disappeared, but she didn't
seem quite so thrilled with the prospect of meeting this
apolitical horseperson as she'd been to meet the Rhoma-
tum Princeps.
"We'll take one manmaybe twowith us. They can
return to the camp with supplies for the others, if Rho-
mandi isn't there."
"Dammit, no\" RomMauri pushed between them. "I will
not approve this splitting of our forces. We've problems
enough as it is. These men have been promised money"
"That you didn't have? Foolish of you, priest."
"We have it," Kiyrstin said tightly.
"I cannot allow you" romMaurii began, and she inter-
rupted: "You have no say in the matter. I promised the
men payment upon delivery. We'll pay whether Rhomandi
funds us or not."
"Leaving you with nothing."
"I'll have sufficient left for my needs."
The priest swept his hand through the air in a frustrated,
angry dismissal of them both, and retreated into the trees.
Kiyrstin's worried glance followed him, then turned on
Deymorin. "Can't we consider a compromise? Perhaps take
the men with us to this . . . stud?"
"No," he answered flatly. And when she looked to argue:
"I just want to get home. I left rather abruptly, and have
several outstanding debts to take care of. After this long,
the interest will bepainful."
"And family that must be worried sick."
"Dammit, stop pushing!" he hissed. "I've been away for
six exceedingly long months, woman. I've no idea the tem-
per of the City. No idea if my family has in some way
suffered for my personal idiocy. I'll not test that temper, or
risk their safety, with a band of bloody-minded hooligans
and highwaymen and who-knows-what in tow. I have no
idea why your Rhomatum recruits were exiled, and I'll not
leave an organized band of them unattended within the
confines of a friend's home. Give me trouble on this,
woman, and I'll leave. I know this countryside better than
a babe knows its mother's womb. You'll not find me. But
I'll be honest with you: I'd prefer otherwise."
"Why?"
"I'm not certain I can answer that."
"Try."
He shrugged. "Maybe because of" He nodded toward
the sulking shadow. "that."
"Spite? To prove him wrong?"
He shrugged again. "Close enough."
Mostly he found he did not want to leave her or the boy
alone with the priest. A disturbing reaction he didn't care
to pursue more closely. She and the boy were nothing to
him.
Couldn't be, even were his brothers' lives not in the
balance.
She studied him, frowning, for a long moment, then
turned without a word, and followed the priest into the
shadows. Voices slowly raised into a never-quite-audible
argument. Finally, Kiyrstin  appearedaloneand said
curtly:
"Let's go."
And as they headed together for the camp:
"What if Rhomandi's not there? What if we must con-
tinue on?"
"We'll have all we need at Darhaven. Better, we'll have
transportation."
A suspicious sidewise glance. "Rhomandi's horses?"
"If he won't trust me with them, I'll by-the-rings steal
them. My feet have had enough."
Her smile blossomed reluctantly. "Why is it I doubt he'd
mind, Rhomatum?"
"Because you can't imagine anyone denying me any-
thing," he answered promptly. He was utterly unprepared
for her sudden, and quite sober, agreement.
Benotti dunTogan shifted his weight in the cushioned seat
and checked for the third time whether he'd tracked mud
onto the delicately-tinted, undoubtedly priceless carpet.
This overtly elegant room that was the Rhomandi's pri-
vate library was nothing like the homey, often dusty halls
of the City Library he passed twice each day, setting the
lamps and turning them off. He'd even been known to go
inside the library on occasionhe was an educated man,
,and enjoyed a good read, now and again. Something other
than the currently popular epic poems and the novels that
were nothing but thinly-veiled retellings of the latest city-
wide scandal.
But this . . .
Everything bound (to order, or he missed his bet) in
tooled leather, titles embossed in gilt. Books that must date
back to the Founding, yet all looking brand-new. Shelf
upon shelf upon hand-carved shelf, floor to ceiling, the
highest requiring a fancy, wheeled ladder to reach.
The room smelled of lemon polish and freshly-cleaned
leather, and roses (from several large bouquets scattered
about the room) and other flowers he didn't recognize,
brought in from Outside.
Small wonder the book-loving young lord had chosen an
antechamber of this particular room for his newly pro-
claimed office.
For the better part of two days Ben had sat herewhen
he wasn't working or sleepingwaiting for a chance to
speak with Nikaenor dunMheric. Waiting while a stream of
individuals passed through the carved door into that office,
first one way, then the other. Every hour or so, the lad
himself rushed past, always with a kind word and apology,
but always in far too great a hurry and with far too worried
a look for such a young man.
He'd heard the household staff talking. The middle
brother had been ill, his health was still uncertain, and in
general, those swift passages were to visits with this Mik-
hyel. As if the boy hadn't enough to put those lines in
his face. . . .
Rumors chased each other about the Guard. Rumors
about the sudden, and hurried, marriage plans, rumors
about the young lord's planned departure from the City
immediately thereafter.
Rumors within the Guard suggested a reason for Lord
Deymorin's long absence. Reasons linked to Lord Nikaen-
or's planned trip. Rumors that reached the lightwatchmen
through  a  complex,  generations-old,  communication
network.
But Ben the lightwatchman was here because he didn't
beheve those rumors. He'd seen the brothers together that
nightwas one of the last to see Lord Deymorin, from
what he could piece togetherand what he had seen would
not support a powerplay from the younger upon the elder's
position. Certainly nothing that would suggestwhat rumor
was suggesting. He'd seen fraternity of a depth that did not
turn to jealousy, greed, and murder overnight.
Or even over six months.
Leather, soft and worn, slid under his fingertips. Within
the covers of that book rested a slender knife: the stiletto
used against the young lord all those months ago. He'd
taken a chance, bringing it in here. Had snuck it past the
Tower guards, though Jerrik knew he carried it.
Three times, he'd contacted the Guard offices, asking
should he bring it in, and three times, he'd been told there
was no investigation, that they had no idea what attack
he referenced.
So he'd led a httle investigation of his own, and one thing
he was certain of, no local had forged the steel. It was a
product of Mauritum Web.
He just thought the young lord ought to know.
A man entered the room, brushing past the young lord's
valet-acting-secretary with a curt: "I'll announce myself."
And to Jerrik's objection: "He ordered me to attend
him"
"Two hours ago. He's"
"He'll damnwell see me now or not at all."
The door slammed shut behind him.
Brolucci. Current captain of the Tower Guard. Testy
sort. He'd never gotten on well with him ... had, in fact,
quit the Guard the day Anheliaa appointed the man
captain.
And Lord Nikaenor had requested his presence.
Ben could guess the nature of that meeting. Rumor held
the boy needed bodyguards, men to support him in this
post-nuptial venture. Individuals had refused, all for various
reasons, but underlying them all was one widely known
truth: Anheliaa had made it clear that anyone supporting
the young lord could kiss their joband their pension
good-bye.
That was why Ben was here. And if Ben was right in his
reckoning, there were others who would join him. Other
lightwatchmen, bored with the sameness of their job,
trained for more active duty, and not so much as a disor-
derly drunk to contend with these days. And still active
Guards. Men who had trained, and then served under Lord
Deymorin. Men loyal to the Princeps, as Ben suspected
Nikaenor was loyal. Men who knew the character of the
man Anheliaa had elevated to captain and were willing to
leave the duty roster that he set, in hopes of a worthier
replacement.
The main library door opened again, this time admitting
a slight, frothy female. She breezed past Jerrik and swirled
into the window seatafter checking the sun's angle, as if
she were a painter choosing the best angle for her subject.
Mistress Lidye. Ben's heart sank, and he resigned himself
to yet another lengthy wait.
He'd had substantial opportunity to observe the young
lord's future wife, and somehow, he didn't think the lad
was in for the married bliss he'd had with his Tessie.
Dear Tessie. Not one complaint when he'd explained.
Just bugged him and said, whatever he thought best. But
it sounded to her like the young lord needed help and if
he lost his pension, well, he lost it. They'd make do.
Rings, what a woman.
The door to the office cracked open.
"Captain." The young lord's voice, barely audible.
The door stopped.
"Yes, . . . sir?" Brolucci. In that voice that made a man
want to grind his face into the mud.
"You might bear in mind that my aunt will not live
forever."
"With what she's paying me, sir, she doesn't need to."
Well, that was unexpected confirmation of every honest
Guard's suspicions. Either the captain hadn't noticed an ex-
guard sitting in this back comer, or he didn't care.
Brolucci's smug face didn't waver as he turned on his
heel, bowed to Mistress Lidye and strode from the room--
without so much as a nod toward Ben. Made that ex-guard
wonder what the current captain knew that the rest of
them didn't.
Particularly considering the expression with which Lord
Nikki's  future  wife  watched  that  captain's  departing
backside.
Nikki held his breath, counting slowly, trying to force the
blinding fury from his head. The wedding was (Darius save
him) tomorrow; his plans to leave were at an impasse,
foiled at each turn by Anhehaa's wider contacts. There
were people available in the City, he knew that from his
history books and court records, but those documents never
told one how to contact such hire-ons. He'd tried contacting
Gareg for men and supplies, but the messenger had been
.. . delayed . . . en route, a fact he'd discovered only mo-
ments before the captain had (belatedly) answered his re-
quest for attendance.
Jerrik rapped the open door once, lightly, then an-
nounced: "Visitor, Nik."
Informal, as they had been with each other since they'd
played together as children. Jerrik dunDaleri, son of the
Darhaven head groom, had been Nikki's best friend from
Nikki's first visit to Darhavenafter their third fight ended
in a draw just like the first two. They were friends first,
man and sevant only on rare occasions.
It was a relationship of which Lidye did not at all ap-
prove, so naturally Jerrik felt compelled to stretch that in-
formahty to the limits whenever she was about.
And from the look the 'visitor' shot him as she breezed
past Jerrik, he was going to hear about this infraction for
some time to come.
Nikki resisted the temptation to bury his head in his
arms.
Jerrik, equally immune to her airs and his discomfiture,
said: "Ben's still waiting, Nikki."
Nikki shut his eyes ever-so-briefly. The old man was
Deymorin's friend. Wanted to know about his brother, for
certain, and what could he tell him? "Soon, Jerrik."
Jerrik turned away radiating his own brand of disap-
proval. Lidye, he could ignore without the least qualm. But:
"Jerrik?"
The valet glanced back.
"Tell him, I'm sorry. And, Jerrik? I'll track him down
on his rounds tonight, if necessary, but I will see him."
Jerrik grinned and disappeared out the door.
Lidye settled into a chair in a swirl of skirts, waited point-
edly until the door closed, isolating them again from the
outside world, then:
"I don't like him, Nikaenor," she said, with a speaking
little shiver. "After we're married, you must"
"Don't make me say something we'll both regret, Lidye.
I'm not dismissing Jerrik. Not for you. Not 'for anyone.
Now, what is it you really want?"
She shifted ever so slightly in her seat, revealing the bar-
est glimpse of darkness before the sweetly persuasive face
she used for him replaced it.
"Please don't be like this, Nikki," she pleaded. "I want
the wedding to be perfect. For us both."
"Are we to persist in this charade, even in private?".
Her eyes dropped, long, darkened lashes brushing softly
blushed cheeks in a wounded dove imitation that would be
quite persuasivein someone else.
"Nikki, dear, for me, this is no charade." Her quiet, culti-
vated tones could hold more condescension than another's
sneer. "I hope, one day, you'll look back and thank me for
making this celebration special for us both."
The wedding. Of course, the wedding. Always the
wedding.
For three days, she'd insisted on pulling him in on the
increasingly elaborate plans. Never mind she hadn't wanted
opinions. Never mind she only wanted oo-oos and ah-ahs
and It sounds wonderfuls. Fortunately, her parents had ar-
rived last night, giving her the excuse to turn elsewhere for
... advice.
And not just her parents. Hordes of others from every
satellite node were pouring down the leylines and into the
City. More people than ever would have come had the
engagement been long-standing, all of them hoping to dis-
cover the reason for the sudden decision.
Perhaps one day, if Deymorin turned up dead, he'd tell
them all.
"What is it you want now?"
"It's the flowers . . ." she said, determinedly wistful.
"I told you, I don't care. Not about any of it. Order what
you want. Anheliaa will cover the cost."
"I did so want the Lavender Nights from Mauritum. But
unless we delay another month, and get dispensation . . ."
"You know that's out of the question. Choose some-
thing local."
"But they're so perfect"
"How in hell do you know that? You've never seen one."
Delicate, sky-blue eyes narrowed to stormy slits. "Don't
you ever use such language around me again, Nikaenor
dunMheric," she hissed, then collected herself in a breath
to say primly: "Of course I have."
"In a painting," he spat, unimpressed. "A florist's adver-
tisement. You've no idea what the color really is."
"I tell you, they'd be"
"Perfect? Find something less so, in Rhomatum's nurser-
ies." On a sudden inspiration of how to solve both their
problems at once: "I've got it. I'll drive out to Armayel
todaythis moment. Their greenhouses are always over-
flowing. You could float begonias in the fountain basin,
have huge bouquets of lilies and orchids and iris and"
"How dare you suggest such a thing? It must be roses.
Only roses."
Because only roses would grow along the leys. Only roses
thrived within the city power umbrellas. No self-respecting
lady of breeding would have such . . . 'tweener decorations
as orchids at her wedding.
Deymio, you'd better be dying.
"Choose what you like. Just leave me out of it. In fact,
good day, madam. I will attend you tomorrow morning in
the garden, not before."
"But the rehearsal"
"You'll get me to spout that nonsense once1 refuse to
repeat the experience. At a rehearsal or at the wedding
take your pick."
She pouted.
"I thought so. Anything else, madam, can wait until after
we're married. And now, there's a good and decent man
sitting out there who has been waiting patiently to see me
for two days. If you will kindly take your leave?"
"That disgusting old lightwatchman? Tell him to go
away." She shivered again. "Old people . . . bother me."
"Anheliaa, too?"
"Anheliaa is different. Special."
"She's different, all right." He opened the door. "Good-
bye, Lidye."
She flounced out, crossing the library as far from old
Benotti dunTogan as the room would allow. But Ben
wasn't watching her. Ben's eyes were fastened on him, anx-
ious and hopeful.
Nikki forced his stiff face into a smile and stretched out
his hand. "Ben, how good to see you. . . ."
Interlude

f Well, I hope you're satisfied.) Mother's disgust was bitter-
ness on the palate.
"About what?" Dancer asked, watching that still-weak
but steady glow surrounding the new pattern.
(It's alive.)
Only one 'if held that thought/color/taste.
"So are Mheric's sons."
(Congratulations.  1 wonder what the belly-crawling
snake is up to?)
Energy flowed from all directions into the rapidly reor-
ganizing Rhomatum Web. Rhomatum's satellites, already
weakened from the collapse, were still being sucked dry.
{You send your vital energy to the dying, and that creature
gobbles it like a greedy sinkhole, and demands more.)
"Mikhyel survived," Dancer maintained stubbornly,
though the experience had undeniably weakened the mid-
dle brother. "I don't understand you, Mother. If Mheric's
son had died, the pattern would disintegrate. You've woven
me into it for a reason, so why"
{You presume too much. What's happening in Rhoma-
tum? What do your precious gossipmongers bring you?)
She could know, if she truly wanted to know. She could
know so much, if, as she put it, it weren't like reading
ahead in a book.
One had to wonder when, if ever, Mother had read a
book.
But Dancer relayed the gossip. Dancer tried to amuse
Mother, because Mother was increasingly hostile and dis-
tant these days. Frequently, as now, Mother resided in
some remote leythium niche, present in mind only.
"The youngest brother, Nikaenor, is getting married
tomorrow."
{Oh? And how does Khoratum's resident dolt feel about
that?)
"Rhyys is, to put it mildly, perturbed. Anheliaa was his
mentor and now she's putting all her efforts into Nikaenor
and his bride. But he left yesterday for Rhomatum to at-
tend the wedding, anyway."
{And what of the Trials?}
"Might be back, might not."
One did try to keep the bitterness from creeping through,
but it was difficult when Mother read more of heart than
word.
{You should care about that?)
"I don't know if I should, but I do. Mother. I keep think-
ing that if only I could win, maybe he'd accept me. But he
doesn't care. He's decided the dance is frivolous."
{The way you dance latelyit is.}
Her derision was a brutal blow to heart, mind, and soul,
but Dancer said:
"I have to win. Mother. I have to dance. I have to care:
he's all the family left to me."
{And what am I?} And suddenly. Mother was there,
arms outstretched and welcoming as they hadn't been for
a seeming eternity. "Aphids on a rose petal?"
Dancer reached out to her, and her leythium veils en-
gulfed them both.
"Nikki, are you certain this is what you want?"
Starched lace tangled in blond curls and caught outside
its assigned fold. Mikhyel worked its delicate points free
and tugged the lace into alignment, then brushed nonexis-
tent lint from his brother's brocade-clad shoulders, before
seeking his brother's mirrored eyes.
Difficult,  when  those  eyes were  glued  to  the  notes
clenched in unsteady hands. A normal enough condition,
so he supposed, in a man about to wed, but less than a
week ago, this wedding was still a theoretical possibility.
He couldn't, no matter how he tried, convince himself it
was entirely voluntary.
So much had happened while he'd slept.
"Nik?"
A blink. Two. A Flicker of blue making brief contact
with his mirror-reflected gaze, covering again in an instant.
"Of course I agreed."
He grasped silver and lavender brocade, and pulled Nikki
around, forcing his attention off the lines he was striving
desperately to memorize.
"That's not what I asked. If Anheliaa has pressed you
into this, tell me. It's not too late. I'll get you out
somehow."
Nikki just stared through him. He could practically see
the words marching between them.
"Dammit!" He gav& Nikki a little shake. "You can't want
to marry that woman."
This time, the blink focussed the blue stare squarely on
him.
"As much as you want to marry Nethaalye."
His hands dropped, feeling suddenly leaden.
"It's hardly the same."
"No?"
"Nethaalye and I ... we've had an understanding for
years. We get along sufficently well. If she can help Anh-
eliaa in the Tower, so much the better. You"
"I'm no different, Khyel. There are reasons to marry and
reasons not. The pros outweigh the consin both our
cases."
"I don't love elsewhere. Have never wanted love"
"No? How well you blind yourself, brother. In so many
ways."
So cold. So detached. Nikki the poet, the romantic, the
only one of them destined for a life-role as loving father
and husbandto hear him talk thus was the . . . death . ..
of a singularly precious dream.
And as with everything else of importance in his life, he
came into this realization too late. He had convinced Nikki
months ago to accept Anheliaa's arrangement. His fault,
that the dream was ruined, as it was his fault Deymorin
was gone.
"You could still marry her, you know."
"Marry who?" Nikki interrupted his own muttering of
lines to ask.
"Mirym."
"Mirym? Why would I want do to that?" Bitterness
tinged his voice. "She's Anheliaa's spy, isn't she?"
He'd seen the looks that passed between his brother and
the little servant girl as they changed guard on him these
past days. They seemed to have made some secret pact to
keep him under constant surveillance. Not a bad notion,
seeing his knees had acquired an annoying tendency to col-
lapse unexpectedly. But Mirym . . .
"I should never have said that, Nikki. I was wrong."
"Were you?" Paper crackled, crushed between gloved
fingers. "Doesn't matter. I couldn't subject any woman to
life under Lidye. Not even if I loved her. Especially if I
loved her. And I don't love Mirym, Mikhyel."
"No?" It appeared he wasn't the only self-deluder in
the family.
"No. Now, if you don't mind, I'd as soon not make a
fool of myself in front of three hundred guests."
"Only three hundred?"
"That's where I stop counting, thanks. Now, dammit,"
Nikki's voice broke, he controlled it along with the shaking
hand. "Get out of here, will you?"
But as Mikhyel closed the door, a final glance caught a
shaking hand seeking the guitar lying on the bed and
gloved fingertips caressing the strap.
"Kiyrstin!"
Kiyrstin shoved the trailcake into the pack's side pouch
and secured the flap before answering Van's imperative
summons to the shadows on the cart's far side.
"You can't seriously intend to go through with this." His
whisper greeted her as she stepped over the shaft and into
the trees to join him.
"There was another man with him, one of numerous float-
ins that had joined their groupagainst her better judg-
mentsince they'd crossed the Amaidi channel.
"Who's he?" She pointed at the man with a lift of her
chin.
"Someone you'll be glad enough for presently. Karod,
here, just gave me some very interesting information con-
cerning your pretty-spoken friend out there."
"Deymio?" She scanned the intruder, found nothing to
refute her initial impression. "What would scut like this
know of someone like him?"
"Who he is, for starters."
"And you believe him. Just like that. A cutpurse."
"A cutpurse out of Rhomatum."
"Ain't" the man muttered.
"Goodness," she said, "it speaks. 'Ain't' what, sir?"
Van twitched; she raised a warning hand.
"No cutpurse," the creature . . . grunted.
"Not? Then what, might I ask, is your honored profes-
sion, sir?"
"You don't have to answer that," Van barked.
"Ain't ashamed. No part of it. I kills people, mistress,
and I does it right handily. He's" The man shot a glance
toward the camp and Deymio's unsuspecting backside.
"That un's th' only one whot's escaped me."
"Thus far," she amended dryly. "And when did this . . .
abortive, attempt take place?"
Rather belatedly, Karod looked to his erstwhile mentor;
Van shook his head, cast his hands in the air, and turned
away.
Karod cast uncertain eyes toward her.
Kiyrstin smiled encouragingly.
Karod grinned back, revealing one chipped and two ab-
sent teeth. "Six month ago it were, mistress. In Rhomatum.
Outside a whorehouse. Fancy placeon Beliard Cross. Fol-
lered him there. Went in alone, come out with another
fancy. But they split up and my partner-my ex-partner
he insisted we jump t'other first. Wanted the fancy's purse,
he did. That's why this 'un, he got away."
"Fascinating. And the other man, the fancy, did he get
away as well?"
The man shook his head. "Got him good, I did."
"I see." Kirystin avoided looking back at the campfire
where Deymio was helping young Zandy rig a carrying case
for the lesser encapsulator, recalling nightmares and names
called in the night, wondering who the fancy this man had
killed might have been.
"And who hired you to kill him?"
"The Tower lady."
"Anheliaa?" She laughed. "Dealing with the likes of
you? Find yourself another source. Van. You've been taken
in by a teller of tales with delusions of importance."
"Warn't th' lady, directly, mistress," the man lifted his
chin in determined dignity. "But I reckemized th' one whot
gived th' order, and it were one o' th' Tower Guard, don't
care whot he were wearin'has to reckernize 'em at sight,
now doesn't I? An' th' lady, she has th' orderin' o' th'
guard in Rhomatum, and asides, who else would put a hit
on th' Rhomandi hisself?"
"The ..." She shot a look at Van. Not hiding his face
now, not in what he obviously considered his moment of
triumph. "Leave us, cutpurse."
"I ain't"
"I said, leave'. Now."'
And when they were alone:
"What's this all about, Van?"
"What he said, Kirystin. Your Just Deymio? He's Deym-
orin Rhomandi dunMheric, Princeps of Rhomatum."
"You're certain of that? On that . . . worm's word?"
A lifted brow answered. Of course he did. He'd love to
believe it. She only wished believing wouldn't provide so
many right-feeling answers.
"According to that worm," Van said with an air of utter
confidence, "the Rhomandi has two. younger brothers. Mi-
khyel and Nikaenor. Any of that sound familiar? Rhomandi
was in a bad accident some ten years ago. Broken leg. Bad
limp. That sound familiar, Kiyrstine romGaretti?" His face
hardened, he gripped her arm. "By the rings, woman, wake
up! The man's been leading you a chase, but play our cards
right now, and we've everything we could possibly want at
our fingertips."
"Explain."
"Hostage."
"Thought so." She jerked free of his hold. "Wake up,
priest. If that man of yours is telling the truth, Deymio's
the one we're looking for. We should humor himhe's as
much as said he's interested. But, he also said, plain as
plain, he doesn't trust priests. Says he doesn't want to lead
a pack of cutthroats into his home city. Can't say I blame
him. Can say, give him a chance. Only fair, seems to me.
Let me get him where he feels safe, give him that chance,
find out what he wants in return"
"Don't be a fool. He can't help us. Anheliaa threw him
outafter the assassination attempt failed. She wants him
gone. He's got no power, not any longer, if he ever did.
The only way he can help us is as a bargaining piece with
Anheliaa, and I daresay she'll pay well to get him. Or his
hide."
"Get this clear, Van, I don't deal with any Tower. Never
again. I came here to deal with Rhomandi or any other
free man with vision and money to invest. I certainly don't
put my body anywhere near someone who can send me
anywhere she damnwell pleases, robbing me of months,
maybe years, and broiling my skin right off my bones. Dey-
mio, Deymorin, or Rhomandithat man wants to get me
and the boy alone, that much is obvious. I'll find out why.
Then, if that answer's not to my liking, we'll pack up and
go elsewhere."
"And if Garetti's reward is what he wants?"
"What would the head of House Rhomandi want with
Garetti's little pittance?"
"The man was thrown out. Anheliaa controls his
pursestrings. Man like that has cultivated expensive tastes
over the years. Draw your own reasonsthere are many
possibilities. Perhaps he plans to use you as far more inter-
esting coin in negotiations with Mauritum."
"As you would use him in dealing with Anheliaa."
"Better him than you!"
"I tell you no! I'll not deal in human lives. Not with him.
Not with Anheliaa. I've got a gun; if the man double-deals,
he'll not keep me long."
"And if he wants you for himself, Kiyrstin? Is that dou-
ble-dealing? Or only what you want?"
She had to laugh, painful as it was to admit. "You're
definitely thinking inside out today. Van. Man like that
doesn't settle for the likes of me."
"Only if you don't want him to. We both know you were
high on Garetti's list of bribes"
Because she was Garetti's wifeno other reason. Sour-
tasting thought. Sourer still to realize: "How do you know
that?  How  do  you  know  anything  about  Garetti's
dealings?"
"Common knowledge in and out of the Tower, Kiyrstin.
Veroucci isn't exactly silent about his exploits."
How nice to know one's boudoir had been a public stage.
Had been, but no longer. And at least Lord Veroucci
had been fun, had made life with Garetti bearable the last
few years.... Had taught her what married life should
be.... Had ultimately, and unknowingly, given her the
strength, finally, to break free of Garetti's cage.
So what if he'd scored points telling tales; they were
fairly-earned points, over all.
That mental scale balanced, she said, with honest indif-
ference: "Think what you like. I'm going with Deymio. My
decision. My reasons. My consequences. I'm leaving virtu-
ally all I have with you. You've got the encapsulator. If I
don't come back, if the boy doesn't, or if you just don't
care to wait, take everything and do as you think best."
She turned to leave.
"Damn you, Kiyrstin, no!" His hand gripped her elbow,
spun her around. "If you're that desperate" He pulled
her into his arms and pressed his lips against hers, hard.
Demanding.
His hips pushed her against the cart, his intentions no
longer a mystery.
Strange, she'd had no idea the wind drifted that direc-
tion, and for a distracted moment, she played with the un-
considered notion, wondered if perhaps he was right, if
perhaps she wasdesperate, and whether that desperation
might be clouding her judgment where Deymio was
concerned.
She opened her mouth to his experimentally, worked her
hands up his arms to his neck, twined her fingers through
his hair . . .
His movements grew more intense, his hands seeking,
prodding, his mouth painful in its insistence.
. . . and decided she wasn't that desperate.
She tried to disengage; he growled and pressed closer,
his blind fumbling after her nonexistent skirts less than
amusing.
Mud slipped beneath her feet; his hands bit into her
clothbound buttocks, lifting her free of the ground, his body
thrust against  her,  holding her clamped to the cart's
rough edge.
Shoving splinters into her backside.
Beyond unamused, she tightened her fingers in his hair,
and pulled, slowly, then with ever-increasing force until,
with a gasp that filled her mouth with breath that smelled
of last night's onion stew, his head tilled back.
She freed one hand and sought the knife thrust into her
belt, slipped it free and pressed its point to the exposed
pulse.
His hips eased their pressure, his hands lowered her
slowly, and when her feet touched the ground:
"Better," she said softly. "Try that again, romMaurii, and
there will be one fewer priest in the world. Do we under-
stand one another?"
No answer.
She jerked the hair. Hard. The cords stood out in his
neck. She ran the blunt side of the point along one ridge,
leaving a red line in its wake. "Well?"
"All right," he said on a gasp, and she released him, with
a backward shove.
"That's a warning. Van. You don't get a second. No one
gets a second warning from me. Not any more. We'll pre-
tend this never happened, that we had a - . . disagreement
within the ranks and reached a compromise."
He rubbed his neck, stretching his head side to side.
"You call this a compromise?"
"You agreed I'm not for you, I agreed not to kill you.
Seems like a fair exchange to me."
"And does Rhomandi get the same?"
"No proof he is the Rhomandi."
"Only to you."
"You believe a cutpurse so easily? I'm surprised at you."
"He's not a cutpurse."
"Whatever."
"Not that either, Kiyrstin. He's Mauritum. Garetti's."
"Garetti's . . . what""
"Spy. One of his source men." The triumph was back,
but tempered this time, with a hint of sullen obstinacy.
"Let me make certain I understand you correctly. Anhe-
liaa hired a Mauritumin spycorrection, Garetti's spyto
assassinate her nephew. A contract he failed to fulfill, and
now he's here."
"That's right. And before you ask, I contacted him
through old channels. Promised him better than he's getting
from Garetti."
"And better than from Anheliaa?"
"He hasn't been in Rhomatum for months. 1 had to
know, Kiyrstin."
"Know what?"
"What we were getting into. Names. Access people
within the Rhomatum Tower. We had to know. Garetti
kept us all too ignorant of affairs in Rhomatum."
"Nahies. I suppose names like the Rhomandi's. And his
brothers. Which, if he's telling the truthif you arewould
have been highly useful to me several days ago. So why
hadn't you shared this so-important information with me
before?"
"Because I feared you'd react just as you are, dammit.
Equating him with Garetti rather than thanking the rings
we've got him. Suspicious of all he claimedparticularly
where it involved your precious JD."
"He joined us before Deymio," she pointed out, forcing
a pause: Van hadn't expected her to notice.
Silly him.
"Yes, well, that was a bonus, wasn't it?"
"Yes, of course." It was almost fun watching the sHck-
tongued Vandoshin slip around in his own slime. "And how
long have you suspected Deymio's true identity? Were you
planning on keeping me in the dark about him as well . . .
until the proper time, of course?"
"Karod wasn't certain. He wouldn't commit until I pres-
sured him."
"Didn't know the man he was hired to exterminate?
Careless of him, don't you think?"
"He never got a really good look at him, never thought
to equate your find with his target until I filled him in on
what I knew. Something I was hesitant to do, until you
forced me into it."
"I see. My fault is it?"
"I'm not pointing fingers, Kiyrstin. I'm trying to save
your hideand mine, thank you very much. Anheliaa
wants her nephew dead. Who am I to argue? I'm sure she
has ample reason. We've got him. We need her help. Let's
take him to heras a group, dammitand"
"No! We don't need Rhomatum, don't need a Tower.
Only a safe haven. A few quiet contacts. Deymio thinks he
can provide that."
"Anheliaa"
"Give it up, Van. You know how ringmen feel about the
encapsulators."
"I'm a ringman, have you forgotten?"
"Never." She gave him a tight smile and stepped across
the wagon tongue. "See you later, Van."
The wedding ceremony was surprisingly painless.
The weather was (naturally) perfect, give or take a dis-
tant rumble and flash in the direction of Khoratum, and
fortunately Nikki's rather unimaginative wife-soon-to-be
had chosen The Abduction of Pantrina, the most common
(and implausible) of the Reenactment plays, so that even
without yesterday's rehearsal, Nikki only forgot two of
his lines, a transgression Lidye happily attributed to his
excitement at the upcoming (a delicate blush) consumma-
tion.
Rings, Nikki thought, and wondered if his queasy stom-
ach coupled with the desire to put one's fists through walls
was the way Tirise's young ladies felt their first night on
the job, and decided likely it wasn't, since mostly they
seemed to enjoy their life.
Khyel still looked at him as if he were moon-touched,
but did justice to both his partshis own and Deymorin's,
as acting head of House Rhomandi. Nikki hadn't explained
to Mikhyel his agreement with Anheliaa; and from the way
Mikhyel acted, neither had Anheliaa told him. Whatever
Anheliaa's reasons were for his own, Mikhyel was both too
ill, and too potentially clever to confide in. If Mikhyel tried
to help, he might do himself serious harm; and if Mikhyel
wanted to stand in the way of his postnuptial plans, he
could probably succeed, given sufficient warning.
But soon, within hours even, it would be too late. Thanks
to Ben, the expedition to find Deymorin was falling
smoothly into place. Horses, equipment, suppliesand
menwould be awaiting his orders tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow morning. Only some thirteen hours and a
handful of orbits away.
Evening arrived on a sunset-stained lake and the long,
sloping pasturelands of a wide, flatland oasis nestled be-
tween wooded hills to the north and east.
Darhaven.
About time, Kiyrstin thought as she paused to catch her
balance and her breath.
And not a sheep in sight. Plenty of horses, in more sizes,
shapes, and colors than seemed really necessary for a crea-
ture designed to cart people about between leys, but no
sheep, white, black or otherwise.
More importantly, down near that lake, at the far end of
the well-worn track they followed, there was a very large
stone house, a veritable mansion, surrounded by smaller
human dwellings as well as outbuildings, barns, and pad-
docks populated with still more horses. And in that
houseshe'd been promisedfood, hot water ... and a
bed. A real bed with real linens and real pillows.
The man hadn't lied, in one sense: not only had he called
the arrival time practically to the instant, he'd never fal-
tered at a turning in the trail, regardless which fork ap-
peared the better travelled.
So, he knew the territory. So might several hundred oth-
ers in Rhomatum Valley.
"Well,  shepherdess?" Just  Deymio's voice  sounded
above her, and his hand settled on her shoulderfor bal-
ance, she thought, as he stepped over-a tangle of exposed
roots, but he paused beside her pressing close to let Zandy
squeeze past them. "What do you think?"
"It's very . .. green," she answered. "And wet. I should
imagine the horses love it."
He laughed easily, and his hand slid naturally behind her
until his arm rested across her shoulders. Warmth. Friend-
ship . . . nothing more came through that hold. She glanced
up at him, at dark eyes oblivious to her, whose depths
reflected those sunset colors as he drank in the image
spread before them.
"Darius' haven indeed," she murmured, and Just Dey-
mio's haven as well, regardless of who owned it in name.
If ever she'd seen pure unadulterated love on a man's face
. . . which she couldn't honestly say she had, but if she had,
she was certain it would match the expression on Dey-
mio's face.
It was a thought that gave her no particular pleasure,
bringing, as it must, weight to Vandoshin's claims, and
greater uncertainty to her increasingly uncertain future.
Uncertain, she thought, as Deymio left her and joined
the boy downslope, except that her future would not in-
clude Vandoshin romMaurii. Even should all his warnings
and suspicions prove accurate.
It wasn't simply his rather sudden and ineffectual aggres-
sion that brought her to that decision: obviously, he'd either
had a complete and unfathomable reversal of attitude, or
she'd simply been that blind to his growing personal interest
in her, or that apparent interest was just Vandoshin rom-
Maurii's way of getting what he obviously (and erron-
eously)  assumed every other priest and nobleman in
Mauritum had had. Whatever the reason, she doubted it
would have been enough to sever relations with him
altogether.
On the other hand, she was certain she wanted nothing
to do with any individual who would seriously consider
turning any halfway decent human beinglet alone a man
such as Deymioover to almost certain death while other
options existed. Such cold-bloodedness indicated a cruel
streak in the priest she'd never before considered.
But then, she hadn't considered much at all where Van-
doshin romMaurii was concerned, had taken for granted
relationships any marginally sensible woman would have
clarified from the beginning. Six months ago, riding the
rather heady optimism of her successful escape from Mauri-
tum Tower, she'd naively accepted Van's appearance and
offered assistance as both fortuitous and logical: Zandy's
presence in Mauritum had, after all, provided the impetus
for Van's departure as well as hers.
Once he'd joined them, once they were on the road and
surrounded by his men. Van had encouraged her wildest
notions, embellished them with diagrams drawn in the dirt,
images of non-ley power centers and a web of encapsulator
wires radiating out from that center exactly like leylines
from a node city, only without a ley's physical limits. He'd
sat next to her on a moonlit hillside and pointed to dimly-
lit  farmhouses  and  helped  her  imagine  them  aglow  with
Zandy's artificial light.
And she'd accepted that vision as perfectly plausible.
Convinced herself that all they needed to do was get to
Rhomatum, where the value of an idea was judged, not by
a suspicious, self-serving priesthood, but by the interest of
suspicious, self-serving investors.
ahe'd honestly believed that once she was in the Rho-
mandi's presence everything would fall into place. That the
Princeps of Rhomatum, practical and independent thinker
that he was reputed to be, would instantly fathom the possi-
bilities and set Zandyand incidentally herselfup for life.
Sometimes, she amazed even herself at how simple-
minded she could be.
"Hey, shepherdess!" Deymio's shout filled the air. "You
going to spend the night up there?"
She shook herself awake and headed downslope after
Deymorin and the boy, who were once again swinging
along the trail, carrying the encapsulator on a sling be-
tween them.
Zandy's future she was less concerned about. Whatever
the truth behind Just Deymio's prevarication, she was cer-
tain Zandy would be cared for: youth and innocence had a
way of getting to Just Deymio. When he was with the boy,
his eyes held a hint of the same look he'd given Darhaven.
Obviously you lack younger brothers. . . .
And the Rhomandi, according to Vandoshin's worm,
had two.
Damn.
Of the several barns, Deymio chose the one closest to
the human dwellingsthe foaling barn, so he called it
where (according to him) little would be happening at this
time of day, since (also according to him) mares tended to
belike all womencontrary, choosing to drop their foals
in the earliest morning hours.
She'd heard more about horses in the past few hours
than she'd ever wanted to know.
As had Barrinni and Thon, the two guardsmen Van had
insisted upon sending with them. Earlier that day, they'd
grown bored and dropped back, remaining shadows in the
woods, rejoining them now as they came up on the barn.
A barn that was indeed quiet. The barn was, in fact, in
darkness, save for the light filtering in through the open
doors between stalls and paddocks. The clean smell of fresh
straw, hay, and grain filled the air, along with the steady
rustle and crunch of horses at their dinner.
Without hesitation, Deymio slipped in with the first occu-
pant. A soft word, a pass of the hand, and the nervous
horse settled, nuzzling him with obvious expectation.
Nature of the beast? Or recognition? Difficult to judge
when one's exposure to the creatures was limited to Ali-
zant's mules.
He slipped, without word or gesture, into the next stall
down, where he received a similar response from its
inhabitant.
"We're safe," he said, rejoining them.
"Safe, how?"
"They're a good week or more from dropping. No one
will bother coming out to check on them until the final
rounds tonight."
"Why not? How can you be so sure?"
He laughed, almost silently. "Trust me. With these two,
I'm sure. As to why not, we prefer to leave them undis-
turbed as much as possible, in these final days. You'll be
safe here, until I contact Dal."
We? But she let that pass, marking it for later referral.
"Dal? Who's Dal?"
"Th' head groom, m'lady," Zandy's whisper inserted.
"Warn't 'ee listenin'?"
"Evidently not well enough."
"You all stay here. I can trust Dal. Anything significant,
he'll know. Won't take long." He grinned disarmingly, re-
laxed and truly happy for the first time since he'd dropped
on her head.
In control. Utterly and completely in his territory.
"All right," she hissed, "all right. Just hurry, will you?"
"Your wish is"
"Stuff it. We'll be over therebehind that stack of hay."
He nodded and headed for the door.
"And, JD?" An eye glimmered over his shoulder; she
patted her pocket. "Don't make me use this."
A fraction more face appeared and his teeth gleamed in
the minimal light. "Wouldn't think of it, shepherdess. Might
frighten the horses."
He disappeared out the same small side door they'd en-
tered, and Kiyrstin threw herself down in a mound of
sweet-smelling hay to wait. With her luck, that sweet smell
was likely a cause of sneezing and red, running noses like
the damned sheep and so many Outside things, but at this
point, her aching feet and back didn't care in the least
about her nose.
Alizant poked about a bit, then dropped down beside
her, burrowing into the hay, shifting constantly until ac-
cepting her invitation to use her lap as a pillow.
She picked a few stray bits of leaf and twigs from his
hair, then left him alone. Such a nice boy. Hard working.
Sincere. And bright. Probably why his masters had encour-
aged him to leave. Masters, in her experience, preferred to
surround themselves with people less skilled than them-
selves. Terrible to admit a younger manor womancould
do your job better.
Easier to get himor herout of the way.
Partners with a twelve-year-old. . . .
She yawned and leaned back against the prickly hay, rest-
ing her eyes.
Better than some alternatives she could imagine.
The guardsmen had retreated into a corner to wait.
They'd been friendly enough on the trail, but, like all those
who'd defected with Vandoshin, they said little to anyone
outside their group. Depending on Deymio's findings,
they'd go backeither with supplies and instructions to
wait, or a message for Van and the others to come ahead.
She wished now she'd found a way to leave the
guardsmen behind, along with the gold and the greater en-
capsulator. But there'd been no chance to discuss the prob-
lem with Deymio, and Kiyrstin doubted it would have made
any difference. If Van wanted what Deymio could get here,
he'd have had them followed. Just as well to know, she
supposed, whose eyes were on them.                   ,
The boy's head grew heavy in her lap; the last of the
light from the doors faded, and still no Deymio. One more
night on straw and hard ground, when she'd been promised
hot water . . . and a, sweet Maurii, real bed.
Van was right. She should never have agreed to this;
she'd been blinded by the man's charisma and would have
to pay for it in the . . .
The main door burst open; lamplight flooded the stable.
"Kiyrstin? Alizant?"
The lamp swung  inside;  all pretense  of stealth
abandoned.
"Barinni! Thon! Up, you lazy bastards. Dinner's waiting!
Get your butts inside where it's warm!"
"Oh, shut up and give us a lift, JD," Kiyrstin growled,
and unwinding herself from the yawning, muttering youth,
held out an imperious hand. Deymio's broad paw clamped
tight and drew her to her feet with an energetic jerk that
snapped her neck. She cursed softly, and he apologized
while brushing the hay from her numb backside.
"Took long enough," she grumbled, and shook off his
hands, secretly relieved that he'd returned at all. "Zandy?
Come, boy, wake up, so you can go inside and fall asleep."
Laughter happened, from beyond Deymio, and a grin-
ning giant carrying a second lantern stepped inside. "Have
to watch out for this little lady, eh, Deymio-lad?"
"If only you knew, Dal." Deymio helped Zandy to his
feet, steadying him with a far more solicitous touch than
the one he'd offered her. When a quiet: Okay, son? gained
him a sleepy nod, he released the boy with a Good lad,
and headed down the aisle.
Away from the door.
With the light.
"This the new filly, Dal?" came out of the lampgl~re,,
and on a soft whistle. "Thank the gods she didn't lose
it  Well done,  old girl,  well done.  Kiyrstin?  Alizant?
Come here. You don't want to miss this."
"Don't I?"
But as Zandy was already moving obediently away from
the open door and toward that light, Kiyrstin was obliged
to follow. Deymio was inside another stall-this one had
two occupants, and his grinning face was just visible over
the back of the larger beast.
"It's a baby horse," she said, striving for enthusiasm past
aching joints and sore feet.
"Brilliant, shepherdess. Isn't she gorgeous?"
"Stunning." She quit striving.
"C'n I come in, zur?" Zandy asked, his voice barely
above a whisper.
"Sure, son. And you can speak and move naturallythis
little lady needs to become accustomed to it. Just no jerks
or jumps, shouts or squeals, regardless of what she does,
understand?"
"Yes, zur."
The wide-eyed boy moved cautiously into the stall. The
baby jumped back from the new presence in her small
world, but Deymio was positioned perfectly to catch her
and clamp her quietly against his body in a single deft mo-
tion, dexterously averting panic on the side of the baby
horse and dismay on the part of the boy.
The boy never realized, and soon he was petting and
scratching and cooing as disgustingly as his older benefac-
tor. Deymio backed away slowly, leaving the two together,
ready to intercede, should the need arise.
Not the skill of a fair-weather sportsman, and not the
first  time  he'd  introduced  inexperienced  adolescents  to
the creatures.
Obviously you lack younger brothers. . . .
That he was a master manipulator, she had evidence in
plenty before her. Evidence enough to make a woman con-
sider what else Just Deymio might have manipulated in the
past few days.
The master manipulator was at the mare's side, now, ex-
amining her, first, then at her head, rubbing it tenderly.
"Wish you'd been here when this sweetheart dropped,
Deymio-lad," Dal was saying. "Came out runnin', she did.
She'll do her mama and papa proud, I guarantee."
"Wish I had, too." Wistful. And as if, maybe, he'd
planned to be. As if he had every reason to assume he
would have been, should have been, had he not been fight-
ing for his life in a far-off mountain lake. Then, with a
disarming, over-the-shoulder grin. "Excuse us, shepherdess.
Boring reminiscences."
They moved to the next stall, where noises indicated yet
more inhabitants, from where Deymio's deep voice said,
defying all attempts to keep it inaudible, "Best take them
into summer pasture early. Tomorrow, if possible, those
that can manage. Cart the foals, if necessary. I'll take
Ringer"
"Ringer's not here, m'lord."
"Not?"
"Haven't seen him since you left last fall, m'lord." Dal's
voice dropped beyond her hearing. "Then:
"Damn. Well ... I'll take Skylark, then. You ride
Brandy, and keep him separate. Smoker and Koko are safe
to pasture breed."
"Make the boys happy, but it'll be hard to predict foaling
times next spring."
"Have to make do, Dal."
"Nervous, m'lord?"
"Just not certain what will come of all this, and I want
them where I know they're safe."
Reminiscences her pickled petunia's pompoms.
The question was, did he, or did he not intend for her
to hear 'm'lord' casually ordering the disposition of Rho-
mandi's prize breeding stock.
She supposed it was remotely possible Rhomandi's
friendJust Deymiocould be a partner in this breeding
facility. He certainly was no retainer. JD issued orders, he
didn't take them: no great insight on her part there.
Keeping her eyes on Zandy, she asked, loud enough for
Deymio to hear: "So, JD, where is he?"
"He?"
Such charming confusion. Forget who we came to find,
did you, JD?
". . . oh, Rhomandi."
Brush of metal against wood: the far stall door closing;
and Deymio stepped back into the double circle of
lamplight.
"Unfortunately, no. We'll have to go on to Armayel to-
morrow. At least from here we don't have to walk."
"Music to the ears, JD."
He grinned broadly, and assuming a hostlike joviality, he
detached Zandy from the baby and waved them all out the
barn door and up a gravelled path toward the big house
that loomed against the night sky, a single light gleaming
in its uppermost tower.
It had been a long day, but every day seemed long since
his illness. The doctors called it relapses. Claimed he was
working too hard.
Mikhyel called it an excess of in-laws.
Nikki's were bad enough, but Nethaalye's parents had
ridden in on the first wave of wedding guests, demanding
to know why Nikki and Lidye were getting married before
their daughter, who, he must realize (as if he weren't in-
volved at all), had been long since promised.
Nethaalye had done her best to intercede with them, but
tonight, after an exhaustive morning-long emergency ses-
sion with city merchants demanding restitution following
the power lapse, after Nikki's wedding ceremony and an
afternoon dodging questions about both his brothers, for
which he had no answers, he'd had Nethaalye's father de-
manding reassurances, in front of everyone, that his daugh-
ter's wedding would be as lavish and well-attended, and
complained of his cool treatment of her.
How That Man ever sired Nethaalye . . .
Over the years he'd come to respect the woman he was
destined to mafry and to heed her opinions, and there were
times he'd actually looked forward to the day he'd have
her level head to consult of an evening. Having agreed long
ago that overt affection was . . . mutually distasteful, they'd
settled into a quiet relationship that confused someone like
Nethaalye's father . . . or Nikki. He'd explained to Nikki
following Nikki's unfair attack on herbut damned if he'd
explain to . . . That Man.
Strangulation. He'd had daydreams of the man and an
attitudinal chunk of beef. Perhaps a chicken bone.
Instead, it had been himself who had choked and cof-
lapsed at the wedding feast. Embarrassing, but it had gotten
him free of the lot, and an early bed.
Free of everyone but Mirym.
But lying facedown on his grooming table, steamed into
pleasant  nirvana,  while  Mirym's  small,  strong  fingers
rubbed knotted muscles loose with sweet-smelling oil, he
couldn't really object to her presence. Certainly Raulind
had candidly appreciated the time off, after the strain of
the past week.
Nikki had brought Mirym to him, saying she'd offered
her services, but Mikhyel knew better. Anheliaa, who had
taken to demanding Lidye's constant attendancewhich
meant Nethaalye, as well, fair being fairhad declared
Mirym extraneous and assigned her to fetch and carry for
Mikhyel, never considering the embarrassment it might
cause them both, or even asking did he want someone fuss-
ing over him.
But that embarrassment hadn't lasted. Mirym was well-
accustomed to the sickroom, seeming to know before he
did when a pillow wanted adjusting or when a glass of room
temperature fruit juice was exactly what would make the
headache subside. Best of all, when he wanted to rest, the
young woman could sit calmly for hours, sipping tea and
stitching, or reading, yet always there when a coughing fit
overcame him, to support a glass of Diorak's foul-tasting
liquid, or to fetch an extra blanket when he suddenly
chilled.
Mirym's fingers worked up under his braid, moved it
gently aside to infiltrate the tight tendons at the base of his
skull. He buried his head in his crossed arms, giving her
access, understanding, after years of performing a similar
task for Anheliaa, why his old and arthritic aunt was so
fond of it, why she'd insisted, following her lifetime com-
panion's death, on his being trained in the art, and he had
to wonder, though not for long or very energetically, who
had trained Mirym, whose fingers seemed uncannily
sentient.
Sweet little thing. He couldn't believe he'd ever harbored
doubts about her. Too bad she and Nikki couldn't have . . .
but Nikki was well and truly married nowor would be
after tonight and the contract signing in the morningand
Nikki insisted he'd have no other wives, no seconds to Lidye's
first.
He could understand the reasoning: Lidye was a shrew in
a rabbit's pelt; he'd have himself a second just to avoid her.
At least Nethaalye was innocuous. And Nethaalye
wouldn't mind. Nethaalye was as inclined to stay clear of
his bed as he was to keep it clear.
Mirym's clever touch released his hair from its braid and
combed it loose, a simple act that was, in itself, a soothing
massage. She then worked her fingertips in little circles
along his scalp and forward to his temples.
If Nikki wouldn't have her, perhaps he would take the
girl as a second . . . if she were interested. But he'd wager
otherwise. He'd wager Mirym wanted
The entry-bell's light chime cut the thought short.
Mirym's fingers stilled and, after giving his shoulders a
gentle press, left him.
He let his head sink into the cushions, feigning sleep.
The door opened.
A voice asked: "How is he?"
Nikki's voice.
He abandoned pretense, and shoved himself up on one
elbow, answering for himself past the raw pain in his throat:
"I'm fine, Nik. Come inplease."
Nikki, edging past Mirym, said from the doorway: "I
didn't mean to interrupt you."
"You didn't." He swung his legs down and drew the
towel over his lap, accepted the robe Mirym placed around
his bare shoulders, with an absent word of thanks.
Nikki smiled at Mirym, greeted her kindly, but the smile
was forced, the lines about his eyes painfully pronounced.
"Nikki, \vhat's wrong?" He coughed, stilled it with a sip
from the glass Mirym placed in his hand. "Is it the wed-
ding? You can still call it off, you know. The contract's
aren't signed. If Anheliaa's forcing you"
But Nikki was shaking his head. "I can't claim that, Mik-
hyel, not at all. But ..." The worried frown deepened.
"After the wedding . . ." His eyes flickered toward Mirym.
Darius save them both, had the boy come to him for
advice about the woman waiting in his own chambers? He
asked, as steadily as embarrassment would allow: '"Would
you like Mirym to leave?"
"Nothing she doesn't already know."
"I have been kept out of the information stream, haven't
I?" Resentment welled, and he dropped his eyes until he
had the unproductive emotion under control.
"I didn't want you bothered," Nikki stated abruptly.
"You had enough to worry about, what with your health
and the lawsuits and all, and for a while I wasn't certain . . .
Nothing was going right, but now Ben and the others"
"Slow up, boy. Ben, who? What others? And please
bother me, will you?"
Nikki's expression hardened with resolve. "That's not
why I'm here. I just came to tell you I'm leaving tomorrow.
I'm going after Deymorin."
"You've found him?" he asked, and hope surged, only
to sink again when Nikki shook his head.
"Anheliaa claims she can pinpoint his location, promised
to tell metomorrow. Before the contract signing."
But after the bedding. So, Nikki had struck a deal: a wife
for a brotheror more correctly, a child for Anheliaa's
help. Covered herself, their aunt did. A man had to wonder
whetherand if so, howAnheliaa had likewise insured
her plans against the biological game of chance that gov-
erned conception.
Assuming Anheliaa had covered that contingency, and
assuming she did locate Deymorin, Nikki would be leaving
tomorrow, going Out into a world that remained a dis-
turbing mystery to Mikhyel, armed only with aged strangers
to protect him against that unknown and to deal as well
with whatever, if any, danger Deymorin himself was in.
"Surely you realize I can't let you go, Nikki," he said,
out of that worried logic. "Not alone."
"How do you plan to stop me, Khyel? Lock me in a
closet and throw the key away?"
Suddenly, it was as if someone had sucked the air from
Mikhyel's lungs. And from Nikki's widening eyes, startled
at first, then dawning comprehension, he suspected Nikki
sensed the effect his seemingly trifling words had had. He
was certain Nikki knew when Nikki finished softly:
"Somehow, I don't think so, Khyel. Not you."
Or perhaps it wasn't insight. Perhaps Nikki shared a simi-
lar shortness of breath, that same racing heartbeat, the
chills that thoughts of the closet and locked doors roused
in himself. All these years he'd believed Nikki blissfully
ignorant. Nikki had been only four that last time, easily
young enough to forget. He'd always hoped Nikki had for-
gotten it all. The closet. Their father. . . .
That day.
Certainly Nikki had never mentioned it. Until now.
He was shaking, unable, for some reason, to move except
for that palsy. The robe fell and Mirym was beside him,
silently urging him to put his arms into the sleeves, then
pulling it up and closed in the front, casting accusatory
glares at Nikki.
But Nikki remained calm, knowing exactly what mon-
sters he'd conjured, and refusing to back down from them,
an adult over whom such monsters should hold no sway.
And he, like Nikki, was an adult now. The monsters as
impotent against him as they were against Nikki, except
that Nikki was right: because of the monsters they'd shared,
his options for controlling his brother's actionsfor pro-
tecting him from harmwere . . . limited: Mikhyel, son of
Mheric could never take that particular measure against
anyone he cared forespecially Nikki.
"I" He paused, shamefully aware of his physical weak-
ness, worse of his own character deficiencies. Deymorin was
Outside, that much was certain. He hated the Outside.
Worse, he feared it, more than ever since this last trip. But
for Nikki . . . for Deymorin . . . He swallowed hard. "I'll go
with you."
"Outside?" Nikki's voice hinted of mockery. "And con-
sidering the condition you're in? What good would that
do?" Nikki smiled then, a mature smile that held only a
suggestion of his former affability, a smile that masked
adult-depth sentiments. "Thanks anyway, Mikhyel, but
you're needed here. Council needs you. The City does, and
Gari, as well. I'm . . . superfluous."
A smile, as was that final statement, designed to ease the
sting of his words. God, how Nikki had changed in the half-
year since Deymorin . . .
God, how they'd all changed.
"Superfluous, Nikki?" he protested. "Never!"
Nikki raised a hand. "We both know the truth of that,
Mikhyel. Don't obscure it with falseand unnecessary
reassurances. I'll legitimize Lidye's claim, then do some-
thing useful. For everyone. You needn't worry about me.
Benhe's a lightwatchman that served in the Guard with
DeymorinBen is going with me, and bringing several of
the old Guard with him. I'll be well looked after. And I
will find Deymorin, Mikhyel, I promise."
So, some things hadn't changed. Finding a purpose. Being
usefulon his own, not as an adjunct to someone else.
Those were old, old concerns of Nikki's. And maybe Nikki
was right. Maybe this was the time to let him go. To let
him prove himself.
And surely, if Deymorin were in real danger, something
would have come to him, one of his sources would have
found something. More than likely, Deymorin had decided
he'd had enough; more than likely, Deymorin was simply
staying away of his own accord, in which case Nikki was in
no real danger.
"Take care of yourself, Nikki," he said, that being the
only caution he could justify. "If something's happened to
him - . . if you're caught up in the same web . . ."
"We'd know, wouldn't we, Khyel?"
He stifled a shiver. "Would we?"
"Don't fight knowing too hard. Barrister," Nikki said
shortly, and headed toward the door.
Deymio, don't go . . . Mikhyel swallowed the whisper that
never quite happened. The broad-shouldered retreating
figure wasn't Deymorin, regardless of the words and tone.
But a man had to wonder, who had shared with his brothers
those nightmares in Anheliaa's tower, where Deymorin
ended and Nikki began.
Nikki paused at Mirym's side to murmur: "Take care of
him, mistress."
"Don't worry about me," Mikhyel answered for her,
drawing Nikki's attention, seeking a final image of Nikki
to offset the sense of Deymorin. "She plays a wicked game
of Rings and Dancers. Or, we talk. . . ."
"Talk?" Nikki glanced back at him granting him that
image.
Mikhyel nodded toward a notepad and container of
sharpened pencils on the bedside table. "And when we tire
of that, she plays the harp for me."
Nikki's jaw tightened, and he turned for the door. "Per-
haps one day, she'll do me the honor. Good night, Mik-
hyel. Mirym."
Alizant fell asleep in the tub.
Deymorin received the news as he climbed the shallow
steps from his own bath.
"Damn," he said, filled with sudden guilt, "I shouldn't
have left them so long in the barn."
"Wasn't your fault, m'lord," Tonami said, as he tossed a
fire-warmed robe over Deymorin's shoulders, and pulled
his hair free. "We didnt give you much chance at the first,
now did we? And what could you expect, what with you
being gone six months and more and without so much as
a word?"
Deymorin collapsed onto the grooming couch. "I
suppose."
"When Dal came in, I'd have sworn he'd seen a ghost.
Thought I had, at first. Worried, we've been." Tonami at-
tacked his hair as he talked, first with the towel, squeezing
the moisture from the long strands and rubbing the scalp
vigorously, then lifting and spreading the heavy mass to the
fire's drying heat.
Felt bloody wonderful, as had the hot bath.
Getting soft in your old age, ID, he thought, and chuckled
to himself at the nickname he'd unconsciously adopted
from the shepherdess.
Shepherdess . . . rings, he only wished she were.
As for Zandy, he couldn't blame the boy for fading. He'd
pushed them all hard, getting here before nightfall.
"Well, we won't wake him."
"Couldn't if you wanted to, from what Jem says."
"Make sure there's something to eat in his room; fruit,
bread, cheeseKoorii knows better than I what will stay
edible and still tempt a youngster."
"That, he does, m'lord."
"M'lord? What happened to Deymio?"
"Making sure you remember, m'lord."
"Oh, stuff it. And have Jem set up a cot in there with
him. Don't want him waking up alone and scared, do we?"
"Thoughtful of you, m'lord."
"Oh, stuff it twice, Tonio." He chuckled and sat back
in the cushions while his sometime valet/sometime paper-
hustler/full-time personal meddler worked the tangles from
his hair. He was in no rush.
The Darhaven staff, good-natured and efficient, had had
rooms ready before they'd arrived from the barn, though
the choice of facilities, on such short notice, had been
limited.
His roomsthe master suite, and the associated servant
quarterswere always maintained and ready. Beyond
those, the housekeeper had informed him, the most re-
cently cleaned and aired was the nursery in which he,
Nikki, and Mikhyel had all grown up. He'd assigned the
servants' quarters at the back of the house for romMaurii's
houndsand set two men to make certain they didn't wan-
der about; the staff had immediately adopted Zandy; while
Kiyrstina man had to chuckle at the imageKiyrstin got
the nursery.
The kitchen had set out a buffet in the breakfast parlor,
and he'd implored his guests not to stand on ceremony, but
to eat when and as they pleased. Personally, he'd been
more interested in the bath ... until the water began to
cool and his stomach voted otherwise. But he placated the
new majority with a glass of wine, wanting to eat his dinner
in peaceful solitude, perhaps fall asleep beside the fire in
the library.
He was ready forneededa night of quiet and nor-
malcy. Rings knew he wasn't likely to get another opportu-
nity in the near future.
Downstairs, Kiyrstin would be waiting for him, because
Kiyrstin was increasingly suspicious of him and Kiyrstin
wanted answers. He should have confessed who he was
before major issues of trust were at risk.
But it wasn't just his honesty at issue. A man had to
wonder just how committed Kiyrstine romGaretti was to
Alizant's future. Had to wonder if she, like the priest, was
more interested in entry into Rhomatum than in the boy's
machine, and if they all weren't in some fashion agents of
a Mauritum High Priest who had finally tired of paying
Rhomatum taxes.
Prevaricating with the woman would be much easier if
only she didn't feel so damned comfortable. And perhaps
that was his main reason for not telling her: a desire not
to disturb the status quo in either direction. Fearful of her
discovering his truthsequally reluctant to discover hers.
Tired as he was, he couldn't trust his own judgmentor
discretionany longer, if they met in private; and late
though it was getting, she might still be downstairs.
He finished his wine and poured another glass.
According to Tonami, the primary rumor out of Rhoma-
tum was of impending marriages: Mikhyel and Nethaalye
(only surprise there was that Anheliaa was willing to ap-
prove it, under her newfound qualifications), but Nikki and
Lidye dunTarim? That crone masquerading as an ingenue
was the gold-digging, fair-haired youngest of a notoriously
power-hungry Family. How could Anheliaa consider such
a match for his unsophisticated brother?
He had to get to Armayel. In addition to the most recent
information on Nikki's impending wedding, Gareg might
well have sagacious insight into both his brothers' current
attitudes. According to Tonami, Mikhyel had been a regu-
lar visitor to Armayel since Deymorin's disappearance six
months ago.
Poor Khyel. He doubted the Barrister had had an easy
time of it with the overseer, particularly since, from To-
nami's reports, he also doubted any of last fall's drainage
plans had been implemented.
But from Armayel, he'd have easy and discreet access to
his brothers. At Armayel, he could meet with Nikki outside
the City and Anheliaa's influence. And Khyel as well. He'd
promised Nikki a family meeting, after all, once upon what
must be a painfully long time ago for Nikki.
A very long time, though it seemed less than a week to
him, and depressing as it might be to an older brother,
the possibility always existed that the marriage was Nikki's
choice. Possible that Anheliaa's ring games and the skip
through time had addled his own memories of his brothers,
or the months in Anheliaa's clutches had altered his broth-
ers forever.
Before taking action, he needed time alone with them.
Because if it wasn't Nikki's choiceor, for that matter,
no longer Khyel'she would take action, of some sort,
even if that action was no more than hauling both brothers
bodily back here to Darhaven. Let Anheliaa chase them
see how far she got with the locals.
See how far she got with Council, once they got wind of
her high-handedness and realized any one of them could
be the next seared and drowned corpse.
See how far she got once Council knew there were op-
tions to Anheliaa's autocratic rules. RomMaurii wasn't the
only ambitious man fate held captive. There were others
who might well desire to be in on the ground floor develop-
ment of Alizant's machine.
He could be in Armayel tomorrow evening . . . well, per-
haps the following morning, since he'd have Kiyrstin and
the boy; he couldn't leave them here alone, certainly didn't
want to send them back to romMaurii. While it was possi-
ble that the priest and Kiyrstin were well-suited, instinct
told him otherwise, and barring evidence to the contrary,
he'd trust his gut.
Better to harbor a snake than hazard an innocent.
Harbor was one thing. Consort withthat was some-
thing else.
He poured another drink.
"Please tell Lord Nikaenor that my lady awaits." The maid
dipped a curtsy, and flitted away in a flurry of petticoats
and giggles.
Jerrik closed the door, then approached Nikki with a
mincing step and squeaked in a high falsetto: "My lady"
"I heard, you idiot."
Nikki leaned an elbow on the dressing table and propped
his freshly-shaven chin in his hand, staring at himself in
the mirror's bevelled edge. The fractured image seemed
somehow singularly appropriate at the moment.
"Don't do this, Nik." Jerrik's image appeared above his,
and Jerrik's hands rested lightly on his shoulders, friend for
the moment, not servant.
"Not exactly the Dream, is it, Jerri?" He grinned tightly,
then sat back in his chair and handed Jerrik the comb.
"Get to it, will you? Sooner started"
"Sooner ended? Rings, Nik, it's not worth it."
"For once, old friend, you're wrong. Ouch!" His head
jerked with the force Jerrik put behind a tangled curl.
"Easy!"
"Sorry," Jerrik mumbled, and worked the snarl loose
with his fingers before attacking the rat's nest again. But
while the touch gentled, Jerrik's expression stayed angry,
frustrated.
Nikki turned and grabbed his wrist. "I'm the one who
should apologize, Jerri. It's just ... you don't know the
whole, and I can't tell you. If you knew, you'd understand.
Marriage for mefor any heir to the Estatecan't be dic-
tated by personal preference. I know that. I always have,
despite what I've spouted to you in private. Lidye ... I
thought I could love her. I was wrong, wrong." He
shrugged. "I've run out of time. Anheliaa has. Anheliaa
needs her. The City, so Anheliaa claims, needs Lidye's
child. Hers and mine."
Jerrik looked slightly ill, but a squeeze to his shoulder
assured him Jerri's judgment did not find him wanting.
He released his valet's wrist and faced the mirror again.
"It can't be that bador that difficult. I mean, animals do
it on cue all the time, right?"
"You're not a horse."
"No? Too bad."
"That's it. Tie her up and have someone hold a twitch
on her to keep her from kicking."
It took a moment for the image to filter past the blank
spot that was his vision of the imminent future, but when
it did, he collapsed arms and head onto the table, helpless
with half-hysterical laughter. "You're awful."
"Got you laughing, didn't I?" A fist shoved between his
shoulders and a tug on his hair brought him back upright.
"Everything will work out. You know what's expectedor
close enough. I told you to go back to Beauvina and
practice."
He choked again, swallowed the last of the wine in a
single gulp, and stood up. "Wish me luck."
"I wish I could say you wouldn't need it."
"You're so helpful."
Jerrik straighted his robe's lapels, tugged his belt tight,
and twisted it just so, then paused, and fingered the chain
around his neck.
"This better go, Nikki-lad, if you don't want civil war in
your wedding bed."
"Thanks," he said and bent his head while Jerrik unfas-
tened the chain and set it and the ring it heldDeymorin's
ringin a box on the dresser.
Anheliaa hadn't seen him slip the ring in his pocket the
night the rings crashed, nor had she had the gall to question
him about it since. He intended to keep it safe until he
could put the ring and the title back where it belonged.
Somehow, he doubted Lidye would see eye to eye'with
him on that topic.
Jerrik gave his hair a final pass, pulled a curl or two over
his shoulder, then pronounced him ready for the kill.
"What romantic imagery."
"Who said anything about romance? Just go break the
lady's heart." Jerrik's voice lost  the light-hearted lilt.
"Fair's fair, after all."
"My heart's not broken."
"Then it must be mine." Jerrik sighed heavily. "I'll be
here when you return, love. Waiting."
"Oh, stuff it."
"Where?"
"Jerrik!"
He was still chuckling to himself as he left the room.
The route to Lidye's room was eerily vacant, servants
and wedding guests alike granting them this one small pri-
vacy after a full day of being the center of everyone's
attention.
Anheliaa wanted the child conceived as close to the rings
as possible, and since Nikki had drawn the line at coupling
in the ringchamber itself, Lidye's rooms, in the Tower and
adjacent to Anheliaa's, had been the logical compromise.
Consummation in great-aunt's parlor. How appropriate.
In actual fact, he didn't care. He'd ceased to care about
that as he'd ceased to care about all else regarding the
marriage. At least this way, his room, the bed he'd had
since he left the nursery, remained his own, in every sense.
Outside Lidye's room, he pulled the silver chain that
would ring the little silver bell that would announce his
presence to those within. A carefully calculated time later,
the door opened on Lidye. Behind her, the room, gently
illuminated with vastly expensive flicker-lamps, was empty.
"May I come in?" he asked formally, relieved when his
voice didn't break.
Lidye, her eyes demurely lowered, nodded, and stepped
back, allowing him access. He stood in the middle of the
room while she closed the doorand set the boltwaiting
for some sense of . . . anticipation, he supposed. Or at least
remote excitement.
What he felt was nothing.
For all her obvious beauty, despite the feminine curves
molding the soft fabric of her modest high-necked night-
gown in all the appropriate ways, she left him unmoved,
even when she paused in front of him, so close her lace
hem touched his bare toes.
Eyes still lowered, she lifted a small hand to his chest.
It was trembling.
His tension melted. He covered her hand with his own,
and pressed it against him. Cupping her chin in his other
hand, he lifted her face to his and brushed his lips against
hers.
Gently, tentatively, she returned the caress, swaying
closer, off her balance so that he was forced to let go her
chin and hand to put his arms around her.
"Oh, Nikki." She sighed and cuddled against him. "I was
so afraid."
"Of me? That's silly. What could I do to you?"
"Reject me. Not want me. That we'd be wed, but ...
never..."
"Breed?" he finished for her. "That would be disastrous,
wouldn't it?" He didn't mean the sarcasm, at least, not
consciously, but it was out before he could stop it, and
regretted instantly, as she broke free, sobbing, and stum-
bled to the bed, falling into a cloud of soft frills.
"Lidye, I'm sorry!" He sank into the frills beside her,
and drew her up to his chest, holding her against violent
shivers and wracking sobs.  He searched the  tumbling
blonde hair for her face, found it, and kissed her again,
speaking gentle, nonsensical words, soothing her back to
coherency.
She was little more than a child herself, for all she was
five years his senior. She'd come to Rhomatum at his re-
quest, cloistered herself for months with Anheliaa, been
thrust into marriage with a virtual stranger. . . .
"It's  all  right,  Lidye,"  he  murmured  against  her
trembling lips. "I won't hurt you. I promise."
Her arms crept up and around his neck, her trembling
lips softened, opened, her weight shifted, overbalancing
them, and they fell back into the lacy froth and the down-
filled mattress.
Just Deymio was sitting by the fireside when Kiyrstin
entered the small library.
Curse the luck.
She'd eaten dinner first, knowing he'd opted to bathe,
then lingered in her own bath, trusting he'd eat and retire
immediately for the night, as eager to be alone with his
thoughts as she was to be with hers.
So why, she asked herself, did you come back down,
Kiyrstine romGaretti?
She told that self it was because she couldn't sleep, that
she'd wanted a book . . . or perhaps a glass of wine. But a
persistent, determinedly honest streak forced her to admit
she'd hoped to find exactly what she'd found: Just Dey-
mio alone.
A woman could deny the evidence staring her in the face
only so long; she wanted to give him the chance to admit
who he was, now he was on his home ground. To explain
why he'd kept silent, when to speak for himself, at least to
her, would have been so simple.
Perhaps he'd feared for his life, in a camp full of Mauri-
tum ex-guards and Rhomatum criminals, but there was no
reason to fear, now. Even if Anheliaa had thrown him out
for political differences, even if he hadn't the ability to ful-
fill any of the promises given and implied, they could work
things out.
If only he'd admit who he was.
She pulled the maid's borrowed robe more firmly over
the housekeeper's borrowed nightgown. "I must admit, JD,
you came through," she said, by way of opening.
He started, set his book down, and rose, turning to face
her. In his proper setting, dressed casually but as became
his station, in creased trousers and quilted dressing gown,
he was startingly imposing. So imposingly different, she mo-
mentarily questioned whether he really was her Deymio,
or some close relative.
Her Deymio. One did have to laugh at oneself.
"I'd assumed you'd gone to bed, shepherdess."
Doubt vanished.
"Couldn't sleep," she replied abruptly.
"I'm sorry. Are the accommodations"
"Fine, JD." Though she hadn't bedded down in a nursery
since she was seven. "Just not sleepy, yet." She looked
pointedly at the other chair.
"Please, sit down. Have you eaten?"
She nodded.
He gestured toward the cut-crystal carafe. "Join me?"
"Please."
He fetched a second glass from another room, a blown
goblet with Khaythnarum's distinctive glaze, and they set-
tled side by side, the warmth and crackle of the fire filling
the air, its glow the only source of light.
"Bit dim for reading, isn't it?"
He nodded toward a blank lamp. "It ran out. I didn't
feel like refilling it, too lazy, I suppose, and the servants
have all gone to bed. I wasn't really reading, anyway. Just
enjoying the fire. In the City, no one uses them other than
for  emergencies.  Here,  they're  a  singularly  pleasant
necessity."
"In Mauritum," she said quietly, "the hearth always
bums in every home, regardless of weather or need."
"Nice custom. I wish Darius had kept it."
"To many, it's much more than custom. Many still be-
lieve if the fire goes out, the family will die."
"You're joking, surely."
She shrugged.
Trivialities. They were discussing folklore and customs
when she needed to know
"Van says I'm a fool to believe you."
"Sorry. Don't mean to come between you two."
"Between . . . ? Nothing like that."
"Oh? Does he know?"
"Damnwell better." Still, the question made a woman
wonder what had passed between the two men, what distri-
bution of her favors had been agreed upon without asking
her opinion. "Am I?"
He biinked. "Are you what?"
"A fool to trust you?"
"Depends on how you look at it."
"Dammit, JD, don't get abstruse on me."
"I've never yet betrayed anyone who's played straight
with me."
"You're a fine one to talk about playing straight, Just
Deymio."
"I've played as straight with you as I dare. I was rather
well outnumbered, wasn't I?"
"You aren't now." She set the goblet aside and twisted
around on the chair's soft cushion to face him squarely,
tucked one foot up under her, and leaned her crossed arms
on the padded armrest. "What's going on, JustDeymiol
Why should you have been around when that horse was
born? Who are you?"
"A frequent visitor here. Like Rhomandi, I prefer it to
Rhomatum."
"Van says you know too much, that your appearance was
too convenient"
"What's he think, that I'm Anheliaa's spy? Dumped in
the middle of a Persitumin pond to ferret out the secrets
of Mauritum?"
She shrugged.
"And is that what you think?"
"Personally, I fail to see what difference it makes. I've
nothing to hide from Anheliaa."
"And has romMaurii reason to avoid Anheliaa's spies?
You told me you were going openly to Rhomatum."
"I thought we were." Obviously, there were no easy rev-
elations immediately forthcoming. She sat back again, and
retrieved her wine. "I suppose it's possible he's simply ner-
vous. Anheliaa has rather mythic proportions to some in
the Towers."
"Anheliaa has mythic proportions in most directions," he
said, lifting a cynical brow. Silence, then, save for the
crackle of the fire, as Deymio stared into the goblet he
cradled in both hands. Large hands, with prominent knuck-
les and square, freshly manicured fingertips. They fit the
rest of the man, large, powerful, yet elegant and graceful.
"Why are you here?" he asked at last. "I mean, other
than the boy. What do you, personally, hope to gain in
Rhomatum?"
She finished her wine in a gulp.
"Asylum."
He refilled it without asking.
"I tried to kill my husband. He wants his revenge, and
is willing to pay handsomely for the chance. Luckily, many
of the 'tweener folk have as much reason as I to distrust
the man, and have given us some timely refuge."
"And you believe Rhomandi will provide for you free
of charge?"
"I'm hoping I know enough to pay my import duty."
"And if I offer you that asylum?" He leaned toward her,
within touching distance, but (thank blessed Maurii) not.
"Will you go with me now? No questions asked?"
"Go? Where?"
"I said, no questions."
"In return for what?"
"The obvious?"
She laughed. "A man like you? You don't need to settle
for the likes of me."
"Selhng yourself short, shepherdess. I'm quite serious."
"Rings, man, I'm not a fool. I've no family left. My
dowry belongs to Garetti. I've some personal funds
enough for this venture, but nothing to live on. I've a fair
head for business, but that will get me nowhere without
reliable credentials; I haven't the looks to make a decent
whore"
"I've news for you, whores don't need looks."
"All the same in the dark, are we?" She stood up, turn-
ing her back on him, embarrassed at having allowed that
bitterness to show.
"I didn't say that." Oddly, he allowed her that privacy
. . . as he would grant it to a man. Or a friend. "You're not
a beauty, I'll not lie to you. But you're not hard to look
at. Especially," he was grinning now, she could hear it in
his voice, "now your nose has stopped running."
Laughing in spite of herself, she gasped, "Gods, how I
hate sheep!"
"Poor sheep. You don't know what you're missing."
She snuck a sidewise glance at him. "Tried them, have
you?"
"Unkind." A wounded look crossed his face, which then
sobered. "Looks aside, shepherdess, I get more enjoyment
out of one battle of wits with you than a night in bed with
any other woman I've knownincluding the best whores
in Rhomatum. Damn right. I'm serious. Asylum is yours, if
you want it. Safety is. My bedthat's negotiable. Either
way, I don't think I'd throw you out."
"I'm disappointed in you, Rag'n'bones. Does this mean
I'm not going to be ravished?"
"And here, I thought I was to be the ravishee."
Her laughter was short-lived. "Why?"
"Because I like you, shepherdess. Anheliaa ... the
woman is dangerously unbalanced. I'd hate to see you on
the receiving end of her wrath, but if you insist on going
to Rhomatum, it's she you'll have to face, one way or the
other."
"Ah, but you'll be between us, and she already hates
you."
"Point to the lady." He raised a toast.
"Besides," she said, "my future is that boy upstairs, and
Zandy trusts me. It's not fair to him to build the dreams
and then fail to see it through. He's so young. Has such
dreams and hopes and faith." She shook her head. "Not
even if you were serious, Rag'n'bones. I'll not betray that
trust. If Rhomandi's not interested, or if he's too cowardly
to defy Anheliaa, we'll take the encapsulator elsewhere
until we find someone with the visionand the courage
to help."
He finished his wine and stood up; reached for her hand
and pulled her to her feet and facing him. "You're an
amazing woman, Kiyrstine romGaretti." His fingertips
traced her cheekbone. "The life I could give you . . ."
She could barely hear him past the pounding of her own
heartbeat. Stupid, that's what she was, to believe anything
he said, worse, to respond to this nuisanceful attraction.
But past all the logic or lack thereof, she was convinced
that, if he was lyingand he likely wasit was for good
and honorable reasons, and that, JD or Rhomandi dun-
Mheric, she'd be a greater fool to let this moment slip
away.
She turned her hand in his, entwining fingers. "There's
tonight. Sweet Maurii, Rags, there's even a bed." She nod-
ded to the fur rugs on the hearth.
The irregular breath he drew surprised her, but when
his head slowly bent toward hers, she discovered her own
breathing had stopped altogether.
Their lips met.
A touch only, at first: a testing of strange waters.
When he hesitated again, she stretched, wrapping her
arms around his neck, pushing up and into him, drawing
them into firm contact. His mouth softened, opened in a
startled gasp. She pursued the advantage, exploring, tasting.
He broke contact, drew back. "Not exactly the shy sort,
are you?"
"If you wanted shy" She drew a surprisingly shaky
breath of her own. "you shouldn't have requested a
shepherdess."  .
He biinked. "How did you .. ." Then he seemed to think
better of the question, eyeing her suspiciously.
"Shouldn't talk in your sleep, Rag'n'bones," she whis-
pered softly, and kissed him again, feeling her knees go
weak, or his did, dragging them both down until they were
kneeling on the fur.
Deft fingers, his and hers, found their way through laces
and buttons, clothing having been tacitly declared super-
fluous. One powerful arm left her to sweep cushions from
the chairs onto the floor, then Deymio's large body pressed
her back into pillows and fur alike, hps following fingers
in exploration, finding the pulse at the base of her throat
and lower.
She wrapped her hands into his hairfree at last of the
confining braidand buried her face in its clean, smooth
strands, filling her lungs with the heady scent of fire-
warmed herbs. "Gods, JD," she whispered, delicately trac-
ing the curve of his ear with hps and teeth, "You smell so
damn good."
The glorious sensations ended abruptly. His hands flat-
tened on her bare flanks, his broad shoulders heaved with
deep, controlling breaths whose warmth brushed her sweat-
dampened skin.
An infinity later, he lifted his head, drawing gently away.
"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice so hoarse with
frustrated lust, she scarcely recognized it.
"I" His mouth opened and closed as if in a search for
words. Finally, he shook his head.
"Don't try to tell me you're not interested."
"I" He repeated rather stupidly, then pulled away en-
tirely, reaching for his dressing gown, drawing it tight.
Hiding the evidence.
"I've just got to go now," he said shakily.
"Is it Garetti?" She jerked upright, achingly aware of the
soft fur against excited skin, and rolled to her knees to
catch his arm, demanding his attention. "No fault of mine,
Deymio. I tried to get rid of the bastard. He just refused
to cooperate."
He laughed, but that laughter sounded painfully dragged
from a thoroughly reluctant well.
"Are you married, then?"
"No!" Real laughter now, but with a helpless note. He
reached for her borrowed robe, wrapped it about her shoul-
ders when she refused to take it, crossing it deliberately
over her nakedness, heaving an audible sigh when her body
was out of sight.
The coward.
Afraid he'd break down, make a mistake. Maybe (she
recalled her own warning), afraid he'd talk in his sleep.
"Damn you," she whispered and her voice was still
shaking.
"Perhaps later. When we're both . . . clearer headed."
"Don't hold your breath, Rag'n'bones."
She jerked to her feet and shoved her hands through the
wide sleeves. Standing squarely in front of him, she but-
toned the dressing gown into place, daring him to turn his
entranced eyes from the entire procedure, then strode from
the room.
And slammed the door behind her.
And tried not to hear the curse from the far side of
that heavy door, or the crash of glass shattering against
the stonework.

Khyel dragged the bright red tunic off over his head and
kicked it across the nursery floor and into Nikki's block
tower. He wasn't going. No one could make him.
But the ogre would try.
He heard the ogre yelling downstairs.
From beyond the ruins of his castle, Nikki's blue eyes
appeared.
Scared.
Of him.
Nikki had been working on that tower for three days,
and now, for no reason little Nikki could understand, Khyel
had destroyed it.
Heavy booted thumps from the stairs.
No time to explain.
The ogre's curses were just outside.
Faster than thought, he was across the room, and his arm
was around Nikki, pulling him to the closet.
To safety.
They'd scarcely time to bury themselves behind toy
shelves  and  suit  dummies,  before  the  nursery  door
slammed open.
Back to the deepest wall in a nearly invisible nook he'd
discovered when he was Nikki's age, he huddled around
Nikki, pulling the boy's small struggling body to him, press-
ing the curly head to his chest to keep Nikki quiet.
Within the nursery now, the ogre swore, long and loud.
Khyel shivered. And Nikki, seeming to understand at last
that  he was scared,  not mad,  stopped struggling  and
wrapped  his  small  arms  around  him,  murmuring
reassurances.
"The yelling stopped. In desperation, he clamped a hand
over Nikki's mouth.
For a moment, they breathed easier. Of a sudden:
"Nikaenor!"
Nikki collapsed against him with a little whimpering
sound....

Mikhyel awoke, choking on a scream.
Slender arms wrapped around him, steadying him against
a soft breast.
The pressure in his throat eased, and he relaxed against
his  silent,  compassionate  nurse,  gripping the  arm  that
wrapped his chest and held him upright.
A soothing hand smoothed his hair away from his face,
then left him. Mirym's weight shifted the mattress. A glass
pressed his lips and he drank the bitter liquid, forced him-
self to swallow because it did ease his throat and because,
when he did as she asked, Mirym rewarded him with an
approving smile and a gentle hug.
"Thank you," he said, when she set the cup aside.
She plumped the pillows behind him, and perched on the
edge of the bed, her head tilted in consideration. When she
knew she had his attention, she touched her lips and
shrugged.
"No, Mirym," he said, guessing her meaning. "I don't
want to talk about it. Just a nightmare. An old one. Sorry
to have worried you."
The slight dip of her head acknowledged his apology as
well as his need for privacy, and absolved guilt as expres-
sively as any words would manage. She pressed his hand,
then set about straightening dislodged covers.
He hadn't dreamt about the closet in years. Nikki's com-
ment, combined with his own sense of impending incarcera-
tion for his brother and himself, must have resurrected the
old, old nightmare.
Covers restored, Mirym picked up the brush and began
smoothing the knots from his hair. The girl appeared fasci-
nated by the long, straight strands, taking any excuse to lay
brush to itas did Nikki. He supposed that allure related
to their own, tightly curled hair, but for himself, he wel-
comed the soothing effect of the long, gentle strokes.
He should braid it for bed, like any sane man, but he
couldn't, hadn't slept with it that way since his seven-
teenth birthday.
When she'd finished, he found himself awake enough to
dread sleep, and asked her to play. Amenable, as always,
she returned to her chair, lifted the harp to her lap, rested
her cheek against its sounding box, and began to play.
"I'm sorry, Lidye." Nikki sighed and pushed himself up-
right, swinging his legs over the bedside. "I just can't. . . ."
He dropped his face into his hands and pressed fingertips
against the bridge of his nose.
"Nikki, darling." The mattress depressed behind him,
rocking him back into her perfumed embrace. "It's all right.
This is new for both of us. No need for embarrassment."
"It's not"
But she wasn't listening. She pulled hun backward, slith-
ering and shifting around until her weight pressed him into
the bed. Then, she attacked his shirt, opening buttons, pull-
ing at those that resisted till they popped free.
He watched this process in horrified fascination, unable,
somehow, to connect it to himself . . . until her teeth closed
painfully on the skin she exposed. When he objected:
"Just relax and let me help." Her lips covered his. Her
hands brushed the fabric aside, seeking bare skin.
Evidently embarrassment was not a weakness she shared.
To his despair, her touch was painfully unexciting. Pain-
ful because he wanted to respond. He wanted to love her.
They were, after all, committed to a lifetime together, and
loving her would make that life ever so much more
pleasant.
Somehow, spiteful of his wishes, his mind kept returning
to Anheliaa who wanted Lidye here for Anheliaa's pur-
poses, and Lidye wanting to be here for her own reasons.
And all those reasons centered upon a simple biological
performance out of him. Nothing more. Certainly no less.
A performance her no longer shy hands seemed deter-
mined to wring from him. He brushed her hands away, and
rolled out from under her.
A curse exploded at his back, a string of words he'd
never have believed a well-bred female had even heard,
and her hands pursued him relentlessly.
"Lord and rings, Lidye, let be!"
"No! Damn you, you promised'."
"I what?"
He slid off the bed and out of her reach, stood staring
down at her, vaguely, distastefully, aware of the shirt now
hanging free, exposing him to the drawstring waistband.
"What's the matter, Nikki sweetl" Her voice hissed like
Anheliaa at her most malicious. "Afraid?"
"Not interested."
"You're a man, aren't you?"
She slithered off the bed and oozed around him, arms
sliding around his neck, body pressing against him. Sud-
denly, she stopped, stared him in the face, while one hand
left his neck to explore him elsewhere, jerking the draw-
string loose to insinuate her hand where she damnwell
didn't belong.
Speechless with anger and mortification, he froze, afraid
if he raised a hand to stop her, he'd do her bodily injury,
until, curiosity apparently satisfied, she shoved away, force-
fully enough to stagger him, and began pacing the floor,
rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if she were
chilled.
Taking a deep breath, telling himself this was his wife
and that she had every right to do what she'd just done,
and every right to be upset, Nikki pulled his waist-string
snug and retied it.
"What's wrong with you?" She stopped. Whirled.
"Rings, boy, Anheliaa warned me you were a bit slow, but
this." She threw her hands in the air, and began pacing
again. "This has to work. Everything's ready now."
"Ready? What are you"
"Anheliaa has taken care of everything. My body is
ready now. We must"
The look she threw him was that of a total stranger.
Then suddenly, her ice-blue eyes took on a new intensity,
warmed with a greenish tinge. Behind her, the haze of ruf-
fled draperies rippled and flowed as if from an unfelt
breeze.
Back.
Forth.
Back....
"One..."
Nikki trembled in his arms. Khyel held his breathit
wasn't to Nikki the Ogre counted.
"Two. You're a fool, boy. You left your coat here as
evidence. That's stupid. You're stupid as well as a coward."
"Three."
Khyel ducked his head before the door crashed open.
Suit-stands, clothing, and standing shelves crashed down
around him, and light flooded into the nook.
He curled around Nikki, protecting him from the blows
that began before the toys and dummies stopped bouncing
around them. Papa was dressed for the hunt; the weighted
crop, his staff of punishment. The blows fell hard and fast.
He tucked his face in against Nikki, to absorb the worst
with his back. After a while, he ceased to feel the blows.
Sensations categorized. His back was numb. Nikki's hair,
soft against his face. Dampness dripped down his ribs to
his stomach. Breathing grew difficult. Nikki was still.
And then Nikki was gone, yanked from his arms, and
Papa's voice was yelling Nikki was dead. . . .
Terrified, he grabbed at a departing small foot.
Papa's metal-capped boot caught his ribs, and for one
heart-stopping instant, he thought he was deadthe floor
was gone, he was falling free . . . and then, he crashed into
the back wall.
The closet door slammed shut.

Blackness: so thick, he could feel it.
Hands in the darkness, holding him. A voice, kind and
gentle in his head, whispering reassurances, drawing the
pain from him. . . .
The closet was gone. It was his own bedroom in Rhoma-
tum Tower. . . .
Gentle kindness turned coldly practical. Leave it braided.
Memory's ear heard Deymorin's birthday present say: It'll
only get in the way.
And then her hands were on him, expert hands bringing
his body to life in a way he hadn't realized possible. . . .
Mikhyel reached after the woman, and pulled her to him,
locking his lips on hers as purely instinctive hunger envel-
oped him.
The door opened without a sound, but Kirystin was
awake.
"Deymio?" she whispered.
The shadow detached itself from the hall shadows, shed-
ding its robe like a lizard shedding outgrown skin, crossing
the polished floor to stand beside her bed, naked and beau-
tiful in the moonlight.
Without another word, she reached out to him. His arms
enfolded her, strong and passionate, his lips, fierce in their
intensity, demanded entrance.
She asked her soul, and didn't argue the answer.

Back, forth, back: the draperies snapped and crackled
now in rhythmic waves. He could hear them, though his
eyes were all for the woman beneath him, who writhed in
ecstasy, her face sweat-shiny in the moonlight. Moon-sil-
vered hair spilled over his forearm, its softness caressed
his fingers.
Vision failed as passion flared and the needs of his body
took possession of his mind. The under-color of the silvered
hair fluxed, red . . . a blink . . . then golden . . . another blink
. . . and pure silver.
The body he devoured with mouth and hands was simi-
larly unstablesometimes womanly full, sometime slender,
almost boyishly flat.
And when he closed his eyes, the rhythm of the waves
coursed through him, gaining clarity and vigor.
And familiarity.
Not waves. The rings. Anheliaa.
Anger. Frustration.
Betrayal.
The woman beneath him screamed.
It was her doing. That Woman's and Anheliaa's.
He thrust harder, fighting the rings' hum with his own
driving beat. That Woman's screams deafened him to the
hum. Her legs clamped around him, her body moved
against him. Lifting. Insistent.
Forcing him to match the rhythm of Anheliaa's rings.
Interlude

The Rhomatum haze fluxed deep red shading to a bruised-
looking purple and blue, enveloping the brothers' pattern
with its throbbing insistence.
"Not nice, snake," Mother hissed aloud. And to Dancer:
"You see here, child, gross misuse of Talent. It is my feel-
ing we should do something about it. What say you?"
Dancer didn't know what was happening. The flames and
the web remained obstinately uncommunicative save to
Mother. But the wrongness, the anger, and violence that
permeated the region of Rhomatum that emanated from
the Rhomandi brothers' web was sufficient to make even
the insensitive flinch.
And Dancer was far from insensitive.
"Yes," Dancer hissed back. "Now, Mother. Fix it-
please."
Mother's fangs gleamed red in the Rhomatum glow. Her
mental touch was a palpable caress to Rhomatum's angry
insidious bruise. And where it touched, it left a pure silvery
glow in its wake. Not a severance of Anhehaa's influence,
but a tempering. And when color returned, it fluxed tur-
quoise and green, with a dusting of ghttering gold.
"Ease off, you overgrown oaf!"
Kiyrstin's scream echoed in Deymorin's head, bringing
him to his senses.
Appalled by his own ferocity, he whispered apology and
soothed her with his hands and mouth.
Her mouth reassured him. Her hands, free now of his
immobilizing grip, stroked across his ribs, around to his
back and buttocks. Her legs surrounded him, denying him
escape.
As if he would want to.
Her deep chuckle caressed his ears. "Much better, Rags,"
she whispered, and her fingers buried in his hair, pulled his
face to hers.
While the same mindless need that had brought him to
her room had not abated, this time he retained wit enough
to take them down the short track to oblivion together.
Mirym's slender form stirred beneath him, her silent cries
echoed faintly in his head, very real tears salted his lips
where they brushed her face.
Mikhyel rolled off, confused and disgusted . . .
. . . and still very much in need.
Blood, black as tar in the moonlight, stained his hands.
Nikki stared at his palms in disbelief, and in greater con-
fusion at the woman lying panting and sweating beside him.
She'd screamed, and scratched: his head echoed with the
sound, his shoulders stung where she'd raked him bloody;
beyond doubthe looked again at his damp palmshe'd
hurt her, yet she lay there, staring at him.
Hungry.
Wanting more.
She reached for him, raked her bloodied nails down his
bare skin from neck to groin, and unbelievably, his body
responded for her.
Unbelievable save for the hum still filling the room.
Anheliaa's rings accounted for that reaction and much
else. Anheliaa was in her gods-be-damned Tower, watching
and choreographing their every move; he knew, somehow,
the bedroom and their naked, sweating bodies were pic-
tured on that central sphere as surely as if he stood in the
ringchamber watching it with her.
If he were Deymorin, he'd be on the stairs, storming the
Tower the moment he felt Anheliaa's presence, yet instead
of hating Anheliaa for that interference, he found he was
almost grateful. It changed the unimaginable into the
merely distasteful.
However, a part of him rebelled in its own way, a part
that ached even now for the love he'd dreamed of, and as
the blinding ley-induced heat flared anew, bringing with it
those strange, flashing images of Mirym's face and body,
he welcomed those images, purposely overlaying Lidye's
physical presence with the more exciting, sweet fantasy.
This time, rather than fight the rings' thrumming, he con-
trolled those reactions he couldn't stop. This time, he made
love to the Mirym that was not there. If this creature he'd
married and Anheliaa had struck an unholy bargain, let it
remain between them. If Lidye was to be his wife, let the
loving be on his terms, not theirs.
Mirym's tiny hands cradled Mikhyel's head against the
ripped bodice of her gown, rocking gently in a tacit absolu-
tion he didn't deserve. He'd known he had a cruel streak,
justly inherited from his father. He hadn't realized how
deep and ugly that river ran until tonight.
Worse, he didn't know from what feral depths that as-
sault had come. He'd sworn himself to abstinence nearly
ten years ago, and in all that time, his determination had
never wavered, regardless of temptations.
Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps he had denied
his naturally base self so long, he could no longer contain it.
Even now, despite post-fever weakness, despite its previous
abrupt and violent release, his body strained for relief
again.
He shuddered. Mirym made little shushing noises and
stroked his hair.
He tried to push her away, tried to deny the response of
his body to that innocently sweet touch, wanting only to be
free of the memories and disgust.
But Mirym had other ideas. One arm at a time, never
quite relinquishing her hold on him, she slipped free of
what remained of her dress and undergarments, kicking
them over the side of the bed, then brushed his away as
well.
As always, her silence was eloquent.
He rolled toward her, taking her in his arms . . .
... and felt Nikki look out through his eyes.
And he, gods help him, was with Nikki and the creature
Nikki had married, with Nikki's frustrated desire filling him.
And Nikki's words echoed in his head: "Don't fight
knowing too hard, Barrister. . . . "
He fought fighting, tried to invite Nikki in, and the sensa-
tion grew undeniable. He didn't begin to understand, and
for the moment, didn't care; he let that sweetness that was
Nikki guide his hands and his actions, determinedly passive,
ignoring his desire to choke the life from the creature mak-
ing Nikki so unhappy, fearing it would somehow filter
through and destroy Nikki's growing contentment as the
compassionate woman beneath him responded to Nikki's
gentle loving.
And he, in his turn, absorbed the anger and violence
and sheer lustNikki's wife radiated.
Nikki wanted Mirym, not the woman he'd married and
even now caressed elsewhere in the Tower. What Nikki
wanted, Nikki should have, and following the honor-oath
he'd set upon himself seventeen and more years ago, he
sheltered Nikki the only way he knew how.
Kiyrstin lay peacefully tucked in Deymorin's elbow,
while his arm slowly went numb. As the tingling climbed
from fingers to elbow to shoulder, he wondered briefly what
would happen if he waked her and tried to explain now.
She'd want to kill him.
And he wouldn't blame her. He'd had no business
allowing this to happen, hadn't intended it to happen,
hadn't wanted his own objectives between them if and
when it had happened. But all those good intentions hadn't
lasted past the first real temptation.
He'd lost all good sense, there beside the fire, had forgot-
ten the lies that stood between them. It had taken that
stupid JD to bring him back, to throw him out of that
impossible fantasy and end it before it truly began.
And that noble intention had lasted until, on the edge
of sleep, with images of might-have-beens flashing behind
his closed lids, he'd found himself beside her, his clothes
gone, and her arms welcoming.
Strange, to the point of embarrassing. He'd ceased being
ruled by his passions when he was eighteen, or so he'd
thought. At the moment, he felt that awkward age all
over again.
And caught in the grip of adolescent stupidity, he leaned
over and kissed her.
Blood  surged  anew  when,  even  half-asleep,  she
responded.
He pursued that response lazily, curious, now the initial
urgency was gone, why she was still here beside him. Even
in his own assessment, reversion to adolescence was no ex-
cuse for his initial actions. While she'd welcomed him into
her bed, blind obsession had driven him to seek it, blind
obsession that had turned suddenlybrutallyvicious.
She should have been furious, should have given him the
same treatment she'd given her husband. But she hadn't.
She'd taken her pain in stride long enough for him to re-
gain his control and turn obsession into passion.
"Who do I thank?" he murmured, when he discovered
green eyes opened to half-mast, and directed to similarly
studying his face.
"For what. Rags?"
"For saving your soul from Garetti."
She chuckled. "Would it disgust you if I said there
were several?"
He thought about that. Realized it wasn't disgust he felt,
but jealousy, and had to laugh at himself.
"Actually, there was one man in particular," she said,
making patterns on his chest with her fingertip. "Perhaps
someday I'll introduce you to him. I think you'd like him.
You're a great deal alike."
"Dare I ask . . . ?"
"Well, he's bald. In his fifties. Has a lovely paunch"
"Paunch ..." he repeated, and she smiled lazily. He
grunted. "He was a superb lover, right? Taught you the
finer points of passion, paunch notwithstanding."
"Not particularly."
"No ..." He growled deep in his throat and set about
putting her past and present, her paunches and passions,
into proper perspective.
She curled into .a ball, avoiding his hands. He wrapped
himself around her, pursuing her sensitive ribs until they
were rolling about the bed giggling and laughing like two
idiot children. The covers slipped away; he made a grab
over the edge for them and a well-timed shove from behind
sent him to the floor in a heap.
"JD?" A face appeared above him, assessed his basic
well-being, and began to laugh so exuberantly he was
forced to leap up and clamp a hand over her mouth before
she awoke the entire household.
When she'd sobered, he removed the hand, propping
himself on elbows set to either side of her face.
"Sowhere's the similarity?"
She lifted a hand to his cheek, followed it with a brief
kiss. "He made me laugh, too. Even when all I wanted to
do was cry. Or kill. It was the best lesson anyone ever
taught me. When the time came, it gave me the strength
to laugh in Garetti's face and leave."
"Figuratively speaking."
"Figuratively speaking," she acknowledged.
He caught her hand and pressed his lips to the palm,
then traced the blue veins up her arms, across her chest
and up her long neck to her mouth. When he paused for
breath she said:
"Liable to catch our death. Rags."
"Oh, I doubt it."
"I want my blankets."
He scanned her moonlit body, gloriously rounded, yet
lean and well-muscled, so unlike any other woman he'd
ever known.
"I like you this way."
"I want you to make love to me like a real lady."
"I've never been a lady before."
"You know what I mean."
"Asking a lot of me, shepherdess."
"You'll survive."
Together, they restored the bedding, and slid demurely
under the quilts. They lay there, side by side, on their
backs, staring at the moonlit ceiling.
"Well?" she broke the silence at last.
"You said to make love to you like a lady. That's what
I'm doing."
He barely freed his hands of the quilt in time to deflect
the pillow flying at his face.
Mikhyel tried to explain, when it was over and he lay
with his head pillowed on Mirym's heaving breast, but her
finger touched his mouth to stop him. Then her hands met
in front of his face, fingers forming two interlocking rings.
"You believe Anheliaa was behind this?" he whispered
past the horror tightening his throat.
He didn't need her nod. It made sense. Too much sense.
Anheliaa used the rings to manipulate minds, why not
bodies?
"Mirym, I'm so"
Again, her finger stopped him. Her arms bugged him
close.
"But it was Nikki, Mirym. He wanted"
Her nod brushed his head. She knew. Somehow, she
knew. And incredibly, she didn't mind.
He sat up, needing to see her face.
Free of his weight, she lifted the notepad he kept at his
bedside for her use, and wrote:
f (w thMi. ~Oo* MttU *) uat (Mfc <fMt7
"That doesn't make sense, Mirym."
74e 6iee f <UM wt me, <(o'e <( feet ? It MMW thMi <wfo
WwU (MW to MM a6toc~ <f. ft it WM <fM M ttwtt. f4M<t ~wl
"Rather incestuous of us," he said, trying desperately to
make light of what she was saying.
She grinned. /4 ia WWMM.. <<a *) <fw't mc~
She set the pad aside and held her arms shyly toward
him, palms up, inviting him in. An invitation he accepted
without hesitation.
A breeze swept over his bare shoulders, chilling sweat
and congealing blood.
Nikki shivered, and reached for the covers, only to have
them jerked from his hands.
"Get out."
He shivered again and biinked his eyes clear. The bed
ropes creaked, and a bare-skinned woman stepped over
him, crossed the room casually to the armoire, pulled out
a quilted dressing gown, and flung it around her shoulders.
Lidye. It took a long moment to put name to face, and
then it seemed . . . wrong somehow.
Wordlessly, she sat before the mirror and began brushing
her hair in brisk, even strokes.
"Lidye?"
The brush's relentless rhythm didn't falter.
He swung his feet over the mattress' edge, found his robe
as well as his uncertain balance, and followed her, staring
at her face in the mirror.
For several moments, she didn't seem to notice him,
then:
"I said, get out."
"Do you want an annulment?" he asked with a great
deal more composure than he felt. An annulment would
negate the agreement with Anheliaa as well, but at the
moment, it seemed the gesture had to be made.
The brush stopped mid-stroke.
"You must be out of your mind."
"You don't love me. I don't"
"Love?  What's  love  got  to  do  with  anything,
Rhomandi?"
"Don't call me that!"
"It's your name."
"No! I won't have it."
She twisted about to stare up at him, blue eyes narrowed
to dark, unreadable slits. "I'm with child. Your child. It will
be the Rhomatum ringmaster. You will be the Rhomandi.
Or should I say" She turned back to the mirror. "Are."
"And if you're not?"
"What? Pregnant? Oh, I am."
"You can't know. It's too"
"Not for Anheliaa. Now, get out of here. Go play your
little hounds and hare games, or whatever it is you intend
to do with your big brother."
He stared down at the pale blonde, almost white hair
falling in soft waves between pink satin covered shoulders.
Likely, he should feel a murderous rage.
All he really felt was tired, sore, and numb.
He turned to leave.
"And, Rhomandi?"
He paused. "My name is Nikaenor."
"Whatever you call yourself, never come in here again.
Do you understand me?"
"M'lady," he said slowly, distinctly, "if this room were
the last refuge in a flood"
She turned, her expression daring him to finish.
He smiled tightly. "I'd drown first. Farewell, my lady
wife."
Kiyrstin's head fell back into the pillows, stretching the
skin from her tanned and freckled chin down to the sweat-
ing valley between not-at-all tanned breasts.
"Mm-mm-mm." Deymorin hummed into the pounding
pulse. "Give me a shepherdess any time."
"S-s-scum," Kiyrstin hissed back on a series gasp. Her
elbows slipped and she fell flat to the crumpled linens.
"Ringfire, I'm exhausted."
He dropped beside her, pulling the covers up over them
both, protecting her from a chill and himself from a scold-
ing.  From  somewhere,  she  garnered  a  last  vestige  of
strength and curled into him, wrapping her arms around
him and snugging in close.
"Make yourself comfortable," he said wryly.
"Mm-mm-mm."
"What if I'm not ready to go to sleep?" he asked rather
rhetorically, running an adventurous finger over those parts
of her he could reach.
Her answer, when it came, was mumbly with sleep. "D'it
. . . y'sel . . . D'mrin . . . R'mndi - . ."
A wide yawn interrupted her, but Deymorin hardly
needed to hear the last.
"D'nMer'c."
Pain.
Shock.
Disappointment.
He was floating. No, he was looking down on his nude
body from the doorway to his room. He was asleep.
Wrapped in Mirym's equally unconscious, equally bare
arms.
Anger. Desire to slam the door, quickly smothered.
The image went dark.
Mikhyel awoke, threw a startled glance at the door.
It was shut.
He shuddered, the faint dream fading, as dreams would
upon awakening, and drifted back to peaceful oblivion.
Jerrik was waiting.
Nikki slammed the door to his room, as he'd wanted to
slam Lidye's . . .
. . . and Mikhyel's.
The effort only strained already strained muscles.
He sagged against the door, stirring reluctantly when Jer-
rik's hands urged him out of his robe and into the bathing
room where a hot bath awaited him.
Other than a few clucks of disapproval over the marks
on his shoulders, Jerrik was blessedly quiet. He did not
object when his friend joined him, silently performing the
ablution he was too tired to manage for himself. He set his
elbows on the tiled edge, rested his cheek on his crossed
arms, letting the constantly circulating water buffet his
chest while Jerrik soaped and scraped his tender back.
When he was through, they sat side by side on the tile
seat, sipping wine, while the hot water bubbled and swirled
around them.
"Is everything packed?" Nikki broke the silence at last.
Jerrik emptied his cup and poured another. "Yep."
"Good. Tomorrow. As soon as the signing is complete."
Jerrik leaned back for another look at his shoulders.
"Should leave before."
"Can't."
"Too bad."
"Need you to stay here."
Long silent stare then: "Why?"
"Khyel."
"Watch? or protect?"
"Both."
"Hmph. Still wish you'd take me along."
"Can't."
" 'F you say so." Jerrik heaved a sigh, took another look
at his shoulders, another sip of wine, then: "Told you to
tie her up first."
Interlude

The counterbalance swung, lifting Dancer's body high off
the polished wood stage, a silent defiance of gravity that
produced a thrill beyond even leythiation.
Feet touched; knees, ankles, even toes flexed and re-
bounded, dexterously manipulating speed and direction.
Random music filled the air from hidden pipes responding
to the random motion of the rings.
Random for practice. Next week, in the trials for the new
radical, the combatants for the position would contend with
rings choreographed to music as yet unwritten, a routine
the contestants would see and hear for the first time when
theirs was the goal to dance to and among them. At the
end of the day, the next radical dancer would be chosen
by the population of Khoratum and all those who were
loyal to her.
In other words (feet touched, took several, bouncing, de-
lighted steps and pushed off again) taxpayers.
A twisting dive toward a retreating ring. A quick grasp
to change direction, and a slow rise to the top.
The only thing that would improve the dance would be
to release oneself from the safety line and dance the rings
for true. But that was not alloweduntil the perform-
anceand then, not required: winding and unwinding the
line had become an artform in itself. Most never did re-
lease. At least three who had had died.
Normally, releasing in the trials was considered aggran-
dizing and gauche.
Five steps and leap, and if the gut feeling was correct . . .
Dancer reached up, and the fifth ring was in position. Fin-
gers closed, and the spinning ring swept down and through
the fourth and sixth, so close, the fourth tugged Dancer's
unbound hair.
Dancer laughed and released, sailing across to the de-
scending Cardinal.
The point was to entertain, to dance gracefully among
the dance rings. The contestants were expected to keep
conservative lines and moves, to give the judges a chance
to compare like with like. Any obvious attempt to stand
outthough legalwould undoubtedly count against a
dancer.
The point was to entertain, but to true believers, the
ringdance was a near-religious experience. The ringdance
was at least the third incarnation of the traditional dance
to Rakdi, the Tamshi god of whimsy and chance.
The previous version had been played out within a web-
like structure, a mortal facsimile of the underground ley-
thium caves, constructed on a trick stage with footrests and
handholds that would disappear or appear randomlyoften
with lethal consequences for those who fell through. And
modified platforms did still exist . . .
In children's playgrounds.
With the ringtower technology out of Mauritum had
come the ringdance. Elsewhere in the Rhomatum Web,
they choreographed rings and dance troupes alike.
Here in Khoratum, the troupe was only the warm-up for
the real performance, the solo of the radical dancer. Most
of those competing would likely end up there, and be happy
and content.
For Dancer, there was only the radical. Anything else
would be cold. . . . Sterile.
The giant dance rings resembled the Tower rings in
shape alone. They were constructed not of silver and ley-
thium, but of tempered steel with a sharpened leading edge,
and handholds randomly spaced along the trailing side. The
largest was three times the height of a tall man, the small-
est, even Dancer's body barely fit through, and they in-
jected a level of unpredictability to the dance that only
increased its value and beauty.
The dance was valued secular entertainment throughout
the Rhomatum Web, but nowhere did they practice it as
they did here in Khoratum. Nowhere was the competition
as fierce, nowhere the danger so great.
For Dancer, it was life. If someone else won
But one didn't think of such possibilities, not when one
danced among potentially lethal circles of sharp-edged
steel.
A high reaching arc revealed the land beyond the sta-
dium, and the waiting-court maze itself. At dawn, on the
day of the contest, the competitors would be led en masse
through that web and into the courtyard to await their turn.
Blindfolded.
Each would have one chance to exit when their number
was called, and the rapidity with which they performed
their escape would factor into their overall performance
rating. Once in the stadium . . . then, it was just the dance.
One chance to enter. One chance to exit.
One chance to compete.
At least, if you were Dancer. That had been Rhyys' stip-
ulation, part of the agreement that had let Dancer, an un-
known of unregistered parentage, train and compete.
A shudder set the sensitive counterbalance to swinging
wildly. Dancer collected scattered wits and corrected with
a touch of a toe to a passing ring.
Foolish, to let one's attention wander. But with only a
single chance to compete, one waited, until one was sure
one could win.
But so did others believe.
There were three radical dancers, two had been chosen
while Dancer trained. The third was to be replaced next
weekthe last chance for years to come.
Feet touched, knees absorbed momentum in a smooth,
practice ending outside the Cardinal's orbit.
Suddenly, the air shimmered, bringing a familiar-yet-al-
ways-unnerving disorientation, a glimmer of protective
transfer shielding only Mother could provide as the ring's
harness belts disappeared . . .

She was waiting in the cave.
"Dammit, Mother!" The leythium webs vibrated purple-
red. Dancer had never been so angryat least, not at
Mother. "Have you any idea how hard I fought for practice
time? The debts I owe?"
Her webbed fingers floated between them. {Irrelevant.}
"Not to me, it's not. And just how do you expect me to
explain my disappearance off the rings themselves?"
{The supervisor wasn't looking. Mavis wasn't. They think
you finished and left.)
"How do you knowY'
Mother's shrug biUowed the leythium strands.
{Mother knows.)
Which might or might not be the case. Likely it was. It
wasn't the first public disappearance Dancer had made at
Mother's instigation, but no one ever seemed to notice,
any more than they noticed the faint glow that sometimes
radiated from Dancer's skin upon Dancer's return.
How Mother knew hardly mattered. Mother knew.
Mother did. Perhaps Mother made humans see things
Dancer would rather not know about. What mattered was,
Dancer was losing precious practice time, and there was
still  a  chance,  still  time,  provided  Mavis  hadn't  already
belted.
Dancer stalked to the nook and the oil-pot it contained.
Lacking Mother's Talent, one must rely on lesser-mortal
precautions against transfer burn. Concealing webs parted
before reaching fingertips . . . and closed again, but not at
Dancer's instigation.
"Don't be stupid, child. I have my reasons." Spoken
aloud,  not  in  Dancer's  head:  concession  to  human
preference.
Dancer turned slowly. Faceted eyes glistened in the
leylight.
"Anheliaa's made her move?"
She nodded.
"And Mheric's sons?"
Fangs gleamed.
"It's showtime, child. Want to go watch?"
Curiosity flared and as quickly died.
"No."
Dancer finished smearing the oil and transferred back to
the stadium, wondering how to explain this time. As hap-
pened, the point was moot. Beyond the fading transfer
shimmer, Mavis was already harnessed and in full flight.
Light flooded the room along with fresh morning air.
And there was movement. Servants' quiet comings and
goings designed to let a man know he'd overslept and they
had their own work to do.
Mikhyel yawned and stretched, feeling better than he had
in years. When he remembered and glanced guiltily about
the room, he discovered, with selfish relief, that all signs of
Mirym's attendance were gone.
Even to her little notes; not so much as a scent remained
of the previous night's events.
Enough to make a man think those events had never
happened. Except that memory also supplied a vision of
waking to a final shedding of clothes and a soothing, shared
bath, and falling back among fresh linens to sleep cradled,
flesh against bare flesh.
In retrospect, embarrassingly primitive and embarrass-
ingly appealing.
Or it would have been, had Mirym taken offense, or had
she been here to face this morning before his head had the
chance to put the emotions into perspective. He didn't love
hernor she, himbut there had been something very
right and . . . necessary . . . something . . .
It was Nikki who made love to me. . . .
. . . uncanny in the girl's instincts.
And she believedor knewAnheliaa was behind it all.
She was right. She had to be. He'd felt Nikki last night.
Felt his undirected desire, his confusion, his angerand
his love.
Suddenly, the warmth and pleasure of the morning was
gone. Nikki had committed himself to this farce of a mar-
riage for one purpose, a purpose for which he was likely
confronting Anheliaa at this very moment. Alone.
He threw the covers back and swung his legs free; a
squeak and skittering toward the door reminded him he
was not alone, and in a highly informal state of dress.
Scrambling back under the covers, he said, with what
dignity he could muster: "Send Raulind in right away."
"Yes, m'lord." The maid dipped a curtsy, eyes lowered,
but when she straightened, her eyes scanned him quite
boldly, and the edge of her mouth twitched.
"Now, if you please," Mikhyel said, firmly.
Her mouth fell, her shoulders rose and dropped in an
exaggerated, highly improper sigh. "Right away, m'lord."
The instant the door closed behind her, he was out of
bed and hunting his own clothes. By the time Raul arrived,
all apologies and excuses, he was mostly dressed and ready
to leave.
"Nikki?" he asked.
"Your brother was waiting for the lift when I passed
him."
"Just straighten up, will you?" he said, and ran down the
hall, not waiting for an answer, dabbing a handkerchief at
a nick from an unpracticed, toe-hasty shave, his hair flap-
ping loose against his back.
"Nikki!" he yelled before he rounded the corner, praying
Nikki wasn't already on his way up. Anheliaa would never
allow him into the ringchamber, once she had Nikki alone.
"Nikki, wait, please."
Nikki's normally expressive face was void of emotion,
but he was waiting.
They rode up together in absolute silence.
It was Deymorin and the redheaded woman he'd seen
the night he'd attacked the rings; they were in bed and
obviously pleasantly occupied. At least Nikki assumed it
was the same woman. Her face, buried in Deymorin, was
no more visible than it had been the previous time.
Nikki looked away from the spinning rings and the image
they surrounded.
"Well? Are you satisfied?" Anheliaa asked coldly.
He nodded, having little choice. Anheliaa had fulfilled
her part of the bargain, as he had fulfilled his. The fact
Deymorin was obviously in no need of rescue did not
change those facts.
Except:
"You're certain this is current, and not some past mo-
ment or conjured wish?"
Anheliaa snorted. "Anything else takes effort I'm not
willing to spend on that lout's behalf. This was your darling
brother's activity as of last night. I've no idea where he is.
The rings evidently find him equally distasteful. They re-
fused to dwell on him longer or to give further information.
An inn somewhere along one of the lines, obviously, or I'd
not have found him at all."
Mikhyel shifted, but before he could protest, the image
within the rings flared, another overlaying it for an instant,
like a darkened room suddenly lit by lightning.
It flared a second time, revealing a boy, in the woods,
with a box.
And that box was the source of the lightning-like bursts.
Anheliaa cursed and waved a hand, and the central orb
faded to silver. The surrounding haze degenerated to slowly
orbiting rings.
"What was that?" he asked, or perhaps Mikhyel did,
he was that shaken, he wasn't certain who uttered the
words.
"Interference," Anheliaa snapped, and would explain
no further.
So he nodded, knowing he'd get no more from her, that
she considered her side of the bargain closed.
Besides, the boy was not his problem. Deymio was. There
were dozens, perhaps hundreds, of inns along eighteen differ-
ent leyroads out of Rhomatum. And one had to wonder, if
Deymorin had gone away, might he not be in the Mauritum
Web? Would Anheliaa's rings find him there?
Somehow, he doubted Anheliaa would answer honestly.
"Now." Anheliaa rubbed her hands together trium-
phantly. "The signing."
As the lift carried them downward, Mikhyel spoke for
the first time.
"I'd like to speak to Nikaenor alone first, Aunt."
His voice was hoarse, but he looked physically better,
more relaxed, than he had in months.
Thanks to a tonic called Mirym.
Nikki swallowed bitter jealousy.
"It can wait, Khyel."
"No, it can't." Mikhyel hit the brake and pulled Nikki
from the lift before he, or Anheliaa, could protest, released
the lift before they'd quite cleared the threshold.
"We'll meet you there," he called after Anheliaa's disap-
pearing wig, and before Mikhyel pulled him into a small
antechamber. "What the hell's this all about? Why didn't
you just stay in bed this morning?"
"I wanted to be with you in case ..."
"In case, what?"
Mikhyel shook his head. "Never mind. Nikki, I didn't
want to bring this up in the chamber, but ..."
"Forget it, Khyel. I've a contract to sign."
"Not if you don't want to."
"This is between Anheliaa and myself."
"Not any longer."
"What do you mean?"
"Do you honestly think you were alone last night?"
"Of course I wasn't alone last night. I was with Lidye."
"Like hell." Mikhyel's eyes were wide, his brows drawn.
But it wasn't anger. He was shaking. "I was. You were
with"
Mikhyel's face spun away.
The back of his hand stung.
Mikhyel caught himself against the wall and propped
there, dabbing at the blood flowing freely from his lip.
"Well, Khyel," Nikki said, his voice echoing the harsh
anger welling inside. "The violence has come full circle,
hasn't it? Aren't we a fine lot? Only one of us worth any-
thing is Deymorin, and I'm going to drag him down with
the rest of us."
"Nikki, Mirym loves"
"Don't say it. It makes no difference. The dream is gone.
There's only one first time. One wedding night. At least
for me. I've had mine. I want no others."
"Nikki"
"I'm going after Deymorin."
"He's safe, Nikki. There's no need. He's chosen to stay
away."
"Possibly. But he'll have to say that to my face. If I can
find him."
"You don't know? Didn't recognize the room?"
"How should I? I've only stayed in one inn in all my
life. I'll have to check every damned"
"He's at Darhaven."
"He can't be. Anheliaa said"
"I don't care what she said. I know that room. You
should. Dammit, you're the one who reminded me of it
last night."
"The . . . closet? That was . . . Darhaven?"
And then he did remember. Remembered the ruined cas-
tle  and  Mikhyel's  arms  holding him,  while  their father
screamed curses and his brother's body jerked and con-
stricted around him with each blow. And then there was
only blackness.
"Thank you for reminding me, Khyel," he said, his voice
echoing the freezing cold in his gut. "I'll leave as soon as
the contracts are signed."
"Don't expect me to witness such a farce."
"I don't."
"You're not coming back, are you, Nikki?" Khyel's voice
was weak, exhausted.
Defeated.
"I don't know, Mikhyel, but I doubt it."
Just outside the antechamber door, Mikhyel said: "Good-
bye, Nikaenor. Be well." And without looking back, Mi-
khyel walked slowly down the hallway toward his own
rooms.
She should have been suspicious when Deymio had
pointedly requested her to resume her man's clothing, and
join them directly in the carriage lane, but somehow,
(silly  her)  Kiyrstin  had  thought  carriage  lane  meant
carriage.
"No," she said flatly.
"What do you mean 'no'?"
"I mean there is absolutely no argument in hell or on
earth that will convince me to get up there."
Deymorinor rather. Just Deymio, as he seemed deter-
mined to remainleaned an arm across the creature's neck
and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyeballs. He was
pale-faced and irritable this morning, acting as if he'd had
a long and uncomfortable night, and, as a result, wasn't
excessively long on patience.
Well, neither was she. Never mind she'd slept the sleep
of the totally sated, she'd also waked to an inexplicably
empty bed, been hailed downstairs by an unknown servant,
where she'd had to face that irritable-male countenance
across a cursory breakfast table, and was now being or-
dered to stretch her pleasantly strained muscles and
bruised backside across a malicious-looking creature,
whose plan for the day obviously included her maxi-
mum discomfort.
It did leave a woman to wonder what had occurred while
she slept blissfully ignorant. In the hazy early morning,
she'd determined to forgive all, to tell him she knew who
and what he was and it didn't matter why he'd lied and
they'd work everything out.
Now...
"Lady romGaretti" Deymorin began, and she glared
at him. He revised quickly: "Kiyrstin, please, don't fight me
on this. If we take the carriage, we must take the road, and
that would take us nearly to Rhomatum before the bridge
to Braccitum Ley and the Armayel cutaway. That makes
the trip a good twopossibly threedays."
. . . now, by her reckoning, they were back to the bottom
of the pond.
"You don't know?" she said. "Goodness, JD, what's hap-
pened to your wealth of precision answers?"
"Dammit, don't press me. I haven't made the drive in
years. I always ride. It's fasterhell, if we get out of here,
we'll be at Armayel by this evening."
He was highly agitated. Openly worried. Perhaps he'd
received ominous information regarding his brothers. Per-
haps ...
"Deymio," she said in a quiet undertone, and throwing
a suggestive glance back toward the house, "can we talk?"
His frown deepened, and he shook his head, a single,
hat-dislodging jerk.
So much for clearing the air.
"Well, I hate to be the one to break this to you, JD,
but I don't know the first thing about riding. You force
me into that saddle, and I guarantee, you'll be a lot more
than three days getting to wherever it is you think you're
taking us."
"Nonsense. There's nothing to it. It's an easy trail. Beau-
tiful this time of year. You'll love it. Now, get on the god-
dam horse!"
"Please, mistress?" Zandy's voice pleaded from above
their heads. He was already up, clinging precariously, his
eyes wide and frightened.
But his fear was not of the tall horse; he was accustomed
to riding, or so he said, although the creature was twice the
size of the typical Maurislan pony. It was their open ani-
mosity bringing that look to his young face.
Kiyrstin gave him a teasing, reassuring glower, then nod-
ded toward the horse.
"He hates me."
"Don't be ridiculous," Deymorin said irritably.
"Of course he does." She kicked his ankle lightly to gain
his attention and flickered a glance toward Zandy. "Look
at him. He's going to dump me in the rocks the first chance
he finds."
"It's a mare," JD said dryly.
"Oh, that explains it. She's jealous."
"Nothing for her to be jealous of." JD's cold, down-the-
nose look was a declaration of independence. "Is there?"
So much for a truce for Zandy's sake.
Bereft of viable options, she sighed and reached a foot
awkwardly for the stirrup. Without warning, a strong hand
grasped her support leg just behind the knee, collapsing it
against a broad shoulder, lifting, while another hand thrust
rudely against her backside.
She was in the saddle before she was clearheaded
enough to object, and by then, objection seemed super-
fluous: JD's back was turned, Zandy was explaining how
to hold the reins, and a groom was adjusting her stirrups.
She tried to pay attention to her instructors, tried to ig-
nore JD's well-tailored shoulders, and the smooth line of
his riding pants as he swung easily into his own saddle, the
elegant sway of his body as he adjusted to the large beast's
antics, tried very hard not to translate those lines and
movements to bare skin in the moonlight.
She had to wonder, as she rode behind that well-tailored
back, down the lane and into the woods, just precisely what
had happened.
The horse circled, forcing his would-be rider into a hop-
ping single-footed dance at the center of the spin, until,
thanks to a second uncontrolled beast stopping squarely in
front of him, the first paused long enough for the rider to
scramble into the antique, patched saddle.
From his seat atop the paddock fence, Ben had a clear
vantage on that pitiful ballet as well as countless others, as
the motley assortment of horses and riders milled about
the holding pen, feeling each other out and adjusting
hodge-podge equipment to make the best of a make-shift
deal.
It was the old Rhomandi stables they used, appropriated
at the young lord's orders. There'd been inquiries when the
horses arrived, attempts to have them thrown out, but he'd
sent the Oreno representative to the Tower as the young
lord had said he was to do, and they'd heard nothing since.
The herd, which had arrived from Armayel late last
night, had been assembled from Lord Deymorin's private
stock augmented with anything the surrounding sharecrop-
pers and landowners loyal to him could spare. As a result,
choices ranged from racing stock to a child's pony, though
the latter had been relegated by an increasingly inebriated
crew to the position of official mascot.
The oldsters weren't faring badly, overall. They'd all sur-
vived arms practice this morning, thanks to the fact the
rifles Gareg had sent from Armayel were vastly more accu-
rate than those they'd had in the Guard. Perhaps, if rumor
held truth and Mauritum was setting to march, Rhomatum
should look into updating its arsenal.
But that was, happily, Brolucci's worry, not his.
His job was getting twenty-three increasingly boisterous,
would-be bodyguards in their saddles, and keeping them
there.
The Guard received basic horsemanship as part of their
traditional training, and most hadn't forgotten; quite all
they'd learned, but-it would take more than liniment to
soothe these backsides tonight.
"Rings, Ben, what's this circus?" Lord Nikaenor's blond
head appeared beside him.
"By your leave, m'lord, Brolucci denied the request for
use of the City reserve stock."
"To hell with my leave. On what grounds?"
"Declared the mission personal, sir, and therefore 'con-
stituting an unnecessary depletion of City resources in these
uncertain times.' I didn't say anything, m'lord, it being your
wedding day and all, and Gareghe was here when Bro-
lucci's edict came downhe said he could manage, from
the tenants and neighboring landholders, and, well, sir, here
they are, like he said."
The pale curls fairly vibrated with controlled energy.
Lord Nikaenor's gloved hands balled into shaking fists as
they rested along the fence rail. But the fists relaxed and:
"To hell with them." The lad's voice was even. Matter-
of-fact. "To hell with them all. We don't need them."
"My thoughts exactly, m'lord," he ventured to say.
The smile that flashed at him held little real humor.
"Two smart men in agreementmust be right, Ben. Are
the horses sound? The men ready? The supplies"
"Enough for a week, sir. In the wagons."
The smile widened. "Let's get out of here."
"Where to?"
The smile disappeared. "I wish I knew for sure."
"Didn't the Lady know?"
"She didn't. I think I do."
"Need to start somewhere, m'lord. Thinks is better
than nothing."
"The young lord's eyes flickered toward him, embarrassed,
like he didn't think he'd be believed. Then:
"Darhaven." His chin rose pugnaciously.
"Fair enough, m'lord," Ben said easily, "Gareg, he said
the last he heard from Darhaven was two months since.
Seems to me, a fair bit can happen in a month."
Lord Nikaenor's back relaxed into a natural curve. "Dar-
haven it is. And, Ben?"
"M'lord?"
"Have the men pack enough for tonight in their saddle-
bags, confiscate a packhorse or two if necessary. If Brolucd
complains, he can follow us and make his case in person.
I intend to move cross-country. The wagons can catch us
up at Darhaven."
"Beggin' yer pardon, m'lord, but there's the pavilion. It's
too much for a packhorse, and"
"Pavilion? What in the name of Darius do we need a
pavilion for?"
"Surely yer lordship won't wish to sleep on the ground
like a common"
"My lordship's ass learned to confo'rm to hard ground a
long time ago, Ben. My lordship's tyrant of an older
brother made sure of that. Just throw my bedroll on a pack-
horse along with the others. I'll be fine."
They were prepared in a surprisingly short time, the men,
like the lad, eager to be on their way. The young lord's
swinging mount was surprisingly stiff, considering he was
reputed a horseman.
Or perhaps not surprising, considering last night was the
boy's wedding night.
Someone else must have had similar thoughts, from the
good-natured laughter that rippled across the field. But the
young lord did not join that laughter, and the young lord's
face, as he rode stiffly through the gate, held nothing of
regret, and everything of relief.
"JD, either we stop now, or you go on without me."
Kiyrstin drew back on her reins, the approved (according
to Alizant's instructions) method for suspension of forward
motion. The creature beneath her (as usual) ignored her
and continued following Deymorin's mount's black tail into
the swift-flowing stream.
She pulled harder.
The horse tucked its nose in toward its chest and shook
its large head, a performance that set its ears waddling
ridiculously. Its steps grew short and choppy, until they
were plunging about in an exceedingly uncomfortable
manner.
She cursed the fool beast loudly and grasped large hand-
fuls of mane.  The plunging increased, the reins jerked
wildly in her fist.
Water splashed everywhere.
"M'lady!" Alizant's horse splashed up beside hers.
"M'lady, please."
He reached for her reins.
"The horses collided.
The boy slipped toward her.
She relinquished one hand's death grip on the mane and
grabbed to steady him. The horses shied apart, which re-
sulted in them both sliding inexorably into the stream, only
her frantic grasp on the long mane keeping them heads
uppermost, preventing them from a thorough soaking.
Together, she and Alizant staggered, found purchase on
slippery rocks, and stood there, in the middle of the fast-
flowing stream, clinging to one another, th6 horses milling
aimlessly around them, as an exceedingly unpleasant sound
filled the air.
JD was laughing. JD had reentered the stream and was
sitting atop his unnaturally quiet mount, arms braced
comfortably on the thick arch of neckand not a finger-
tip lifted to help.
She glared up at him, caught the mare's reins and
splashed the short distance to the far bank, climbed a rock
and began pulling her boots off, ignoring Deymorin's highly
vocal objections.
Vocal until Zandy grabbed his stirrup and they ex-
changed a few words. Then Deymorin crossed to her, took
the mare's reins without a word, and, Zandy in his wake,
moved upstream and to a sandy washout where he jumped
lightly to dry earth, performed some arcane ritual with the
creature's saddle, and placed something on the animal's
front legs. Still without a glance toward her, he treated
their horses similarly, then began to help Zandy unpack
the potentiator.
Obviously, some concern about the machine was reason
enough to halt. Fine. She'd take whatever grace she could
get.
She left them to their toy, and went deeper into the un-
dergrowth and downstream to answer nature's insistence,
wishing she could have packed last night's hot bath in the
saddlebags along with her travel sponge.
Nothing in her life had prepared her for this. The con-
stant sway, the sheer power of the creature, might (under
the right circumstances and though she'd never admit as
much to Deymorin) have been invigorating exercisefor
an hour or two.
All daythat was another matter.
Entirely.
She eased the loose breeches from legs gone bruised and
raw. The rough seams she'd taken in the coarse broadcloth
to accommodate her woman's shape, while perfectly ade-
quate for walking through brush, had rubbed blisters all
the way down the inseams as well as in other, less accessi-
ble, areas.
Deymorin didn't care. Deymorin was in a hurry. Deym-
orin had spent a lifetime building callus in areas most sane
persons considered sacrosanct. Deymorin had skin-tight
breeches of soft leather with seams to the front and back,
but not between himself and the damned horse.
"Oh, shepherdess," Deymorin's voice came' from the
trees. "I'm sorry!"
She growled an angry epithet to the gods in general and
JD in specific, and jerked her rough-spun breeches up, then
hobbled her way back to the stream to rinse the travel
sponge.
That for his sympathy.
At the far end of the trail was another bath and a hot
meal. Nothing else mattered at the moment. Without a
word, she brushed past her tormentor and marched back
toward Alizant.
"What is it?" A little girl voice asked, from beyond the
undergrowth.
Kiyrstin stopped short of the washout, and gingerly
pressed a view-obstructing branch of bristle-pine aside.
Alizant was squatting on the bank beside the potentiator,
head thrown back, his mouth hanging slightly open, his star-
tied eyes glued to the far bank directly opposite her van-
tage where a little girl stood watching from the wood-
shadows.
Wispy, nondescript brown hair whipped across her face,
and her dress, a simple brown shift tied in at her tiny waist
with a blue-green sash, fluttered about her knees. Her feet
were bare.
"What is it?" she asked again. "Is it broken?"
"I" Alizant's voice croaked. He coughed, and tried
again. "I don't think so, little mistress. It got wet, you see,
and" He glanced downstream, obviously wondering what
he should say to this out-of-place little inquisitor.
A twig snapped behind her. Kiyrstin twisted, suspecting
Deymorin and ready to stop him.
Bare feet. Bare, dry feet, and a ragged hem.
Across the stream .. . the girl was gone . . . or rather, she
was here, passing Kiyrstin as though she didn't exist, squat-
ting down beside Alizant to examine the potentiator.
She stretched out a grubby finger to touch it.
"What's it" A spark arced to her fingertip. "Ouch!"
She jerked her finger back, fell to the ground with a thump,
giving the potentiator an angry, brown-eyed stare and suck-
ing her finger.
"Are you all right?" Alizant reached to help her, touched
her arm . . .
Lightning flared, and the boy literally flew back into
Kiyrstin's cover, arms flailing, flattening the brush over
her.
"Alizant!" Sacrificing a fair quantity of skin, Kiyrstin
wriggled free of clinging bristle-pine and stooped over the
boy. He was still breathing, but his eyes were wide open
and sightless, and his skin was . . . glowing.
"Zandy?" She reached a trepidatious hand, mistrusting
that flare, but fearful if she did nothing, the boy might die.
What she could do remained highly questionable.
When her first touch encountered nothing worse than
an unpleasant tingling, she wrapped an arm around his
shoulders, urging him upright. The tingling slowly disap-
peared, the boy's eyes drifted closed and even more
slowly, opened.
"Hello, missy." Rhomandi's voice, obviously not aimed
at her. Deymorin squatted beside the small girl. "Did you
hurt your finger?"
Finger still stuck in her mouth, the little girl glared across
the washout at her, her eyes a clear, bright ... Kiyrstin
biinked and looked again . . . green. She biinked again, and
the eyes that softened and turned to Deymio, were the
color of the sky above them.
And the finger she took from her mouth and extended
pathetically to Deymorin for inspection had a faint green
iridescence to it.
Zandy stiffened under her arm, fully cognizant, now, and
as puzzled, from the look he turned to her, as she herself
was.
Deymio didn't seem to notice anything unusual. He was
turning the finger over in his hand, listening to the little
girl's shrill diatribe about the Bad Box, and making all sorts
of disgusting sympathy-noises until her babbling finally
ran down.
"Where are you from, missy?" Deymio asked then.
"On the ley," she said, pointing upstream.
"So far? Are you travelling with your mama and papa?"
"Mother lives there. But it's not far."
"There's no ley near here, sweetheart."
She grinned, seeming to like that endearment, and cud-
dled up to him, draping her arm around his neck, some-
thing  not-quite-childlike  in  that  gesture.  Then  she
whispered something in his ear, one heavy-lidded purple
eye aimed at Kiyrstin.
"This isn't a ley," Deymorin said, laughter in his voice.
" 'Course 'tis, silly. All water's on leys, don't you know?
Streams, rivers . . ."
"Like tributaries to the leylines?" Kiyrstm asked, and
the little girl glared green-eyed at her. But the green faded
to blue and she said lightly:
"Tribootrees, caplarees . . ." And turning blue innocence
back to Deymio: "Mammarees. All reeses to the leys." She
skipped free of his arm, dancing lightly over the rocks along
the stream's edge, singing: "Ley flows like reeses under-
ground, don't you know? Some leads to marnrees, like
Khor'tum, and some to dadrees, like Rhorn'tum and some
to nowhere 'tall. But some ..." She slipped back to Dey-
mio, pressing up against him, leaning back in the supporting
arm he threw around her, and running a small hand over
his cheek. "Some leads to brotherees."
Deymio's arm dropped. Slowly, he stood and backed
away from her, his face ashen. "What do you know about
my brothers?"
"Yours is woorrit 'bout you, Deymio-man." She began
skipping about the stones again, the water parting from the
rocks as her bare toes approached, closing in again when
they were gone. "Nik-ki, Khy-yel, and Dey-mi-o. Stoo-pid.
Stoo-pid, brotheree-ohs. One be close, and one be far.
When three are one, life 'n' death will spar. Death may
win and death may lose. All depends on what they choose.
I c'd tell them . . . 'n' I c'd tell you . . ." Her dancing had
led her back to the shadows on the river's far side. She
grinned, and her teeth flashed . . . like fangs. "But figure it
yourself, pretty Dey-mer-oo."
She vanished into the trees, and Deymio, with a swal-
lowed curse, splashed through the water and into the trees
after her.
She looked at Zandy, and he at her. As one, they shook
their heads in disbelief.
Neither of them was surprised when Deymio returned
limping and alone.
They stopped for the night earlier than Nikki would have
liked, but a day in the saddle had taken its toll on many
of the men. Of course, if they'd had their way, they'd have
stayed at Talvanni's Inn, where he'd stopped to inquire
discreetly after his brother. It was a favorite stopover for
Deymorin, and there'd been just the slightest chance . . .
but, of course, nothing had come of it, except that the men
had discovered the inn's homebrew.
It had taken an embarrassing long time to roust them
free of the tavern, only to discover they'd bought the tavern
out and brought its largesse along.
He'd as soon keep going alone and trust to his own luck,
but he wasn't stupid. With Deymorin in unknown circum-
stance, and his own movements so well announced, he
dared not proceed alone.
He'd gained at least that much caution in the past
monthsalong with the stiletto he carried in his boot. Ben
had given him that knife along with Ben's suspicions. Hard
to believe a Mauritum knife intercepted Rhomandi ribs
by accident.
So he set up camp with the others, settling his bedroll
off to one side, and sipped a mug of Talvanni's brew, while
listening to reminiscences of feats of ever-growing magni-
tude, feeling very much out of place, youngest of the lot
by a generation and more, holding his men's respect by
accident of birth alone and uncomfortably aware of the
fact.
He felt alone, more alone than he'd ever been, and fol-
lowing that sense, he traced it to a single image: Mikhyel
walking slump-shouldered down the hallway.
He supposed he should feel sorry for Mikhyel, whom
he'd rejected that morning, perhaps unfairly, but he
couldn't help it. He'd felt Mikhyel last night. He'd felt Mi-
khyel's hands loving Mirym and hated him for it, even as
he supposed he should thank him for sharing the experi-
ence with him in that strange intersection of sensations.
But, dammitall, why Mirym? Why not one of the ever-
willing maids? Mirym would be hurt, no way not, because
Mikhyel didn't love her. Mikhyel didn't love anyone.
Dammitall
"M'lor'?" It was a whisper from the shadows.
He jumped, looked around.
A female whisper.
"M'lor' Nikki?"
A whisper that sounded for all the world like . . .
He glanced around. No one else had heard; no one was
watching him, so he stood up and followed the whisper. A
hand closed around his elbow and pulled him under the
broad sweep of a tree limb, then left his elbow to slip
around his waist.
"H'lo, m'lor." A soft voice, rather sweet, in its way. A
voice he'd heard before.
Six months ago.
"Beauvillia!" he hissed. "What are you doing here?"
Fingers trickled through his hair, pulled a leaf free that
went floating out of sight, then laced behind his neck. The
voluminous gathers of her skirt pressed against his hips,
her soft breasts against his chest. "Sweet m'lor', have 'ee a
poem fer me?"
He grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands away. "How
did you get here?"
Her eyes, silver-blue in the moonlight, glowed raptur-
ously up at him. "Come to warn you, prettyJn'lor'."
"Warn me? About what?"
"Sweet, sweet, m'lor'." Soft lips sought his.
"Dammit!" He pushed her away.
"Oh, pooh." She took a little dancing step backward.
Trick of the campfire behind him, the sparkle that was her
eyes took on a faint, red tinge. One of the men must have
brought her along. Which made him wonder who and what
else they'd packed.
"Miss Beauvillia," he said patiently, realizing the girl
must be simple, and slightly embarrassed that he'd actually
been attracted to her once. "Are you alone?"
"Alone? Besavina's never alone." Her hands ran
through her own hair, fluffing the iron-curled ends. "Came
f warn ye, but 'ee don' care ... don' wan' ta be nice f
poor Beauvina. Thinks I'll go find me a nice, friendly gent."
Warn him? He supposed it was possible. Beaurwia was
Tirise's and Madame Tirise was Deymorin's friend.
"Now, Mistress 'Vina . - ." He grabbed her as she flitted
by. Pulled her into his arms and swayed her back and forth.
"Let's not be hasty. I can be nice. What did you want to
tell"
She gripped his lower hp between her teeth, slipped her
tongue along the captive flesh, preventing him talking.
When she released him:- "Mm-mm-mm-much better, Master
Nikki." Arms stretched over his shoulders, she swayed her
hips rhythmically against him and chanted lightly; "Brohs
be left and brohs be right, beware the man who stalks
the night."
"Riddles? Really, mistress, I don't have ti" Her teeth
closed again.
"Brohs be not, where you be gone"
"How do yououch\"
"But your place be there, so you best take care. And if
you do . . ." She paused, frowning. Then in a vastly differ-
ent, almost sibilant voice: "Shit, there's no rhyme. Just
watch your step, fry." She kissed him again, her tongue
flickering lightly over his skin. "I will be." With that final
crypticity, she slipped free and into the trees.
Just before she disappeared, she turned; an eerie green
glow happened where her eyes should be, and he froze. He
felt that green gaze scan him up and down and back again,
and a breeze sighed through the trees. "Too bad you're
attached, Mheric's son."
When she was gone, that strange paralysis ... drained,
leaving first his eyes, then his arms and at last his feet free
to move.
"Beauvina!" He yelled and ran after her, but she was
nowhere in sight. "Dammit, girl, where are youT'
"M'lord Nikaenor?" Ben's voice answered, and Ben him-
self crashed into the clearing.
Nikki whirled angrily. "Who's responsible? Whose idea
was it to bring women on this expedition? Dammit, Ben, I
thought you understood"
"M'lord Rhomandi," Ben's address and Ben's hand on
his arm brought him to his senses. "There are no women
with us."
Others had followed the old lightwatchman, others even
less familiar to him, and the looks being cast about indi-
cated a conviction that their leader was losing what little
credibility he might have begun this day with. Nikki drew
a settling breath, raised his head and said firmly, "I just
spoke with one of Madame Tirise's ladies. She can't have
gotten far. I want her found."

There were people outside the closet door. He could
hear them.
But he hadn't the strength left to call, wasn't sure he
would if he did. Nikki was dead, and it was his fault. "They'd
throw him Outside in the woods and he'd freeze and the
wolves would eat himmaybe before he froze.
Better to die now.
He didn't remember much after Papa's toe and the closet
wall. The door had opened again, and his only thought had
been to cover his head.
That had been a lifetime ago. In the darkness and deep-
est pain of that lifetime, he'd wished Papa dead. Imagined
Papa riding across the frozen, broken ground, taking chest-
high obstacles as if they were cavaletti, laughing Death in
the face....
And Death laughing back at last.
Now, he couldn't breathe, and when he tried to move,
things grated inside him like he was a chicken some invisi-
ble god was cracking apart for its dinner.
He thought maybe he'd cried for a while.
Cried. Probably that proved he was a coward, like Papa
said. And because he was a coward, Nikki was dead. Papa
had said so.
Someone opened the door; he caught his lip in his teeth
to keep from calling out, causing pain that more than occu-
pied his thoughts until the door closed again. And then,
coward that he was, he began to cry in earnest, burying his
face in an elbow, never minding the arm bent in the wrong
place, that being one small pain in a world of pain.
"Khy?" A soft hand gathered his tumbled hair, gently
freeing strands embedded in broken skin, easing torn fabric
away from blood-encrusted flesh. "Oh, my poor little Khy."
Only one person in all the world had ever called him
that.
The shirt fell away, leaving his flesh bare to that touch.
The soft hand brushed across his back, then touched his
forehead, and in that instant the pain was gone. He lifted
his head from an arm that no longer bent the wrong way,
twisted a body that no longer grated to look up at . . .
"Mama?" he whispered.
A soft green glow surrounded her.
"Poor Khy."
And him. He raised his hand and saw bone showing
black through green-glowing skin.
"Am I dead, Mama?"
And the closet was gone. Green-glowing lace surrounded
them, billoWing gently as if from some unfelt breeze.
"Do you wish to be dead, little Khy?"
He thought of Mama, who was dead. Thought of Papa,
who had killed her. Of the closet, and of Nikki, who was
dead now, too, and why, and who had killed him . . .
"Yes-s-s." His quivering jaw hissed the answer.
Her hands cupped his face. Her green-haloed face tipped
as her blue-green eyes caressed him. "Then probably you're
not, my darling."
More cowardly tears squeezed their way out, his efforts
to stop them making him shake all over. Her hands left his
face, her arms surrounded him and pulled him close.
"My fault. Mama. I killed him."
"Killed who, my little Khy?"
"Nikki. I told you I'd keep him safe and I killed him."
"Oh, I don't think so."
So she didn't know. Even dead, you didn't know every-
thing. He was wickedly glad.
"I do know what you think, child. But Nikki's not dead.
Your papa said that to hurt youto scare you. He's be-
come a cruel man, your father. And that's my fault, really.
I should have left him . . . oh, long ago."
"But you couldn't. Mama," he said, knowing her deepest
fear, having heard this before, in Mama's most private,
most terrified, living moments. "You feared for Deymio.
Deymio didn't know, would never believe, and if you had
left and Deymio hadn't, Papa would have taken it out on
him."
"Or so I excused my lack of initiative. Sometimes, I think
I just took what seemed the easiest course. My family was
long since gone. If I'd left, I'd have had no one. Been on
my own."
"I'd have helped, Mama."
"I know, child. I didn't know then how strong and brave
you were. But I kept thinking it would get better, Khy.
That the man I'd known would come back to me, so long
as I didn't change. That all I had to do was love him enough
and he would get better. But he didn't. Anheliaa's influence
was too strong."
"Anheliaa?" Mama had never mentioned his aunt's part
in their own private drama. Not when Mama was alive.
"What did she do?"
"Your papa wasn't always like this, Khy. Oh, he was
always intense. His life was never simple. But Anheliaa
..." Mama hesitated. The glowing lace pulsed red. Her
blue eyes reflected purple. "Anheliaa pushed at him, want-
ing him to relinquish power to her. She . . . got in his head,
as she did your brother's. Do you remember, Khy?"
He didn't. Not the child, Khy, but the adult, Mikhyel,
did and through Mikhyel, Khy remembered and shivered,
there in his closet filled with broken lives. Until now the
dream had made sense, in the way of dreams. Now . . .
Now, he was the child in the closet, but he was also
a man.
"Mama, what's happening?" She didn't answer and panic
rose. "Mama?"
"Just listen, child, and remember." Mama's voice had
changed, grown sibilant and firm. "I didn't know then. I
just saw the man I'd loved deteriorating, and I made a fatal
mistake, didn't I? I stayed with him when I should have
left. I paid for that mistake, and now you are having to pay
for me."
Mikhyel, the man, lying in his Tower bed, realized now
that Anheliaa had poisoned their father, as she'd tried to
poison Deymorin. She'd made him frustrated. Angry. And
he'd turned that anger on his own family. As Mikhyel, the
man, had turned it on others. First Nikki. Then Deymorin,
and then innocent Mirym. And all out of his own guilt.
"But that doesn't excuse him. Doesn't excuse what he
did to you . . ."
"Or to you. Of course it doesn't, child. He could have
run the snake out. He could have run the rings without
her. He chose otherwise. Chose not to involve himself in
the mysteries. I'm not telling you this to excuse Mheric,
but to warn you. It wasn't you who raped Mirym"
"How did you"
"Hush, child. That was Anheliaa at work. Anheliaa infil-
tratesrapesminds. She makes people do things they
then hate themselves for, and in that way, she controls
them. You must beware your feelings, be certain they are
your own before acting on them. Control is more important
in you and your brothers than in other men, because she
seeks to act through you. Knowing what she is capable of
does not excuse you either. Ultimately, regardless of the
pressures the world, or Anheliaa, puts on you, you deter-
mine your own destiny."
"You're frightening me, Mother."
"Good. You should be afraid. Of yourself and others.
Remember, what she does to her own, she might do to
strangers. You are, perhaps, the most vulnerable because
of that connection, but you are also the most prepared.
And the snakeparticularly this snakehas no scruples, it
just slithers and bites."
The light around them faded, taking Mama's touch
with it.
"Mama?" he whispered into the darkness in the bend of
his elbow, and sobbed as the aches returned in full force.
Dream. It was all a dream. Except that the pain was less
than he remembered, and he no longer grated inside.
Voices outside the door, asking Where was he? and an-
other . . . Nikki's . . . saying that he'd promised not to tell,
crying when they tried to make him.
His own sobs were of rehef, now. Mama hadn't lied.
Nikki was ahve and trying to protect him. He wanted to
call out, to tell Nikki it was all right, that even exile into the
frozen woods was preferable to beheving he'd killed him.
And then Deymorin's voice, so like Papa's, now it had
finished changing, was yelling for him, for Mikhyel the
Coward.
Light flooded the closet, silhouetted a figure, casting a
long shadow over him.
"Papa?" he whispered, and feaf set in again. Sent him
scrambling over broken toys and fallen shelves for his hi-
deyhole. But Papa's strong arms pursued him, hauled him
free of the rubble, shook him to sensibility when he strug-
gled for freedom.
Not Papa. Deymorin. Face thundercloud dark, dirty, and
streaked with tears, and in a voice hoarse with grief, Dey-
morin growled:
"Papa's dead."

Mikhyel awoke, covered in sweat and, thank the gods,
alone.
It was a new twist to an old, old dream.
The colors.
The lacy veils.
Mama. Mama had never visited him in the closet before,
had never said any of what he'd just heard. The reality was
waking to hands pulling him from the closet while his in-
sides grated, reality was a room filled with needles and
bandages and pain. It had been months before he'd learned
Nikki was not only alive but unharmed, and for years he'd
waked from this same dream believing Nikki was dead and
that he'd killed him. Had had to go to Nikki's room to
prove to himself that Nikki was alive. Had sometimes
shaken him awake just to hear him talk.
The first time Deymorin had taken Nikki to Darhaven,
he hadn't dared close his eyes until Nikki returned to
Rhomatum.
Anheliaa. Mama. Rings, what did it all mean?
He buried his face in shaking hands and for the first time
in years, he wept.
Almost there.
Deymorin could feel his tension as he rounded a bend
in the road and the lights of Armayel glimmered between
the trees; he was that uncertain what he'd find waiting. He
realized then, that he hadn't been at ease since his meeting
with that strange child in the forest.
Kiyrstin and Alizant insisted they'd seen scales, that the
child's eyes had changed color, that her skin had glowed
green.
He'd never believed in the Tamshi. Wasn't certain he did
now, but, if not that . . . Life. Death. Close. Far. Dammitall.
"Deymio! Dammit, man, unless you want to kill the boy,
slow up!"
He pulled Skylark to a plunging haltthe horse knew
exactly where he was and wanted no part of stoppingand
(under further equine protest) he circled back to where
Kiyrstin and the boy had stopped. The woman was on the
ground next to Alizant's stirrup, one hand on the boy's leg,
the other holding two sets of reins.
That afternoon's events and a long day in the saddle that
would tax an experienced rider's endurance had taken their
toll. Alizant was clinging to the saddle out of sheer tenacity,
but he'd lost any awareness of his surroundings, didn't, or
couldn't, respond when Deymorin shook his arm.
"I'll take him up with me. Help me move him across."
"You must be joking. For the gods' sake, JD, let the boy
sleep. We'll get there tomorrow."
"Stay if you like, shepherdess, but by the time you spread
your bedroU and build a fire, we'll be sleeping on down
mattresses."
"Truth?"
"Truth. Give me a hand with the boy?"
Knowing from experience that there was no convenient
way to carry a semiconscious individual tandem on a horse,
he opted for the hold that would leave the fewest bruises
on both of them. With the boy cradled crosswise and
propped against his chest, he asked: "Can you handle
both horses?"
Her weary gaze swung toward her horse and back to
him, then she nOdded slowly, and hauled herself stiffly into
the saddle.
It took rather longer than he'd promised to travelor
rather, stumblethe remaining distance to Armayel, and
when they pulled up in front of the darkened manor house,
the look Kiyrstin sent him and the long journey settled a
senses-deadening weight on his shoulders.
"Alizant?" he murmured, and squeezed the boy to wake
him. "We're here, fry. Can you hold on? Just long enough
for me to get down."
On the off-chance the whimper was an affirmative, he
slid down,  dismayed when  his own  legs  collapsed.  He
grabbed mane and saddle to keep from falling until the
tingling in his feet dissipated and he could feel his toes
again. He released his death grip just in time to receive a
fainting Alizant into his arms.
Kiyrstin, who had neither moved nor spoken, gazed up
at the house, shoulders slumped, mindless exhaustion in
every line. Balancing the boy's dead weight precariously,
he gripped her knee, squeezed lightly to get her attention.
"Don't try to move. I'll get the boy inside, be right
back."
A faint dismay crossed her face.
"I promise, shepherdess. Just hang on. All right?"
She swayed, eyes closed, then caught her lower lip in her
teeth and nodded.
He staggered up the wide stone steps and leaned his
shoulder against the doorframe, arching his back to balance
the boy while reaching for the bellchain.
Pain lanced through his hip and down his leg. He cried
out and collapsed to his knees, swearing.
"Deymorin!" Kiyrstin's cry joined the bells ringing in his
head. Before the ringing ended, she was at his side, taking
Alizant's weight into her own lap. "Are you all right?" Her
hands were brushing his hair back from his face, urging
him to look at her.
Just as if she really cared.
"Deymorin." She'd said, and "Rhomandi." She knew.
Yet she persisted in pretending otherwise.
"Why, shepherdess?" he whispered past the pain.
Her hand stroked his cheek. "Why, what, JD?"
He shook his head and lurched to his feet, pain shooting
through his knees now as well as his back and leg. He
cursed softly and pulled the bellchain, then, glancing down
at Kiyrstin, he said, "Much more of this, and I won't be
able to move at all."
The door opened behind him. Light flooded out, casting
his shadow across Kiyrstin and the boy.
"Who are you, and what do you want at such a godforsa
...ken...?"
"I should think that quite obvious." He turned slowly,
had the satisfaction of seeing Gareg's face blanch, then
flush, before shock gave way to amazement and joy.
"M'lord!" Gareg's hands pulled him into the warmth and
the light.
"Rings, man, help the woman and the boy." Deymorin
waved him back to the door. "And get someone to the
stables, before those three outside tear the barn down try-
ing to get in."
It was a confusion of faces, half explanations and hot
baths: a virtual repetition of the previous night at Darha-
ven, but eventually, the boy was in bed, and Kiyrstin, if she
had any sense, considering the bruises and sores, was still
soaking her shapely rear in hot mineral salts.
Himself, he was in another library beside another fire . . .
only the individual sharing a bottle of wine with him was
rather less . . . physically appealing and the information he
gathered was both more precise and infinitely more
disturbing.
For the first time since the scent of spring-fresh grass had
startled his nostrils there beside the mountain pond, he
truly felt the months that had so incomprehensibly passed
him by. The men Gareg describedin particular, Mi-
khyelbore only superficial resemblance to those brothers
he'd eaten dinner with what seemed a mere week ago.
One had been spouting poetry at a brothel and Berul at
dinner, the other had been calling Outsiders parasites. Now,
the one was . . . married, and the other . . . hard to judge
what Mikhyel had become. A brother wanted to believe
the best, wanted to believe that Mikhyel's professed com-
mitment to the drainage project indicated something other
than false conciliation.
But if such was the case, why allow this . . . farce of a
wedding?
"Honestly can't say to that, boss," Gareg said, when he
put the question to him. "They had a long talk here, when
Master Nikki came for him that last time, and ... well,
whatever it was regarding, it didn't go well at all. Master
Nikki was angry, and Master Mikhyel I fear, not well at
all. I tried to stop him from leaving, as late and cold as it
was, but he would. I was worried, I don't mind telling
you. When Master Nikki's messenger came through ask-
ing for horses and such, he didn't mention Master Khyel,
only to say he was to take your part in the wedding play
as well as his own, you not being there to do it yourself."
"Rings," Deymorin muttered, and rested his head in his
hand, pressing his fingers hard into his temple and brow,
trying to put the bits and pieces into a whole that made
any sense whatsoever. "What you're saying is that Nikki is
already married and even as we speak, travelling in direc-
tions unknown with some sort of makeshift army, searching
for me?"
"Contracts should have been signed this very morning,
sir, and Master Nikki, he planned to leave right after. But
I wouldn't exactly call it an army."
"Whatever it is," he realized wearily, "it's obviously
headed in the wrong direction, and I'll wager my brother
was no more anxious to wed that creature than I'd have
been."
"You've met the young lady then, m'lord?"
"Met her? You might say that. Anheliaa tried to pass
her off on me when she hit seventeen and that was, rings,
years ago. Dammit! I've got to get to the City." If he
had the energy, he'd pace the floor. "Someone pressured
him into this. If it was Khyel, so help me, I'll kill him."
"Not before you hear his side, you don't," Gareg said
stoutly, "or you'll answer to me, Lord Deymorin."
Another of those disconcerting moments where under-
standing seemed to slide sideways on him. The Gareg of
old would recognize that statement for the exaggeration it
was, but agree with the sentiment. The Mikhyel of this new
spring had engendered a loyalty in the Armayel overseer
that allowed no such dark humor.
Deymorin nodded. "Not before I hear him out, Gareg, I
promise. But I'll get an annulment of that marriage contract
if I have to choke it out of Anheliaa. There's no time to
waste. If I leave right away"
"You wouldn't dare," Kiyrstin's unmistakable tones said
from the doorway.
He leaned an elbow on the chair arm, and cradled his
forehead in his hand. "Who invited you in here?"
"Door was open, JD."
Her footsteps crossed the room; he looked up, saw Oar-
eg's eyes flicker from him to Kiyrstin and back, taking in
their decidedly informal dialogue, drawing undoubtedly fas-
cinating conclusions.
"Kiyrstin," he said cautiously, "please leave us. This is
personal. Has nothing to do with yourourpurpose."
She helped herself to his wineglass, refilled it, and ar-
ranged herself on a divan opposite them. "You're talking
about leaving immediately. Where's that put me? Where's
it put Alizant? Sorry, Rags, but I'm not going to bed until
I have certain reassurances regarding our . . . disposition."
"Gari," he said, embarrassed and apologetic, "could you
leave us for a while? I'm sorry. I know it's late" That
barb aimed solely at the uninvited female, but:
"Don't you mind that, m'lord," Gareg said warmly.
"We're grateful to have you home and alive. Rest can
come later."
The sad thing was, he meant it.
With the door safely shut behind Gareg, Deymorin said:
"You, woman, are a semiroyal pain in the derriere. That
poor man gets up before sunrise every day, and this stunt
of yours means he'll get no sleep at all. What in all the
eighteen hells above Rhomatum gives you the right to in-
trude  on  a  private  conversation  in  that  highhanded
fashion?"
"If 'that poor man' gets no sleep, it'll be your doing, not
mine. Was I wrong to suspect your intentions? Should I be
soundly sleeping upstairs? And when I awoke in the morn-
ing, what would I have found? Leaving right away, you
said? Tonight? We had a deal, Rhomatum. You were to
produce Rhomandi. Rhomandi was supposed to be here.
So where is he, eh? Where is he, Jus"
"Stop it!" He lurched to his feet, crossed the distance
between them in two strides.
She just scowled up at him, her mouth a fine, hard line.
Uncertainty consumed him. Uncertainty over the fate
and desires of his brothers, over the goals of this woman,
over his own judgmentover reality itself. He was ex-
hausted, angry, and increasingly apprehensive for everyone
and everything he cared about.
And he was damned tired of the lies.
He jerked her up to face him.
Which she did without flinching, damn her.
"Enough of this pretence," he said through clenched
teeth. "You know damned well where Rhomandi is. Have
known for days."
Still she said nothing, her whole stance a challengea
condemnation of his behavior.
"Who's the real pretender here, woman? And I might
never have known, if I'd managed to control my baser self
and had stayed clear of your bed. You want Rhomandi?"
He released her elbow with a thrust that set her staggering,
and stepped back, throwing his arms wide. "Well, here he
is."
A second step set him lurching as the leg twisted wrong,
collapsing as it could &nd did, always at the worst of mo-
ments. He caught the mantle to hide the stumble.
"Here he is," he repeated. "As if you didn't know. And
at the moment, Rhomandi has concerns other than yours
and the boy'sand he damnsure doesn't care what rom-
Maurii wantsand he'll be thrown to the bloody wolves
before he'll take you into Rhomatum to confuse his think-
ing any more than it already is. Rhomandi will leave you
here. Away from Anheliaa, away from Garetti, away from
romMauriiisolated until he knows what's happening and
where your loyalties really lie."
"Anheliaa? Caret What are you talking about?"
A desperate need surfaced in him, to hear her admit to
something he could despise her for. To be free of her disas-
trous appeal once and for all.
"Whose are you?" He challenged her. "Anheliaa's? Gar-
etti's? Did Anheliaa . . . deliver me to you?"
Her lip lifted in a confused, disgusted curl. "Rings, Rho-
mandi, that's sick."
Rhomandi. At least she was using his title openly now.
And with that tiny concession, his driving anger seeped
away. He collapsed into the chair, aware only of the throb
in his leg, and the emptiness in his gut that had nothing to
do with the supper he'd been unable to swallow.
He didn't trust his attraction to Kiyrstin, feared mostly
what it did to his better sense. For all he knew, she might
be a ringmaster herself, and manipulating him from some
distant Tower, playing games with his mind. That made
as much sense as anything else he'd experienced in recent
memory. And if she was Anheliaa's pawn . - . or Garetti's
... or her own mistress. Perhaps even the source of the
nightmares...
He met her confused, stubborn gaze.
But if she weren't ...
"If you want my loyalty," he said slowly, "give me
yours, now."
She had to be out of her mind.
Kiyrstin shifted her weight, trying to ease the ache in
her lower back, only to discover that movement prohibited:
velvet and lace were caught in the seat springsagain.
Kiyrstin tugged at the skirt, yanked hard when it clung
tenaciously.
The seat shifted, bounced, and the green-broke ("Sorry,
m'lord, we sent everything else to Master Nikki.") team
shied, narrowly missing a cart filled with crates of chickens.
Deymorin steadied the young horses with a gentle word
and a barely perceptible twist of his rein-filled hands; the
horses settled back into their prancing, generally forward,
motion. To her, he cast a sickeningly sweet and adoring
smile that said, clear as clear, "Do it again, shepherdess,
and I'll tie your hands in your lap."
Clear  because  he'd  said  precisely  thator  similar
threatsseveral times in the past few hoursbefore they
entered his City.
The Rhomatumin market they travelled was crowded,
only his skill with the lines keeping the foolish creatures
attached to the carriage from taking out every fifth stall.
Skill that drew the attention of everyone they passedor
perhaps it was she that made everyone stare at them like
sideshow oddities.
And perhaps, sweet Maurii save her, that's what she'd
become: a Mauritumin noblewoman, squeezed (with the
help of a tortuous corset) into a dress of highly question-
able but very expensive taste, perched atop a splinter-filled
training cart next to a Rhomatumin prince (or Rhomatum's
nearest equivalent), on her way to bid the most powerful
madwoman in the history of the two webs a friendly
good morning.
Moon-touched, for certain.
She leaned over, endeavoring to ignore the corset biting
into her gut, praying she wouldn't fall out the top and give
the onlookers an even greater show, and worked the skirt
free, then straightened and stretched her back with a sigh.
Deymorin looked to her with a solicitous, "Tired?" To
which she smiled (so sweetly her teeth ached) and re-
sponded, "No, not a bit. "
Damned liars, the pair of them.
She was exhausted, aching in every bone. The dress she
wore had been tailored for a much smaller woman, and the
corset that enabled them to fasten it in back had accom-
plished that feat by squeezing her out the ridiculously low-
cut bodice.
Velvet and lace. Provided by Deymorin. At Armayel.
One had to wonder why he had women's clothing there.
Particularly clothing he swore was top of the line, fashion-
ably speaking.
Though in that he was forsworn, she had only to note the
apparel of the women around herand ignore the stares of
the mento realize that.
Some people, particularly too-charming almost-princes,
were just very lucky that other people had long since lost
any pretense to vanity, and were morally capable of setting
need above humiliation.
Her only consolation was that the too-charmingand
elegantly, quietly attiredalmost-prince was equally tired,
and nearly as sore.
Only Zandy, with the resilience of youth and a full
night's sleep, had come through yesterday unscathed, and
he was staying with the old man at Armayel. Zandy, sweet
Maurii protect his independent little soul, hadn't said a
word when Deymorin told him they were going on without
him, had only stood outside the fine manorhouse, his arms
filled with squirming Puppy, and wished them farewell.
Another wind-flaring banner, another back-wrenching
start that caught her in mid-yawn, jerked her head back
and snapped her teeth down on her tongue. She hissed,
and yanked the billowing skirt free of another so-called
spring, finding a certain satisfaction in the sound of lace
ripping.
"I don't know what your problem is, shepherdess,"
Deymorin said from the corner of a smile, as he nodded
greeting to some passerby, waved a cheerful answer to a
hail from afar. "You had two whole hours of sleep, after
all."
Which was two more than he'd had.
"I just can't imagine, Rags," she muttered. "Female
frailty?"
He choked. "Never."
The horses shied again, taking his full attentionwhile
the gentle, dextrous skill of those large, buckskin-covered
hands commanded hers. She'd found it difficult enough to
sort one set of short reins from one of these creature's
backs. For this simple, two-horse team, he seemed to have
enormously long strips of leather running between every
available pair of talented fingers.
She shivered with remembered passion, and pressed her-
self as far away from those talented fingers as the carriage's
single seat would allow. Carriage. It was a damned training
cart, nothing but a seat and four wheels with springs de-
signed for stability and comfort for the creatures between
the shafts, not the passengers. But that hadn't slowed JD
oh, no. He'd just said, "Hold on," and let the youngsters
fly.
What joints had survived yesterday's torment had rapidly
succumbed to this new torture.
And Deymorin Rhomandi dunMheric? He just smiled
and waved and exchanged friendly insults with every stall
they passed. They all seemed to know him, all tried to get
him to stop, asking where he'd been all this time, and he,
yelhng back his pre-agreed-upon answer: "Courting myself
a new bride!"
Gods of ley and stone. Bride. Just wait til that tidbit
found its way to Rhomatum Tower. Better yet, to Gar-
etti's ears.
Which was, of course, the whole idea, or so Just Deymio
had claimed. Which was her reason for being here, in Gar-
tum Market, alone with Deymorin dunMheric, the boy and
his machine left behindWhere they'd be safe, or so Dey-
morin had claimed. Her own plans put on hold while they
pursued his more time critical needs. They were to arrive
openly, noisily, to put Anheliaa off her guard and the city
in a partying mood.
To make certain everyone would notice if the Rhomandi
disappeared again.
As for Garetti ... last night, Deymorin had simply
shrugged that problem away. It wasn't as if they were really
married, he'd argued, and if Garetti did hear, if Garetti
came (or more likely sent someone) after her, it would
simply add more spice to the pot. After all, multiple
spouses were not at all unusual, particularly in state mar-
riages. Family-webs and all, don't you know?
He seemed to conveniently forget that her 'other spouse'
was the spiritual and practical ruler of a web that was
barely on speaking terms with Rhomatum, and never mind
such arrangements had been outlawed in Mauritum two
hundred years ago.
Minor details, she supposed, and caught the side rail as
the horses spooked sideways yet one more time.
Somewhere ahead, too far for her peace of mind and
bruised backside, lay the outer wall of Rhomatum. It must.
She'd seen it from the distance. From this crowded so-
called street, all she could see were people, and colorful
banners announcing wares for sale, and fringed, flapping,
awnings, to which the team took continued exception.
But for all the crowds, the streets were orderly and clean,
lacking the stink and detritus, the pickpockets and thieves
of Mauritum's markets.
Tempting to say something, to compliment Deymorin on
his city. Tempting ... she snuck a sidewise glance at his
smiling, supremely confident profile . . . but resistible.
The profile turned toward her. From somewhere, a sigh
happened; his dark eyes met hers, his smile turned gentle
and, combining the multitudinous reins deftly into one
hand, he squeezed hers briefly as they lay clenched on her
velvet-covered lap.
"I appreciate this, shepherdess. I truly do."
Gentle. Understanding. Good-humoredsweet Maurii,
why couldn't he have just one solid flaw she could hold
against him long enough to clear her head?
She straightened her back, heard a hastily adjusted seam
pop, and forced a tight smile. "Just remember you said
that, Rhomandi."
"I'll count on you to remind me."
Another hail from a distant tatter's stall. His hand tight-
ened spasmodically, then withdrew to resort the reins. This
time, he actually pulled the horses to a halt, somehow find-
ing a niche that allowed other traffic to pass.
"Here," he said and thrust the reins into her hands.
"JD, what . . . ?"
But she spoke into empty air. He was gone, over the
open side in a light-footed hop that left the vehicle's springs
bouncing sickeningly. Fortunately for her uncertain skill,
some youngster immediately discovered the standing horses
and began petting their noses and chattering at her, asking
questions without breath or pause for answers.
Also fortunate, since she had no answers to give him.
Rhomandi had disappeared into the crowd. She stood,
balancing gingerly against the shifting"floorboards, trying to
spot him, caught a glimpse of him talking to a rather lump-
ish man, who was dressed in obviously expensive clothing
and waving a lace-edged handkerchief through the air in
front of his nose as he spoke.
A large basket of fruit came between them and stopped,
while the woman beneath the basket carried on a flirtation
with a passing customer.
She was tempted to climb up on the seat, but lacking
suicidal tendencies, she settled instead on stretching up
onto her toes, reins firmly in one hand, the other hand to
the siderail, trying to see over the fruit.
The horses shifted.
She staggered, backed a step onto her too-long hem,
jerked it free with the hand that held the reins, and in
seemingly slow, inevitable sequence, the horses snorted
protest and threw their heads; the child screamed and
jumped back; one horse reared, the cart tipped .. .
And Kiyrstin fell to the wooden seat in a biUowing cloud
of red skirts and lace petticoats.
The horses bolted, people screamed, and fruit flew.
Kiyrstin cursed, loudly and without consideration, fum-
bled past skirts exhibiting a maddening tendency to blow
up in her face, caught the very end of the lines as they
flipped over the kickboard, cursed again as the horses si-
multaneously skittered to a halt and swayed to the side,
nearly overturning the cart.
Someone screeched.
Wood cracked and flew, and feathers filled the air.
The horses shied again and were off before she could
draw a full breath.
Stretched nearly full-length across the seat, face smoth-
ered in her own skirts, the reins wrapped around her wrist,
she clung to the siderail, ignoring the chicken screeching in
her ear, and the bat of its wings against her head.
When all four wheels felt solidly grounded, she raised
her head, batted the feathered beast into the street, and
pulled herself upright, staying as close to the center of the
seat as possible.
Determinedly blind to the chaos they wrought in their
careening passage, she set her teeth, thrust the billowing
skirt between her knees with a fist, and sorted the reins
into both hands as she'd seen Rhomandi do, slipping them
taut one at a time without ever releasing her hold on the
rest.
Swaying with the bounce and toss of the cart, she set
her feet against the kickboard and pulled relentlessly back
against the angry tossing heads, absorbing the jerks in her
wrists and elbows, threatening the horses through her teeth,
until the tossing eased, and the horses' mad darting scram-
ble straightened to a rapid, but even clipping on the cob-
bled streets.
As the vehicle came to a bouncing, swaying halt and
several knowledgeable-acting men closed in around the
horses' heads, the tension left the reins and Kiyrstin's
shoulders.
"Are you all right, mistress?"
Noting that her hands were shaking, she folded all four
reinsdamned if she'd let them go nowinto one hand;
she raised the other hand to pat her hair into a semblance
of order, pulled a feather free, and stared at it, certain she
looked far worse than she really was.
"Mistress?"
Her eyes were dry. Painfully so. Perhaps it would help if
she biinked.
It did.
She smiled down at the man asking so pohtely, such kind-
liness in his voice. You wouldn't think she was other than
she seemed: some sort of proper lady who had just nar-
rowly escaped an ugly and painful death.
Of course, that wasn't the case. Couldn't have been.
"Kiyrstin? Kiyrstin! Dammit, let me through."
That was Deymorin dunMheric. No mistaking that deep
and carrying voice. Besides, one had to laugh at oneself,
who else here would call her by name?
She was alone. A Mauritumin outlaw in Rhomatum, a
city of legend and mystery . . . and crazed people. Like the
man limping and pushing his way through the growing
crowd. A crazed man who had played with her emotions
until she was dotty with him. Why else was she here, in a
strange city, putting her life on the line for two other men
she'd never even met?
Surely no sensible woman would do such a thing. No
sensible man would leave her in charge of moon-touched
horses.
"Shepherdess?" That equally moon-touched man was back.
A soft thank you to someone unknown; the cart dipped
and jerked, and then he was there, his hands on her arms.
"Come, girl, wake up."
One hand left her, popped her cheek gently. She resisted
the temptation to strike back. Resisted also sticking her
tongue into her cheek like a child defying an errant adult.
Neither seemed a proper example to give the children she
could hear crying and yelling for their parents.
"Kiyrstin."'
Another blow. Sharper. She gasped, an inhalation that
set her to coughing. When she caught her breath: "Damn
you, dunMheric! What the hell did you think"
His mouth on hers cut off the rest.
In the Rhomatum Council chamber, Mikhyel stopped in
mid-sentence, his mind no longer tracking the debate as his
body took on an aching, aimless desire of its own.
He bit his lip, striving for control, as across the table he
saw, not Mhalis Corinelli, but Mirym, or perhaps it wasn't.
The hair was red. Or perhaps black.
Or it glowed green.
He shuddered, transferred his gaze to the large window,
beyond which the Tower loomed.
"DunMheric?" a voice asked.
He had no idea whose.
He muttered some excuse, and left the room.
They were on the trail to Darhaven much later than
Nikki had hoped, but he hadn't pushed this morning,
couldn't blame the men, most of them elderly and all of
them lacking his motivation for hurry.
Couldn't blame them particularly after losing the benefits
of the early stop in the fruitless search for Beauvina.
Beauvina. Gods, who, or what, had the woman been?
The eyes. The strange warning. The disappearance leav-
ing no trace.
All the clues hinted Tamshirin. But Tamshi only ap-
peared to the crazed, drunk, or desperate. He had to won-
der into which category he fit.
And this morning, as they travelled toward Darhaven at
a comfortable jog-trot, one couldn't help but remember the
feel of those soft lips. Couldn't help but flash on one's
abortive seventeenth birthday, and the disappointing reality
of one's wedding night.
He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, hoping no one
noticed, and silently cursed the entire female species.
The crowd around them was cheering. The seat below
them swayed and jerked as the horses plunged, giving their
self-proclaimed grooms a handful.
As Deymorin grew slowly aware of these things, he drew,
with great reluctance, back from the kiss, scanning Kiyrs-
tin's face anxiously. She was trembling beneath his hands,
and strangely pale, the freckles standing out starkly on her
cheeks and nose.
But her green eyes had lost that wide, shocked look,
bhnked, now and again, in the way eyes were meant to.
Lord and rings, it was all he could do not to take her
here and now.
He pulled a feather free of her too-short hair, plucked
three from her bodice and released them to drift away on
the breeze, cupped her face in his hands and brushed her
lips lightly with his thumb, then pulled her to him again,
telling her to kindly shut up when she protested, wanting
just to hold her, to convince himself for good and all that
she was safe and unharmed.
Without looking up, he lifted a hand to the crowd to
assure them all was well and flipped it to shoo them away,
counterfeiting a lightness of heart he was far from feeling.
Laughter, then, and fading, as the crowd responded to
that silent message, or others enforced it for him; he didn't
know, or care at the moment, and neither, from her com-
placency in his arms, did the shepherdess.
He'd been a fool to leave her; the colts were unpredict-
able and exceedingly strong. He forgot sometimes there
were things she couldn't do. Perhaps he'd remember if she
would carry on, or faint, or do those other things females
were supposed to do at times such as this, instead of
"Wastin' time, Rags," her lips murmured against his.
"I don't feel you moving, shepherdess."
"Not my brothers, Rhomandi. I'm perfectly"
"Damn," he whispered, and captured her mouth in a
final penetrating kiss before prying her fingers from the
reins. With the help of their volunteer grooms, he backed
. the colts free of the detritus of their passage, thanked the
men, and worked the cart slowly toward the main road,
pausing to tell each devastated merchant to send an item-
ized accounting to the Tower, receiving in his turn well-
wishes for himself and his new bride.
That 'new bride' was sitting quietly beside him, staring
straight ahead, hands folded in her lap, the wide slashed
sleeves of her short jacket covering a ripped side seam,
courtesy of that wild dash through the market maze. Not
exactly tiny, this woman. Not what would be termed over-
large, either. Just . . . healthy. The way a woman could be
who spent every waking moment active and alive.
Bride. Damn, he wished she were.
"What say you, shepherdess," he asked, side-stepping his
own wayward thoughts, "Shall we make it a grand entrance,
or approach the Tower quietly, like wayward children re-
turning home with tails tucked?"
An ironically raised brow, a gaze that took in the wreck-
age around them, was her silent answer.
"Did make a bit of a stir, didn't you?"
"Don't you dare try to attach this onto me, dunMheric."
"And whose hands were on the"
Without warning, and with the cart still in motion, she
one-handed a swing down to the ground and disappeared
into the shadowed chaos between two ruined stalls, leaving
him with his hands full of rejuvenated colts who'd received
their second dose of red velvet skirts flying behind them.
"Dammit, shepherdess!" He struggled to quiet the
horses, searching the market crowd for some youngster
brave and skilled enough to trust with them, yelled into the
shadow: "Kiyrstin!"
"Hold 'em fer a copper, m'lor'," a voice said from the
near side, and he said, without looking, "I'll make it ten,
boy. Just don't let them" A familiar chuckle stopped him
cold. A two heartbeat pause later, and without looking
down, he hissed, "Get up here."
"Ai, now, that'll cost a bit more, then, won't it?"
"Name your price, woman."
"An apology, for starts."
"You have it. What else?"
"Now, that won't do at all. Try again."
He swung his head around to glower down into her de-
ceptively guileless green gaze. "Forgive me, my dearest,
most brave and intelligent lady, for being such a boorish,
inconsiderate beast"
"Try idiot. Rags."
"Idiot, then. I had no business leaving such a frail, dainty
lady with such ill-trained beasts"
"There's that word again. Those poor creatures are just
spoiledlike their driver. That'll do. Rags." She moved
around the front, giving the colts a pat as she passed, and
swung up beside him, ignoring the hand he stretched to
help. The instant her feet touched the floorboard, he gave
the colts the signal to start.
The cart lurched forward; she settled calmly and without
a blink.
"You said the apology was just for a down payment,"
he said. "What's the balance? Perhaps I'll refuse to meet
your price."
"Changed my mind. Paid in full."
"How do I know you won't change it again?"
"I'm up here, aren't I?"
"You might leave me again."
"I don't think so. Rags."
And suddenly, the easy raillery . . . wasn't. Suddenly
there was too much of seriousness in her voice and in the
green eyes that angled toward his.
"Don't do this to us, shepherdess," he said, and his voice
was hoarse.
"Done is done, isn't it?"
He swallowed hard.
Her mouth twitched and she pointed with her chin back
toward the central marketplace. "Who was that?"
"Nobody."
"Done is"
"All right, woman. Barishi ... he's nephew to Pwere-
netti, one of the City's most accomplished gossipmongers.
I was just filling his ear. Setting the stage ..." He shook
his head, helpless in the face of her disbelief. "Shepherdess,
he was nobody."
Her level gaze never wavered, a balancing of his integrity
he'd never before experienced. Finally:
"Looks to me like a gate ahead," she said, "Thought you
said we couldn't drive within the limits. What do you plan
to do with" She dipped her head toward the horses.
."them?"
"I suppose you have a point." He drew a deep breath,
and forced his thinking back to the immediate task. "What
say we put the old witch's nose thoroughly out of plumb
and drive right up to the Tower itself?"
She  shrugged.  "You're  the  Princeps.  Who's  to
complain?"
"Any number of folk, I assure you." He grinned. "And
a hefty fine will be forthcoming, count on it. But not before
I make my point."
"Well, if that's the case . . ."
With that impassive understatement only a seasoned butler
achieved, the man who opened the massive, gilt and glass
doors to Rhomatum Tower said:
"Master Deymorin. You have been missed. Come in,
please."
Laughter rumbled, deep and heartfelt, beside Kiyrstin,
and Deymorin's hands on her back urged her through the
doors ahead of him.
She threw him her most daggerous glance and whispered
as she sashayed past: "The better to draw fire, JD?" and hi
laughed again, entering instead at her side, his arm posses-
sively on her waist.
To a person raised among the sculptured fantastical gar-
den estates of Mauritum, Rhomatum's band upon band of
apartment housing had all seemed terribly . . . utilitarian.
Tower Hill itself, however, and the surrounding complex
of administration buildings, the oldest structures in all Rho-
matum, felt quite familiar, as this House Rhomandi, every
bit a palace, felt familiar.
Which made her wonder at the true motives of Deymor-
in's several-generations removed ancestor.  Somehow she
doubted all Rhomatumin citizens lived like this. Still . . .
"I could grow to like this," she said, swaying free of his
arm to cross the patterned tiles and run a possessive hand
along a polished banister.
Deymorin pursued her, reclaiming her waist and hissing
into her ear:  "Don't bother." And in a louder tone:
"Korendi, let me be the first to tell you my good news"
"Your pardon, m'lord, but your happy news has pre-
ceded you. Lady Anheliaa awaits you both."
Deymorin's arm tensed, "Where?"
"In the south sitting room, m'lord."
Deymorin's hold tightened, but his murmur was deter-
minedly easy: "That's as far from her lair as the dragon's
been in years."
Korendi, who was apparently, in the universal way of
servants, selectively deaf, announced implacably: "M'lord,
mistress, if you will follow me ..." and with a graceful
sweep of his hand, turned and headed across the mosaic
floor.
Kiyrstin would have followed, if not for Deymorin's insis-
tent hold.
"Not yet, shepherdess," Deymorin said, staring after the
butler, a dark frown on his face. "I intend to see my broth-
ers first."
"I'm afraid that won't be practical, m'lord," Korendi said
from across the foyer and down his nose. "Lord Mikhyel
is  in  Council  chambers,  and  Master  Nikaenor  is  ...
inaccessible."
"What do you mean, Nikki's 'inaccessible'?"
"I suggest you address that question to the Lady." The
butler turned again for the far corridor.
"Hell of a way for a servant to talk to his master," Kiyrs-
tin murmured, pulling.Deymorin's attention away from that
arrogant back.
"I'm 'master' to no one in this house, Kiyrstin, in any-
thing other than name. That's something you'd best under-
stand. This is Anheliaa's house, regardless of what any laws
proclaim."  His  hand  pressed  her  back.  "Let's  go,
shepherdess."
Shepherdess. Trust JD to remind her. This time, it was
she who resisted, setting her feet firmly. "Not before I clean
up, m'lord. I'm all over feathers and dirt, I've burst another
damned seam"
He relaxed at last, grinned and pulled one lock of hair
in another direction (balancing the dust-caked spikes, no
doubt) and pronounced her: "Perfect. Let's go."
"Deymorin," she whispered, while they were still out of
the butler's selective hearing, "how did she know? How
could she possibly"
"The rings," he said abruptly. "She'd know the instant
we entered the power umbrella. The rest" He shrugged.
"// she knows, it's as likely through human eyes and ears
as through the rings, though I suspect she might have been
watching us since we passed the outer gate."
She shivered, grateful now for the warm arm about her.
Garetti raved about Anheliaa's so-called magic, claimed the
rumors of her experiments with the rings were Rhoma-
tumin propaganda, disseminated about Mauritum to under-
mine his influence and force them into the Rhomatum
Web.
But since she'd left Garetti's sphere, she'd personally
seen people appearing out of nowhere. Fairly solid propa-
ganda, to her way of thinking. However, if Anheliaa had
this other power. . . .
"Just how much does she know?" she asked, realizing
too late how much they should have discussed before now.
Realizing, too late, they'd wasted far too many of the past
hours in angry, suspicious silence. "What all can she do?"
"I couldn't tell you, shepherdess, something, for the first
time in my life. I'm ashamed to admit. But she's not in the
Tower now, and without the rings, she's nothing but a vi-
cious-tongued old woman."
However, she sensed fear through Deymorin's arm, not
shame, and slipping his grip, she tucked her hand into his
elbow and squeezed reassuringly. "Then let's find out, shall
we, JD?"
He chuckled and that uncharacteristic feeling dissipated.
The butler led them a long, winding pathway, past art
galleries and corridors  lined with bustsof family, so
Deymorin saidand exquisite tapestries. Art and architec-
ture that were at once familiar and slightly alien, common
beginnings taking independent directions, geometries right,
yet not, centuries of separation, yet like the language and
names, indisputably linked.
They passed a group of peoplea guided tour, from the
singsong voice of the leader describing this and that anec-
dote of this or that Rhomandi. The voice faded as they
approached, drifted into stunned silence, and the group
turned to watch them pass.
Not them. Her. They never noticed the man with her was
the Rhomandi himself.
She tried not to stare back, tried very hard to ignore
them and not insult Deymorin's official visitors. But ...
nature insisted. She lifted her feathered head high, and
shoved an extra sway into her hips, and threw the lot a
look behind Deymorin's broad back.
Deymorin, apparently lost in his own thoughts, patted
her hand and said, "Someday, I'll take you on a guided
tour of the whole place. "The tapestries are the history of
Rhomatum in ..." His voice drifted off, his hand closed
painfully tight around hers. "Better yet, I'll have Nikki take
you. He's the family historian." His voice drifted off.
Forgetting the tour, she dug her elbow into his side, and
smiled placidly into his startled, darkening look.
"I look forward to it, Rhomandi," she said. "Soon."
His expression shifted to bewildered, and he nodded.
Teach him to forget her presence, or worse, to let his
mind wander on topics to which she, as his second in this
venture, ought to be privy.
They stopped at last before a simple, single door, down
a corridor that felt less used than the rest of the house
the south wing, so Deymorin explained in an undertone.
The butler pulled a silver bell-chain and slipped inside with-
out waiting for permission from within. He reappeared a
moment later and held the door open.
In the center of the room, like some would-be goddess
holding court, an old woman sat waiting. Beneath the paint,
her features proclaimed an unmistakable linkage to those
busts lining the hall, some resemblance even to Deymorin,
although that resemblance might simply be a product of
sheer size. She was an unusually large woman, but her big-
boned frame, meant to support muscle, was covered instead
with flaccid flesh; her hunched position, her mechanical
chair, and arthritic hands lent her an airor fa~ade--of
fragility.
At her back, her dainty features painted and twisted into
a caricature of the old woman's superior expression, was a
pale-haired piece of court decoration. Funny: change the
clothing styles, the manner, and numerous other minor so-
cial variables,  and the type was still recognizableand
hardly worth the effort to ignore.
Anheliaa, she'd expected, and the court flower was un-
doubtedly the leech Deymorin wanted to detach from his
younger brother. But in the corner next to a window, her
hands busy with a fine silver needle, sat a second young
woman whose steady gaze and quietly pretty features, and
sheer unexpected presence, made her the most significant
unknown element in the room, particularly when the flash-
ing needle paused and she raised soft brown eyes to meet
Kiyrstin's gaze steadily.
"Well, duuMheric," Anheliaa's harsh voice matched her
features, "your timing is ... predictable. So, where's
the boy?"
Boy? What boy". Kiyrstin blinked her gaze free of the
young woman's and shifted to Anheliaa, whose beady eyes
scanned her, then peered beyond Deymorin to the door.
"Anheliaa," Deymorin said, "I'd like you to meet"
"Your shepherdess?" The old bat interrupted rudely.
"Looks more like a chicken farmer."
Something snapped within her, Something decidedly less
than sociable. She shook herself free of Deymorin's hold,
and sashayed forward, flounced down onto a divan and
dragged it across the floor in scraping jerks, anghng herself
face to the old crone's chair. She leaned forward, grasped
a dry gnarled hand, and pumped it vigorously. "Name's
Kiyrsti, Auntie Aneeleeahr. Ain't no cause f stand on cere-
mony, now is there, bein' as we're f be fam'ly an' all. Ain't
that so, Deymio-luwie?"
Deymio-luvvie made his choking noise; she smiled con-
fidingly up at the crone; the crone, with a grunt of pain,
jerked her hand free and glared up at Deymorin.
"Bear with 'im, Liaa-dearie, he's been a touch under th'
weather-like." She fluffed her skirts, the seam gave another
finger's-breadth and feathers drifted free of the folds.
"Oh, dearie-rne." She two-fingered one and blew it in
Deymio's direction with a simpering giggle. "Trust me,
dearie, we'll get long famous, promise 'ee. This" An-
other feather drifted free. "warn't nothin' but a bit o'
misunderstandin' in th' market on th' way t' visit yer sweet
sel'. Promise 'ee."
Anheliaa's expression stalled somewhere between shock
and outrage; the pouf-piece beside her .. . well, who really
cared? But over in her corner, the unknown woman's
mouth twitched, though she ducked her head to hide the
fact.
"DunMheric, I want this . . . creature . . . gone from my
sight. Immediately."
"Oh, I don't think so, Anheliaa." Dropping down beside
her, Deymorin put his arm around her and buried his head
in her chicken-fluffed hair to whisper: Easy on, shepherdess.
But laughter quivered his breath and her hair. "She's a
very clever shepherdess, and," his head came up, his voice
hardening, "after all, I have you to thank for throwing us
together."
"Me?" Anheliaa's face took on a considering look. "Ah.
And how was your trip, nephew? Did you find it
enlightening?"
"Extremely."
"Good. Pleasantries are over now. Marry whom you will.
Nikki has provided me my heir."
Deymorin tensed. That feeling returned tenfold. But his
voice, when he spoke, radiated calm indifference.
"Has he now? I have been gone a whilelonger than I
thought. Where is the unhappy child?"
"Here." Anheliaa . . . caressed, there was no other word
for it, the stomach of the woman standing silently beside
her chair, and the feeling went away.
For the first time in this odd game of unpleasantries,
Deymorin deigned to notice the woman. "Lidye, isn't it?
Charmed. You couldn't snag me, so you settled on my poor
little brother. Not quite up to your weight, was he?"
"He managed, dunMheric." The woman's voice was ev-
erything that set Kiyrstin's teeth on edge. Top-lofty, overly
controlled,  overly  sweet,  overly  everything.  And  she
stroked her own corseted stomach. "As Anheliaa said."
Deymorin pulled himself up, a formidable presence even
seated as he was. "Normally, madam, I don't stand on cere-
mony. In your case . . . I suggest you remember who I am
and address me accordingly."
An arch smile spread over her perfectly pink mouth.
"But I did, dunMheric. / am the next Rhomatum ringmas-
ter. The child I bear will be the greatest master of all time.
My Nikki is the Rhomandi now ... and Princeps. You'll
find the adjustments legally entered in the City ledgers."
"Ledgers, hell. Nikki would never agree to such an ar-
rangement. Khyel would never"
"Why do you think Nikki married me?" the blonde con-
fection asked. "Loyalty? Obediehce? Or perhaps, dare I
suggest, because he coveted the title? And brother Mikhyel
filed the papers, Deymio-luvvie. As to your personal claim,
not to mention your lack of official involvement . . . well, I
doubt you'll find any opposition to the change in Council.
You've been absent so long, after all. . . ."
There followed a silence, Deymorin processing that infor-
mation in ways she couldn't know, could only sense in the
slow tightening of his hands into fists. She reached out and
insinuated her fingers into one of those fists, which seemed
to break the spell.
"So this is how you win, Anheliaa," he muttered.
"I don't win, boy," Anheliaa answered, and from her
tone, Kiyrstin could almost believe she meant it. "I accom-
plish what's necessary and best for the City."
"And what about what's best for my brother?"
"He's content enough."
"Is he? Then why isn't he here with his not-so-blushing
bride?"
"Oh, leave him be, dunMheric. He's playing the hero.
Gone off with an army to save you."
"Where?"
"Has he gone?" She shrugged. "Who' knows? Don't
worry. Once he discovers how you've duped him, he'll
come running home with his tail tucked. You can exchange
adventure tales then, and you can go back to playing in
your dirt."
"How I've duped him?"
"He thinks you're in dire straits. Has convinced himself
I've designs on your life."
"And you hadn't?"
"I wanted you gone, boy. Out of the way. Your life
wasis ... irrelevant." Her gnarled hand made another
vaguely obscene tour of that stomach at her side. "I've got
what I needed."
"So you just let him go? Just like that?"
"He might have been right. And it occurred to me you
might be useful, if you'd calmed down. You just might have
some supporters to whom your opinions matter."
"So he went with your blessing?"
Anheliaa shrugged.
"Is that why he had to outfit a handful of retired light-
watchman with Armayel stock?"
"If he'd shown up with my Guardsmen, he wouldn't have
gotten very far with you, now would he?"
Deymorin's brow wrinkledhe really didn't play these
games well, his feelings were written much too clearly on
his features. He was wondering now if this younger brother
had political notions he didn't know about. Wondering
were his own goals here any longer worth the risks.
Kiyrstin was tempted, under the circumstances, to step
in for him, to play her own cards early and put Anheliaa
on the defensive. To ask Anheliaa about the Mauritum spy
she'd hired to eliminate Deymorin. A cutpurse whose ve-
racity Kiyrstin no longer doubted: she'd seen murderous
hatred before, and that was unquestionably the look Anhel-
iaa turned on her nephew.
But she hadn't properly prepared her forces for this
meeting. She'd been too tired to think clearly and had
wasted too much time arguing instead of exchanging infor-
mation, and she really didn't want to spring such knowledge
on Deymorin in front of the enemy, so she retained a hold
on her tongueat least for the moment.
"Enough of this," Anheliaa snapped. "Since you've
elected to return on your own, the least you can do is make
yourself useful. Where's the boy and his cursed machine?"
Zandy. That boy was Zandy. How could she know about
Zandy? Unless she and Garetti were in contact. Close con-
tact. Close friendly contact. Which would mean, she should
know about Garetti's escaped wife as well.
"I haven't the least notion what boy or what machine
you're talking about," Deymorin said, though his tell-tale
face said otherwise.
"I saw him, dunMheric, in that same brothel where you
and this creature were coupling like animals."
"Brothel?" Deymorin repeated, and this time his face
mirrored confusion. "What brothel?"
But that was a mere detail. Anheliaa said she'd seen
them, and Deymorin said she could have been watching
them through the rings. It was possible Anheliaa was just
how had Deymorin had put it?casting blind and hoping
they'd snap, using that expressive face of Deymorin's to
gage her distance, but from her face and voice, Kiyrstin
didn't think so.
"That brat and his cursed machine must be destroyed,
nephew," Anheliaa declared. "Now, where are they?"
Kiyrstin controlled an urge to destroy something, or
someone, rather more immediate. "You disgusting old per-
vert. And you call me a creature. Saw us, did you? And you
want to destroy a child and his toy just to amuse yourself?
Deymorin was right. I wouldn't allow Zandy anywhere
near you."
Deymorin cursed softly and she turned to face him.
"Relax, JD. She's playing with you. With me. She knows
about us all. Zandy, his encapsulatoreverything. What's
she going to do? Have us killed? Flogged? Incarcerated? I
don't think so. Not after that entrance and all those folk
you promised to see this afternoon. Not with the city
primed for yet another" She primped her feather-laden
coiffure. "spectacular wedding."
Which declaration silenced them both, aunt and nephew,
for an instant. So what if it wasn't quite true? It was close
enough to make the old hag think twice. But:
"The boy's not here, then." Anheliaa flung a stiff-necked
glance at her blonde-headed incubator. "I told you such
precautions were unnecessary. I'd have known if they'd
brought that thing into the City with them."
"Better to be certain, Anheliaa. Better to protect the
rings. The ramifications"
"Enough!"
The blonde woman bit her lip on whatever else she
planned to say, but tossed her head defiantly.
"Beware the tone you take with me, girl. It's not too late
to replace you."
"I'd still have the child."
"Don't depend on it."
The woman's hands crossed protectively over her stom-
ach, her head dipped in a subtle shift from insolence to
respect.
Kiyrstin scanned the fluffy creature dehberately, and said,
in a thoroughly audible whisper: "This is your next ring-
master, Rhomandi? Perhaps I should return home. Another
few years and Garetti will own Rhomatum anyway." She let
her voice trail off significantly, smiling, closed-mouthed,
into the fluffy blonde's indignation and Anheliaa's suddenly
undivided attention.
Beside her, Deymorin was a loud silence.
"Who are you, girl?" Anheliaa asked abruptly.
"Deymorin's affianced wife," she returned without hesi-
tation, and the noisy silence choked.
"You're no shepherdess. Nor even farm wench."
"Prostitute," Lidye said through her nose, and flinched
as Anheliaa backhanded her bare arm, heavy rings drawing
blood from the fair maid's tender white skin.
"At least prostitutes' clients get their money's worth. Can
you claim as much?"
"Hush, both of you," Anheliaa hissed. "Where are you
from, woman?"
She folded her hands in her lap, and said nothing.
"Well?"
"You told me to hush. I was obeying my" She scanned
Anheliaa with deliberate impudence. "superior."
"Impertinent."
"But then, you are unspeakably rude, so I suppose that
makes us well-matched, if not precisely even."
"You try my patience."
"Good!"
Deymorin's hand clamped on hers. "Enough of this." He
stood and pulled her up beside him. "Farewell, Anheliaa."
"Leaving so soon? How sad."
"I'll be back. Eventually."
"Ah. Bringing me the boy?"
"I'm going to find Nikki."
"And then you'll bring me the boy."
"Actually . . . no."
"You must, Deymorin!"
He laughed harshly. "I had something rather different
in mind."
"What?"
"If you know about Alizant and his machine, you know
what. If not . . . you'll find out."
"Deymorin, no! You mustn't . . ."
Desperation sat strangely on that brittle voice. Deymor-
in's head tilled.
"Mustn't . . . what, Anheliaa?"
"That machine. It must be destroyed. Where is it?"
Deymorin laughed. "Really, Anheliaa. Do you honestly
expect an answer?" All laughter faded from his voice. "I'm
not at all surprised you fear it. You're already barred from
being a godDarius saw to thatand this would make you
... ordinary. One resource among many. Do you really
think I'd destroy such a gift from the gods? Find it yourself.
Destroy it yourself." He pulled Kiyrstin toward the door.
"If you can."
"Rhomandi, stop!"
He paused. His hand fell from her elbow, and he turned
ever so slowly.
"You heard correctly," Anheliaa said. "And you can be
again, if you take proper responsibility at last."
"What are you talking about?"
"That machine cannot coexist with the nodes, Deymorin.
If it is, as this . .. friend of yours claims, from Mauritum,
think what Garetti might intend. Don't you see? It's the
source of these destructive weather patterns your farmers
have been so concerned over.*'
"What do you know about it?"
"Do you honestly think this is the first time anyone has
tried to duplicate the power of the rings? We've had two
rather spectacular disasters at Gartum and Shatum in just
the last thirty years."
Deymorin frowned. "I never heard"
"Of course you didn't! That machine tames lightning, you
fool! Do you think I'll spread such information about?
Some other simpleton who shares your idiotic fantasies will
start distributing them like toys. Rings, boy, the valley
would go up in a fireball."
Deymorin's eyes flickered to Kiyrstin, worried, uncertain.
"Deymorin, I don't know," she said in answer to that
look, because Anheliaa offered a frighteningly sound argu-
ment. "I honestly . . ."
His hand found hers and tightened in warning.
"I've felt that monster like a dust mote in the eye for
months," Anheliaa hissed, and her eyes narrowed, never
wavering from their faces. "You know where it is. You
control its creator. You want everything as it was"
"No."'
"Shut up, Lidye. You destroy that thing, dunMheric,
bring me its pieces, and the boy, and we'll negotiate. What-
ever you wantfor your brothers, for yourself . . . even to
this creature for wife."
"Not the boy, Anheliaa. He's not the creator. Only a
messenger."
"Forget the brat! Just bring the damned machine to
menow!"
Deymorin's breath came and went in harsh gasps. Temp-
tation. Gods, it must be killing him. And if Anheliaa, sweet
Maurii save them, was right, perhaps they should let the
machines go.
She pressed his hand and said, "Anheliaa, let me talk
with him."
"Why should I trust you? And why should the Rho-
mandi listen?"
"I brought Zandy to him. I asked him to help us. Let us
talk . . . alone."
Once again, Anheliaa's attention rested firmly on her.
"Have we met?"
"Never."
"Are you quite certain?"
"I've never left my home city."
"And where is that? Who are you reallyl"
"Prostitute." Lidye's prissy voice interrupted.
"Lidye, one more utterance and you'll be stuck in the
betweenspermanently. Well, you who are not a shepherd-
ess? Whatandwhoare you?"
"Mauritum." She smiled tightly, and played her final card
in a very familiar game. "Name's Kiyrstine romGaretti
Garetti's wife, exiled because I attempted to murder him,
an attempt which unfortunately failed. You dropped your
nephew on my head while I was bathing. While I appreciate
the gift, you could have taken a bit better care of the mer-
chandise. He required extensive bodily repair. I thought
perhaps I'd give you the chance to make it up. Possibly
the chance at inside information of Mauritum Tower. But
now that I've met you . . . well, why don't you think about
it,  Anheliaa  dear?  Perhaps  you'll  change  your  tune  to
something a bit more . . . friendly. But we are in a bit of a
rush, so make that soon, Anheliaa, will you? Very, very
soon. JD?" She tucked her arm through his elbow.
"Shall we?"
It was a large divan on which he sat, whose cushions
seemed wonderfully kind to his old, bruised bones. Dey-
morin realized that, when he came aware enough to realize
anything. The head resting heavily in his lap stirred, a wan-
dering, seemingly absentminded hand brushed his knee,
and wandered higher, and he caught it, kept it from climb-
ing too high, having that much sense remaining.
"Shepherdess?" he asked without opening his eyes.
"Mm-mm-mm."
"Where the hell are we?"
"Council Hall."
"Why?"
"You said you wanted to see your brother."
"Oh. Yeah." He yawned, biinked his eyes clear, forcing
himself awake. "Rings, she had me scared for a moment."
"When she mentioned Nikki's child?"
"Mmmm-hmmm."
"Thought you'd been gone for years, did you?"
"Something like." He let his hand meander across her
cropped hair, picking bits of feather free. "Knew better, of
course. Tonio . . . Gari . . . everything pointed to last fall,
still..."
"Once memories become suspect, it's hard to trust any
of them?"
"Quite. Thanks."
"Any time, Rags." She yawned widely and rubbed her
nose into his thigh. "Any time . . ."
There was a hospitality spread with tea, possibly even
wine, on a tray along the far wall. Tempting. But wine
would most certainly tip him over into about three days'
sleep, and the far wall, at the moment, might as well be
in Mauritum.
"Thought I had it figured. Come here, find out where
Nikki went, get his marriage annulled. All that's changed,
now."
"Funny how a little thing like a title doesn't mean much
until it's been snatched away, isn't it?"
"How'd you know?"
"Magic, Rags."
"Female magic. I'd believe. Hypocrite that I am, I was
willing to throw the damned inheritance away in a grand
hell-with-you-all gesture, but I wasn't preparednever
even seriously considered Anheliaa's legal finagling."
Kiyrstin chuckled and her hand began wandering again.
"Always knew you were naive, JD."
He snorted, and grabbed her hand, holding it tight, let-
ting his head fall back against the seat cushions.
"Who was the woman in the corner?"
"Woman? Oh, Anheliaa's servant. Name's" Memory
took a bit to sort, but he found it: "Mirym. Nice girl. Mute.
Not sure where she's from, but she has a healthy sense of
the ridiculous. Thought, once upon a time, she and Nikki
might be a pair, but . . ."
"Hmph," was her noncommittal response. Tired, she was,
as he was tired.
Nikki, married andPrinceps? Could Lidye be right?
Had the lad gone ambitious on him? If so, did he really
want to stand in the boy's way? He had, after all, been
ready to give it all up before he'd entered that room.
As for Mikhyel, well, he'd know soon enough. A man
had to wonder where his brothers resided in the picture.
Man wanted to wait to make his decisions until he knew.
Man who'd been this long with no sleep wanted only to
close his eyes and let that absentminded hand wander . ..
or perhaps not so absentminded.
"Rings, shepherdess, not here."
She chuckled, and the hand retreated, tucked under her
chin.
"Deymio, there's something I've been meaning to tell
you..."
But whatever she had been meaning to tell him was lost
behind the darkness of his eyelids.
The white-painted fences of Darhaven's pastures spread
out below them and Nikki sent a message back through the
line that they were almost there, rousing a weary cheer,
understandable; considering how early he'd had them up;
nonetheless, he was in a hurry, and set them at a canter
down the final stretch of road.
But something felt wrong, and slowly he dropped the
pace back to a trot, a jog, and finally aslow, deliberate,
walk.
"Is everything all right, Master Nikki?" Ben came up
beside him to ask, and he nodded to the pastures on ei-
ther side.
"They're empty. . . . They should be full this time of year.
Mares and foals ... they should have the two- and three-
year-olds out taking ground work. Something's wrong, Ben.
Something's very . . ." He stopped altogether. Nerves crawl-
ing, though common sense suggested any number of innoc-
uous explanations.
On the other hand, they hadn't heard from Darhaven for
months. If Deymorin was here night before last as Mikhyel
insisted, it was possible . . . things . . . had changed. Dey-
morin could be here...
And he could be in danger.
Brohs be not . . . your place be there . . .
They'd searched and searched, but found no trace of the
woman, and one was forcibly reminded of stories about
. . . visitations in the forest. Even Darius, in his notes, had
mentioned them, and that their cryptic wisdom was often
worth heeding. . . .
"Ben," he said in an undertone, "tell the men to keep
close and stay alert. I don't like this."
They approached the house in deceptively loose forma-
tion, made it all the way to the front approach without sign
of any activity, in the barn or the house.
"Ben," Nikki said, and: "Parii, you two come with me.
The rest of you . . . keep those firearms cocked."
He slid down, settled his own pistol in his pocket and
walked up to the door, pulled the bellchain, and waited.
And waited.
An exchange of uneasy glances later, he pulled again.
And waited.
He'd only been here twice without Deymorinonce with
Mikhyel, when everything had been uneasy and strange,
and once, alone and unannounced, hoping to find Dey-
morinand Deymorin, unquestioned owner of Darhaven,
simply walked in. He didn't know whether to be alarmed
at the delay, or . . .
The door opened.
"Master Nikaenor! What a surprise." It was Tonami who
opened the door: another strangeness. "Please, come . . ."
And looking past him: "All those men? Are they with
you?"
Nikki nodded.
"Oh, dear. Do you plan on staying, then?"
"Depends. Tonio, is Deymio here?"
"Your brother? He hasn't been here in months, you
know that."
A lie. That was an outright lie. And Tonio never called
him Nikaenor, and Tonio shouldn't be opening doors. . . .
"Deymio?" an unfamiliar voice said from the darkness
inside and a hand materialized on Tonio's shoulder, and a
pleasant-looking man with a somewhat hawkish face ap-
peared beside the valet. "Did you say Deymio?"
Tonio stiffened, not altogether welcoming of that hand.
But Tonio said, steadily enough: "Lord Nikaenor, this is
Vandoshin dunGarshin, he's a"
"Master Merchant out of Mauritum, son." The stranger
smiled broadly, and dipped his head, as he'd heard they
greeted one another in Mauritum. "Dealer in the strange
and wonderful, taking advantage of the new market the
treaty has made for us."
Nikki returned the foreign gesture hesitantly, then asked:
"Jumping the flag a bit, aren't you?"
DunGarshin smiled easily. "Feeling out my customers,
son . . . doing a bit of market measuring so when the final
signatures are drawn. I'm ready to roll wagons across Per-
sichi Pass."
"I see. . . ."
"But did I hear you mention a man called Deymio?"
"Why?" Nikki asked cautiously.
"Just that it's an unusual name. I chanced to meet a man
who called himself that, some time since. Large, well-made
fellow, with a limp."
"Where?"
"Out beyond Persitum."
"Beyond the node itself?" Despite himself, dismay crept
through, Anheliaa had said the room was along the leys
somewhere, and one had to wonder if perhaps Mikhyel
was wrong.
And it did sound like Deymorin. . . .
A trip through the pass would be tortuous this time of
year, considering the mud, and the marginal roadways.
Even the leyroad was comparatively underdeveloped, Persi-
tum being the one direct link to Mauritum. And they
couldn't take it. Not carrying firearms.
And in the next breath, he chastised his own gullibility.
This dunGarshin, who just happened to be here, where
Mikhyel insisted Deymio was night before last, just hap-
pened to have met Deymio the far side of Persichi Pass?
Somehow, he tended to think perhaps this man was being
less than completely truthful with him.
"I'd like to hear more of this Deymio you met," he said,
forcing a smile, hoping he appeared credulous, "but first
I've a lot of hungry, tired horses to see to. Tonio, I could
use some help. Where's Dal? Out in the stables?"
"Dal took the stock to summer pastures."
"So soon? Weren't some of the foals a bit young?"
Tonio shrugged. "He said something about thin pickings
here..."
Another outright lie. They cycled pastures here, and
some hadn't been touched yet this spring.
"Well, then, there should be plenty of stable space. We'll
just take the horses down to the barns. Tonio, why don't
you come along, while I take care of the horses, I'll tell
you all about the wedding."
"I don't"
Hand again on Tonio's shoulder, Vandoshin interrupted,
saying solicitously, "Tonio here is recuperating from a se-
vere influenza, young m'lord. He's probably much too self-
effacing to admit as much to a man of your station, but,
I'm certain you'll agree, exposing himself to the outside air
might be . . . less than salubrious."
"You take the men and horses to the stable. Master Ni-
kaenor," Tonio said, "I'll get the kitchens started on food
andand lodging"
"Going to let them all sleep in the kitchen?" he teased,
gently, trying to rouse some telling response. But Tonio
only said absently ... "I'm not certain where we'll put
them..."
"Tonio, don't worry!" Vandoshin said jovially. "My men
can move their lazy carcasses out to the stables."
"Your men?" Nikki asked, and Vandoshin waved his
concerns aside with a flip of his hand. "Not to worry, young
sir. Just a handful. I wouldn't dare travel unprotected. I've
my samples, after all. Tell you what, while poor Tonio sorts
this out, I'll go down with you. Show you the samples I've
brought with me . . ." He slipped past Tonio, slid his arm
through Nikki's and urged him down the stairs. "Tell me, now,
what would you like to know about your brother . . . ?"
"Nikki! Rings curse you, fry, don't be an idiot."
Deymio was muttering in his sleep again.
And wiggling.
Which made him a most uncomfortable pillow. Kiyrstin
sighed and hauled herself upright. There was no one else
in this sitting room; Deymorin said petitions to this Council
were submitted in written form. Civilized, to her way of
thinking. She'd seen all too many decisions in Mauritum
swayed because of the gender or appearance of the peti-
tioner.
Poor Zandy hadn't had a chance.
Deymorin was still muttering, like he'd started muttering
in the middle of her warning about Van's assassin-spy. She
doubted he'd taken in a word of it. Typical.
At least he didn't appear inclined to violence. So she
tugged on his sleeve, pulling him down into her lap, whis-
pering to him to shut up and rest.
He mumbled something and buried his face in her skirts.
There could be little question the man had met Dey-
morin. He even mentioned the red-haired woman . . . called
her Kiyrstin, said she was a tavern-wench plying her trade
at a leyside tavern on the outskirts of Persitum.
". . . a most accommodating young woman," Vandoshin
said, with a hint of ribald laughter in his voice. "I'd have
been tempted myself, if she hadn't shown such a preference
for Deymio. Why, I couldn't say. Possibly some misplaced
sense of maternalism."
"Why would she feel that? Deymorin's hardly a child."
"Oh, but he arrived on her doorstep naked as the day
he was born, not a copper to his name . . . and such a good-
looking man, with so endearing a manner. How could any
woman resist?"
Another hint that rang disturbingly true: Mikhyel had
said Deymorin's clothing was left behind. He knew the ring
had beenthat lay secure against his chest, awaiting Dey-
morin's finger.
Brohs be not . . .
Enough to make a man's skin crawland hope the men
were keeping pistols at the ready.
He did note that they stabled their horses by pairs, one
man always standing at the open door to a stall, casually,
but openly prepared. Following their example, he cared
for his own and Ben's, chatting with Vandoshin all the
while.
Ben sat beside the stall door, making bland conversation.
"Van?" Another stranger appeared in the barn doorway,
paused, and said, "Well, well, well. Perks was right, we
have got company."
"I believe you've got that slightly backward," Nikki said
and stepped up out of the stall, pulling his gloves off.
"Name's dunMheric. My family owns this place."
"You don't say . . ."
"Bari, that's enough," Vandoshin said, and stepped up
behind him, close, as he'd done with Tonio.
Nikki fought off the desire to flinch away, thinking per-
haps it was cultural differences, perhaps Mauritumin just
tended to stand that close.
"We are the guests in this house, and Tonio assures me
Nikki, here, is indeed Rhomandi's brother. So watch your
manners, or he might kick us out."
Bari stepped through the door ... and others fell in
behind him. Several others. Numbers near equalling
his small force. Arid among themhe shot a glance
at Ben, received  an  affirming nodwas  a face  he'd
never forget.
A cutpurse whose blade had been Mauritum-made. . - .
He stepped away from Vandoshin and drew the heavy
revolver from his pocket. And of a sudden, at the door to
each stall, were two ex-guardsmen, also with pistols in
hand.
"What's this, boy?" Vandoshin asked, and Nikki nodded
toward  the  cutpurse.  "Strange  company  you  keep,
Mauritum."
"Which one, lad? I picked up many companions along
the way. I don't tend to ask their politics."
"Pernaps you should."
"And perhaps, from now on, I shall. But please, boy"
Vandoshin took a step toward him, and he backed further,
into the edge of the stall door. One foot slipped in, jarring
his gun-hand and Vandoshin held up both hands, palms
out, face mockingly alarmed.
"Where's my brother?" Nikki demanded, brushing an in-
quisitive horse-lip away from his ear. "And don't tell me
Persitum. He was here two nights ago."
"And how could you know that? How should I?" Van-
doshin gestured broadly, turning his back on Nikki, as
though he considered himself in no danger whatsoeverat
least from Nikki. His hands swept the air to include all his
men, then fell to his side. "We just arrived yesterday."
"So you claim"
"The horse, impatient with his lack of attention, shoved
him between the shoulders. Hard.
Vandoshin stepped forward, a hand rising as if to help.
Ben yelled, M'lord\ and jumped between them.
An explosion happened; Ben flew backward into the stall
and dropped to the straw, a surprised expression on his
face. In the runway: Vandoshin, an amazingly small, smok-
ing pistol in his hand.
"Damn you!" Nikki cried and leapt for him.
"Councillor Betrissim, it's just not that simple." Mikhyel
leaned one hand on the table and pressed the bridge of his
nose with the other, trying to assuage the physical headache
that had plagued him all morning. Assuaging the human
headaches was more difficult "Once the land has been
drained, it will still be years before it's ready to work again,
unless"
"Unless what? We spend yet more tax funds on these
people?"
"Minimal, I assure you." He dropped his hand and
forced his aching body to stand straight. "The land will be
soured. It wants"
"What? Honey poured over it? We might as well buy
the produce elsewhere."
"No, Councillor. What it needs, we manufacture right
here. We just need the roads improved for heavy vehicles,
and clearance across the leys for"
"This is ridiculous. Out with it, man. What is this pre-
cious commodity?"
"Manure," Mikhyel said through clenched teeth, and into
Betrissim's blank face: "Cattle and horse and pig excre-
ment." And as his head seemed to explode: "Shit, you sim-
pleto"
A heavy blow to his left shoulder spun him around and
up against his chair.
He caught himself on the arm, squeezed his eyes closed
and fell into the cushions, pressing his palms to his eyes,
distantly surprised when his arm worked, the blow had
been that powerful.
Betrissim was yelling, Gransiddi was yelhng back at Be-
trissim and someone was bending over him, asking what
was wrong.
But he didn't know. He clamped a hand to the throbbing
shoulderit wasn't Betrissim's doing, he was too far down
the table, and Famichi, to his left, wouldn't. He brought
his hand away, startled to find it clean, expecting blood,
expecting a knifetempers driven to assassination.
Outside the Chamber doors, someone was yelling: a pain-
fully familiar voice calling for
Nikki. Curse the radical ... Nikki. And in that instant
he realized Nikki was the source of the pain.
And that voice . - .
Mumbling excuses, he forced himself out of the chair,
pushed his way past angry voices and solicitous hands alike,
escaping out a door a footman opened and (at his hasty
signal) closed behind him.
And then he was in the waiting room, where, tanned and
healthy and angry, a bedraggled, redheaded female hanging
onto his arm, was his older brother.
"Well, Deymio," he said, forcing the words past a pain-
tightened throat, "home at last, are you?"
He was prepared for Deymorin's slow rise to his feet,
the angry growl in the deep voice as his brother asked:
"Where is he, Mikhyel?"
No need to ask whoDeymorin's face said he'd felt the
same fear and pain that was hazing his own thinking. But
he had no answer. Could only stand there, one hand to a
chairback, swaying with the pain bursting in his head like
bolts of lightning.
He was prepared for the anger. . . .
"Curse you, Barrister, what have you done with him?"
He wasn't prepared for Deymorin's headlong attack.
"Dammit, Rags, stop it"'
A blow to his ear rocked him sideways, but Deymorin
held on grimly, rolled back atop his brother and tightened
his fingers on the unresisting flesh between his hands, pour-
ing all the pain, all the frustration, and all the uncertainty
of the past ten years into that grip.
Mikhyel's face, what of it wasn't flushed red, had turned
blue, and drool ran a clear stream through the red on his
chin.
He'd long since ceased to struggle.
"You idiot'."
Water.
Iced.
And flowing down his neck.
Red hair between him and his brother's face. Pain in his
wrist. Sharp enough to break through the fog of fury, pain,
and that inner sense that screamed accusations of betrayal
at Mikhyel.
He cursed and let go his brother's skinny neck. The next
instant, a velvet-and-lace-covered shoulder slammed his
chest, rolling him back and off Mikhyel's feebly-twitching
body.
His back struck the floor, his head did, and Kiyrstin
dropped onto his stomach, forcing what breath remained
out of his lungs. She sat there, one hand flat on his chest,
the other poised, ready to strike.
"Well?" she demanded.
"Get the hell off me," he got out on a last gasp, inhaled
again and: "Let me finish him."
From somewhere toward his feet, came a shuddering,
whimpering gasp after air: Mikhyel. Still alive, then.
Dammit.
The nightmare remained. Nonspecific, now he was
awake. Only the residue of pain and fear, and, most clearly,
the sense of betrayal. Khyel knew where he'd gonehad
advised him where to go. . . .
No. Not him. Nikki. Advised Nikki where to go. And
Nikki had been attackedblamed that attack on Mikhyel . . .
Who denied it with painful intensity, while blaming him-
self anyway.
Slowly, Deymorin sorted out the kaleidoscopic impres-
sions, realized they were Nikki's mixed with his own and,
he reluctantly admitted, Mikhyel's.
"Let me up," he said, and her hand grasped his ice-
water-dampened chin, forcing him to face her narrow
examination.
"Sane?" she demanded.
He shruggedor what passed for a shrug when lying flat
on one's back.
"You'll not attack him again?" And when he set his jaw
to avoid answering: "Don't be a fool, JD. How can he tell
you anything if he's dead?"
"Let him up, mistress." Mikhyel's voice said in a hoarse,
unsteady whisper. "Please." And Mikhyel's face appeared
beyond her shoulder: pale, now, rather than blue, and red
about the neck, where Deymorin's hands had gripped, and
at the mouth where Mikhyel dabbed with the back of one
shaking hand.
Kiyrstin eyed Deymorin rather doubtfully, and asked
Mikhyel: "You're sure?"
Mikhyel nodded. And swayed, his eyes closing, a hand
grasping for support where a chair, kicked over during their
fight, should have been.
Kiyrstin leaned, never minding the move crushed his
kidneys, and caught Khyel's frantically searching hand,
then with a final, tortuous bounce, she left him to kneel
at Mikhyel's side and wrap a supportive arm around his
shoulders.
Leaving him to curse and nurse his own injuries.
Damned traitoress.
He rolled gingerly uprightif she hadn't broken a rib in
that assault, it hadn't been for want of trying, and turned
his wrist to the light. Matching set of teeth marks, top and
bottom, oozing red and bruising already.
"You'd better not be rabid," he said sourly.
"Serve you right if I were, you overgrown"
"Mistress," Mikhyel's hoarse whisper interrupted. "Dey-
mio, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to"
"For what? She's the one who bit me."
"Plenty of cause, JD."
"Fine. So I was a bit . . . out of control. Does that mean
you had to dismember me?"
"Just get on your feet. Rags, and give us a hand here."
He groaned and moaned his way to his feet, then reached
a hand down to help his brother, figuring Kiyrstin could
damnwell fend for herself. But as happened, he had his
hands more than full with Mikhyel, who swayed ominously
and clutched at his arm.
"Get me out of here, Deymio," he hissed, "Before that
argument breaks and someone comes to check what's keep-
ing me."
"Out, where?"
"H-home." Mikhyel doubled over. "Gods, please,
Deymio."
Mikhyel was weak, and growing more so by the instant,
a condition, he realized, now the blinding haze of Nikki
was gone, owing very little to their fight. Mikhyel was thin,
wastednot at all the man he'd seen threatening Anheli-
aa's rings six months ago.
Kiyrstin soaked a napkin from the overturned hospitality
tray in tea (having emptied the ice bucket over him), and
dabbed the blood from Mikhyel's face, drying it with a
second napkin. When she pronounced him fit enough to
avoid attracting questions, they made their way to the
floater dock and the Rhomandi private cab.               '
"Deymorin," Mikhyel whispered, clutching his hand to
ensure his attention, "hehe went to Darhaven. He'd be
there now. Oh, gods" he shuddered, clasped his free
hand to his shoulder, and strangely, Deymorin felt a twinge
in his own shoulder.
"Khyel, what is it? What the hell's happening to us?"
"D-don't know, but it's him, Deymio. Nikki'sGods'."
Mikhyel contracted into a tight, shuddering ball, nearly
rolling off the seat, would have, if not for Kiyrstin's jump-
ing across to steady him. Between the two of them, they
got him unwound and Deymorin clasped him tight, while
Kiyrstin brushed his hair back from eyes squeezed tight
with pain and leaking tears.
"Khyel, for gods sake," Deymorin whispered, feehng
more helpless than when Kiyrstin had had him staked out
for the wolves, "tell me what I can do!"
"D-don't know . . . AhDammit!"
Shuddering breaths became shuddering sobs, everything
he did seeming to make it worse.
"Can you hold him?" he asked Kiyrstin, who nodded,
and slid her arm around Khyel.
At the back of the car, through a direct access panel
to the pedaller, Deymorin murmured: "Cut the travel
time up the hill in half, and I'll triple your week's wages
in a tip."
The floater surged forward.
When he returned to Kiyrstin's side, Mikhyel seemed
much improved, sitting on his own and somewhat shame-
faced.
"I can't imagine what that was all about, Deymio. Sorry
to"
"Rings, boy, it's hardly necessary"
"He should be apologizing to you, Mikhyel," Kiyrstin
said.
But Mikhyel only looked confused. "Forgive me, mis-
tress, I realize I owe you a fair debtyou did after all save
me from my loving brother's"
"Don't let yourself get into that trap, fry. She'll remind
you of it"
"Shut up, JD, and let the man speak."
Mikhyel, seemingly more confused than ever, asked
Kiyrstin hesitantly: "Have we met?" And before she could
answer: "Deymorin's ringdancer."
Kiyrstin drew back. "I don't know what you're talking
about. I've never danced the rings. Wouldn't think of it."
"But Anheliaa found you . . . it was you. Younger, per-
hapsmuch youngerbut I'm certain of it. I saw it, too
. . . in the rings . . ." Mikhyel's eyes sought his, desperate
for reassurance, dropped when Deymorin couldn't give him
that explanation he needed, and when next Mikhyel spoke,
his habitual detachment had been restored. "I must be mis-
taken. Deymorin, we must go after Nikki."
"You're that certain he's in danger?"
"Rings, man, aren't you?"
He had no doubt whatsoever. As in the dreams, he could
feel Nikki's fear and pain. Less clearly now, than before,
but it was still there. "How?"
"I wish I knew. I1 feel him . . . and you . . ." Mikhyel
shook his head. For all his apparent calm, his hands were
shaking violently.
"You say he left for Darhaven?" Kiyrstin asked.
Mikhyel nodded. "Anheliaa located you for Nikki using
the rings. She thought you were on a leyline, but I recog-
nized the . . . room . . . where ..." His eyes flickered toward
Kiyrstin, and his color rose.
"You're certain?" Deymorin asked.
"Not likely to forget it, am I?"
"I suppose not." He'd hoped, for a time, Anheliaa had
been grasping, baiting them to believe she'd been able to
find them off the ley, as they'd been at Darhaven. But
evidently she was more talented than even she believed,
had stretched the limits of the web to include the betweens.
"Well, then, Darhaven is where I'm bound. We'll get you
home"
"I'm going with you!" Mikhyel said and reached for his
arm to emphasize his point. But as he reached . . . or as
he touched, he spasmed again in pain, and jerked back,
staring wild-eyed at his hand.
"You can't sit a floater bench, brother. You certainly
couldn't stay a horse."
"You're not going alone. And I wouldn't trust any of
Anheliaa's Guard. The rest, the men loyal to you left with
Nikki..."
"He won't be alone," Kiyrstin said, her voice weary,
yet disgusted.
"Pardon, m'lady, but"
"Don't say it, Mikhyel," Deymorin warned. "You'll re-
gret it, trust me."
Came a time when a body's only real option was to cling
with every muscle, ignore the bruises and blisters and pray
to survive the ride.
This time yesterday, Kiyrstin would have sworn nothing
would get her astride a horse again in her life.
She was wrong.
But she couldn't have let Deymorin head out alone, Mik-
hyel was right in that. And nothing would stop Deymorin
from leaving immediately, which, if they could trust Mikhy-
el's condition as a barometer for the other brother's physi-
cal state, was probably wise.
At least this time, she had clothingMikhyel'sthat was
marginally more appropriate to the activityand a decid-
edly better fit, though the back seam was strained to its
limit, beneath the pleated back of the outer coat.
At least, so Deymorin had reassured her, she'd supplied
the stableboy who'd given her a leg-up his entertainment
for the week.
How nice.
"Dey-ey-mo-o-r-r-r-rin," she yelled at his horse's rapidly
disappearing rump, as her own beast thumped painfully
downhill in its wake. Timing a gasp between thumps, she
screamed: "Wait!"
She pulled back on the reins. Unlike her last mount, this
creature responded with abrupt willingness, throwing her
forward onto its prickly-maned neck. She grabbed franti-
cally for any handhold available, decidedly grateful for the
hand that grasped the voluminous folds covering her rear
and hauled her back into balance.
"Thanks," she said on a gasp, and rearranged her coat.
"What's the problem?" Deymorin asked, his voice short.
She held up a hand in signal defeat. "I'm trying, Rho-
mandi. I'm honestly trying. But this creature is . . . how do
I put this? . . . sprung worse than that cart you tricked me
into this morning."
"Sprung?" A smile forced its way reluctantly past the
grimness. "You're just spoiled, that's all."
"Spoiled?"
The smile quirked. "My horses have, of course, far supe-
riorersprings."
"Of course. Just give my backside a break, will you? I
know you're in a hurry, I understand that and I understand
why, but"
His hand covered hers. "I'll compromise. Downhill, we
walk. Flat, we push. Uphillyou call it. Deal?"
"Since I doubt I can talk you down . . . Deal."
"Good." His hand patted hers, and his horse surged for-
ward, taking hers with it, and for a time they travelled
abreast, so close, their knees occasionally brushed.
The trail they followed was far worse than the one be-
tween Darhaven and Armayel. By midafternoon, they'd
been into trees and rugged foothills, following a trail which
existed only in Deymorin's vivid imagination. He'd insisted
they'd make better time than following any road, ley or
otherwise, and she, fool that she was, followed without
question.
The sad truth was, she'd fallen disastrously in lust, if not
love, with a man with a total aversion to civilization.
The side to side rhythm of the horse's downward motion
worked its way into her body, setting her hips, her shoul-
ders, her entire backbone, to swaying. The motion com-
bined with the sound of the birds and the breeze in the
branches to create a mesmeric totality. Her eyes drifted
slowly shut, her head nodded forward . . .
A thud.
She jerked awake, forced her eyes open.
Deymorin's horse still moved beside hers, but the saddle
was empty.
"Rhomandi?" She hauled on the reins, twisted around
to scan the trail behind.
Barely visible through the encroaching undergrowth,
Deymorin lay flat on his back, motionless.
"Deymio!"
She hauled at her horse's reins, pulling its head around.
It objected, scrambling for footing and room on the over-
grown trail, bumping Deymorin's mount, who squealed and
lacked. She grabbed for its trailing reins, and sorted the
two beasts awkwardly until they were both lunging back
uphill. Just as she began wondering how she'd avoid stomp-
ing Deymorin once they reached him, he swayed upright,
holding his head in his hands and moaning, a sight evidently
so startling to the horses they stopped dead in their tracks.
Deymorin's hand came away red. His eyes raised blearily
to meet hers. "How dare you be short?"
Above and a bit behind, a low branch across the trail
explained volumes.
"Forget how to duck?"
"Fell asleep," he said, sourly, and hauled himself slowly
to his feet, and took the rein from her hand. "Thanks."
He hauled himself even more slowly into the saddle-, de-
claring himself fit, but for a bruised and bleeding forehead;
however, as they worked their way downhill, a dazed look
descended over his face, a faraway, unfocussed . . . pain that
had nothing to do with his fall. Based on this new evidence,
she began to suspect the low-lying branch was, in fact,
quite innocent.
"Rhomandi," she asked, to keep him awake. "How much
of that was for real?"
"How much of what?"
"Your brother's actions. Is he always so . . . theatrical?"
"Mikhyel?" His breath released in a huff. "Mikhyel is
normally the coldest fish you'll ever meet. I believe his
reactions were quite real. I've" His eyes flickered toward
her, frowning darkly, and he seemed to come to a decision be-
tween one blink and the next. "I've had a similar sense. . . ."
"The nightmares?"
He chewed his lip, then nodded. "At least in part. Evi-
dently not as potent as Mikhyel's, certainly not as specific,
but enough to know it's more than personal dreams."
A shiver worked its way up her back. No more strange
than other stories circulated about rings and ley and adepts,
but one never thought to encounter such a story at quite
so personal a perspective.
"Deymio?"
His eyes were closed. He swayed ominously.
"Maurii! Deymio, wake up!"
He shook his head and came back. "I1 think we'd bet-
ter stop. I've pushed you farther than is at all fair."
"Gladly." She hauled on the reins.
"Not here, shepherdess. I'm not that much an ogre.
There's an inn just ahead, where this trail intersects a
real road."
"Inn. As in bed? Food? Maybe, dare I say, a bath?"
He laughed weakly. "All of the above, shepherdess."
Just ahead proved as misleading as most of Deymorin's
estimates, and eventually, finding conversation growing te-
dious, she broke a twig off a passing branch and used it,
when he would drift, as a switch to strike whatever portion
of his anatomy was within reach, finally rousing him enough
to protest:
"You'll have me black and blue from head to foot. How
will you explain that to the innkeeper?"
"Obviously, our carriage was set upon by highwaymen.
They took you by surprise, tied you up, had their way with
me"
"Poor robbers."
"Hush. But you freed yourself and chased them off
obviously killing one."
"Obviously?"
She gestured to her clothing. "Thank you, by the way,
for choosing the one closest to my size and not the hulk."
"You're most welcome, I'm certain. What happened to
the carriage?"
"Toppled over a cliff, don't you know? You do have
cliffs around here, don't you?"
<<i-___,,
"You must. It had to go over a cliffhorses and all.
That's why we're stuck with these . . . inferior creatures."
"Stole them from the thieves, did we?"
"Naturally."
"I see."
He laughed, but the humor was short-lived. Soon, he was
once again staring blankly into the forest ahead.
"What are you seeing, Deymorin?"
He biinked at her.
"When you look out therewhat are you seeing?"
His eyes dropped to the reins between his fingers. "Noth-
ing, really. Feeling, more like."
"Do you know what's happened to him? I mean,
specifically."
He shook his head. "Only that he's hurt. And scared.
Mostly that he feels Mikhyel betrayed him. That's what I
sensed firstback on the Hill."
"And why you attacked Mikhyel when you saw him?"
Deymorin nodded.
"How?"
"Does he think Mikhyel betrayed him? I think ..."
Deymorin's brow wrinkled. "I think he beheves that Mi-
khyel set him up. Sent him to meetwhatever has met him."
"And did he?"
"Of course not!"
Gut-level denial. But she had to agree, nothing she saw
in Mikhyel would support such a notion.
"Can you tell where Nikki is, through this feeling?"
Another weary shake of the head. "Mikhyel couldn't ei-
ther. Not for certain. And he seems to ... receive more
than I do."
"Particularly when you touched him."
"What?"
"You didn't notice? When you were holding him, he was
incoherent. The instant you let go, his head cleared. Per-
haps that's the answer. Perhaps we should have brought
him along. Tied you two together, used you as a ...
Nikki-vane."
"Very funny. Besides, if Nikki's pain didn't kill him, I
would."
He sounded serious.
"You're not fair to him, you know."
"Don't get me started, woman. You haven't the
perspective."
"Or perhaps you're too close. Tell me, JD, you feel
Nikki's pain. What do you feel from Mikhyel?"
The look he flashed at her made her heart stop. Made
her wonder if he was going to jump her as he had Mi-
khyel. Then:
"Flat enough," he said, and his horse plunged forward.
After that, she was hard put just to keep up on what
seemed to her the steepest downhill stretch yet.
Deymorin, meticulous of propriety, for all the shepherd-
ess was not, stayed in the taproom while Kiyrstin bathed.
When the innkeeper's daughter, acting as a personal maid,
announced her finished, he ordered dinner to be delivered
to the roomher roombefore taking his turn in the tub.
Separate rooms, connected by the bath. She'd refused
any greater distance between them, citing his attempted
desertion at Armayel as her reason . . . as if leaving her at
a 'tweener inn somewhere between Rhomatum and Darha-
ven were anything like leaving her safe in the care of his
own staff.
He didn't know why the arrangement mattered to him,
but he simply couldn't stand the thought of sharing a room
with her now, regardless of propriety or what had passed
already between them.
Because he still wanted her. So intensely, it was a physi-
cal pain. Which in itself was crazed. He was so tired, he
couldn't think straight, let alone manage more athletic en-
deavors, but if they bedded in the same room tonight, he'd
get no sleep, of that much he was certain.
And that very desire roused suspicions of what Anheliaa
was up to back iit-tfaat. tower of hers.
Putting one thing and another together, he'd become cer-
tain Anheliaa and her rings and his brothers' bedroom ac-
tivities  had  been  a  factor  that  other  time,  though  he
couldn't deny personal desire had also played a key role.
But Anhehaa had her precious fetus. And Nikki and Khyel
were currently physically incapable of acting on such
designs.
Which left only his own animal instincts to blame, as he
sat soaking his aching joints in the old-fashioned, free-
standing tub, and if his instincts had any feeling whatsoever,
they'd take a vacation. Go relieve themselves in some
randy young stalhon with all the springtime energy he'd
long since outgrown.
If only Kiyrstm hadn't insisted on coming with him.
Likely he was a fool for pursuing the matter alone, but
time was critical, and if Nikki was in trouble, if he'd found
it at Darhaven, there was only one likely source.
And Vandoshin was Kiyrstin's partner.
Which fact made him a ten times greater fool to have
brought her.
Which he wouldn't have, had Mikhyel not been so
damned upset, so inordinately worriedwhich was in itself
oddand had Mikhyel not decided Kiyrstin was some sort
of ally in whatever battle they were engaging and relaxed
when she announced her intentions.
Anheliaa and Garetti. Vandoshin and Kiyrstin. Mikhyel
and . . . who? . . . Nikki?
A man had to wonder, in his more paranoid wonderings,
if they were all in league; and he discovered he didn't much
care, if that were the case. If that were the case, it didn't
leave much worth caring about.
Crazy. They were all . . .
"Deymorin?" Kiyrstin's voice from the door. Hesitant.
As if she, too, were uncertain where matters now stood.
He lifted lead-weighted eyelids.
She was standing in the doorway, wrapped in a service-
able robe, its cowl pulled up around her ears, catching drips
off her ragged hair. And she was holding two pewter goo-
lets, one lifted in mute question.
He nodded, reached without thinking. She handed it to
him, keeping her eyes averted.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"You mind?" She nodded to the grooming chair, and
he Shrugged.
"Not much room for modesty left, is there?"
She blushed and bypassed the chair, pausing in the door-
way to say, "Just wanted to tell you supper was here."
"Kiyrstin, I'm sorry. Don't go. Sit down, please."
She did, and he sank lower into the steamy warmth, un-
willing to waste a single energized mote. They sipped the
wine in silence. Then both began to speak at once.
He lifted his goblet in a mute toast. "Ladies first."
"I resent the classification, but I just wanted to say, I'm
sorry."
"Whatever for?"
"For an excessively ill-timed joke. About you and your
brother."
"And I haven't where you and Garetti are concerned?"
"Big difference, Rags. Youcarefor your brothers a
great deal. I didn't realize, and I am sorry."
He shrugged, there being nothing to say.
"Your turn."
"I've . . . forgotten what I was going to say."
"Well, then, I . . . Deymorin, I'm worried."
"About?"
"Your brother."
"Lord, woman, which one?"
"Nikki."
He stiffened. "What about him?"
"We were being followedeven before you joined us."
"Garetti's men?"
She nodded. "I never said anything to you. Didn't think
clearly what their entrance into the Rhomatum Web might
mean. Didn't really think they would bother. I assumed
they were after me and Van. Now . .."
"You're not so certain."
"If they did, if they were following us and went all the
way to Darhaven . . ."
"They could have him."
And all the Darhaven folk. Damn, damn, and damn.
"A-and, Deymorin?"
"What else?"
"There was a man. Van brought him to me just before
we left1 thought he was lying, but now, I'm not sure
and"
"Kiyrstin, slow up. What the hell are you talking about?"
"He said he attacked you in Rhomatum, that he got your
brother, Nikki, instead. I tried to tell you earlier, but you
fell asleep, and then you attacked Mikhyel, and"
The man who kept ducking out of sight. He raised his
eyes slowly to hers, hardly daring to blink. "And?"
"Deymorin, he said" She swallowed hard. "He said
Anhsliaa hired him. And I just couldn't help wondering . . .
if Anheliaa decides Mikhyel's the enemy . . ."
"Khyel? Anheliaa adores himRhomandi's hells, Anhel-
iaa needs him~He'ss her pet Council manipulator."
"Are you certain? She's got the child, now. Perhaps
you've all become irrelevant."
He .set the goblet down and lifted handfuls of water to
his face, striving to clear his head, a useless endeavor that
ended with his face cradled in his elbow, arm propped on
the tub's lip, wondering where he'd gone wrong, what he
could have done differently. ...
Hands touched tentatively, brushing his braid to one side,
rubbed his neck gently when he didn't stop her. He
groaned, and brought his other arm up to join the first,
crossing them on the tub's edge, shutting out the world
and its problems, shutting out everything but penetrating,
relaxing rhythm of those strong, increasingly beloved,
fingertips.
"Mother?" Dancer materialized running. The veils bil-
lowed. "Mother!"
But she wasn't there, not to vision, and not to that
other sight.
Dancer dropped, panting, to the floor beside the Rho-
mandi brothers' pattern. Dancer's own anxiety and excite-
ment sent shivers through the rapidly increasing veil.
The trials had been advanced by a week. Betania, the
departing dancer, had practiced yesterday and decided it
had become too dangerous, that her new procreative inter-
ests interfered too greatly for her to dance any longer.
Procreation. Children. Crazed, to Dancer's way of think-
ing. How could anyone choose partnering if it required giv-
ing up the dance forever?
Old age. Death. Those were acceptable reasons for
quitting.
Of course, if one lost, one would never dance again, ei-
ther, but Dancer didn't intend to lose tomorrow.
Tomorrow was the day. Tomorrow, all of Dancer's future
would be determined.
And Mother was, as usual these days, unavailable.
Tears happened, but Dancer brushed them angrily away,
and sought a clue to Mother's whereabouts in the ley-
thium web.
The new pattern that was Mheric's sons was spreading.
The solid core that was the eldest brother had gained
strength and intensity: purpose and self-confidence, Dancer
acknowledged rather grudgingly. The complex branching
network, while orderly and actively growing, showed dam-
age: perhaps injury to the youngest sibling, if Dancer were
to hazard a guess.
But the haze that was the middle brother had shifted
away from the sibling web, moving into a distant blackness,
softly pulsating red edged with yellow and orange, its single
fibrous link to that network pulsing red, like blood through
an artery.
Poor radical. Lonely. Deserted. Self-imposed receptacle
for all the pain of a web so much stronger than he alone
could possibly be.
Dancer reached out, drawn to that glowing agony, and
touched the haze
Nikki was screaming.
The ogre had him, and there was nothing he could do,
no way to stop the torture.
Khyel beat the closet door with his fists, and when his
fists grew numb, beat it with his shoulder, finally throwing
his whole body against the solid wood, screaming at the
ogre to leave Nikki alone. That it was his fault, not Nikki's.
His fault. Whatever the crime.
Finally, he could move no more. He lay on the cold floor,
a shapeless pile of broken bones, blood, and tears, and
listened to Nikki scream.
Nikki didn't know where he was, couldn't the ogre hear?
But the ogre wasn't asking about him. The ogre was asking
about Deymorin, and Deymorin's ring. And an army. And
why was Nikki here.
And there was lightning outside the door. There was light
that wasn't ley and wasn't sun, and Nikki was terrified of
it.  Pain enveloped his arm and he bent the arm backward
trying to avoid that impossible hell-glow.
Mikhyel opened his mouth to scream . . .
. .. And something rushed in that wasn't air. Something
warm and loving. Something that swept the pain aside, and
mended the bones and gave him the strength to stand.
Something that shut out the sound of Nikki's cries and
told him Nikki was a man now, and could/should/would
handle his own problems, his own pain.
He wanted to object, but the something wrapped around
him and said, {No more, my solemn radical. Save your
strength for when your web truly needs you.)

Mikhyel jolted awake, drenched in sweat.
What in the name of Darius was that? He'd had trouble
enough accepting Nikki's intrusions into his rare-enough
sleep. This new meddler wasn't Nikki. Wasn't Deymorin.
Wasn't even Anheliaa's black shadow.
A hand touched his shoulder.
He jerked away, found Mirym staring at him in silent
consternation, her hand raised as if it had been burned.
He wondered for an instant, had that intruder been
Mirym, realized in the next that it was not. That the pres-
ence in the dream was no one and nothing he'd felt before.
But waking, the confused images made sense: Nikki was
being tortured. Someone was asking him questions about
Deymorin and Rhomatum. And beyond the door, there'd
been . . . light. Light that wasn't ley or sun.
Mirym's weight pressed the mattress down beside him.
She supported his head, and held a glass to his lips.
He drank deeply, grateful for the fruit juice, and the
sleeping draught it undoubtedly contained. Every night he
tried to sleep without it. Every night, he failed.
~fMt ttMW itt tHut WttA TtHUt *fHi, WW 't <tMt7
Mirym's message floated in front of him. He nodded, too
weak to speak.
/4W MM ~una~*c wtti HiM.?
"Not yet."
~w <6Mi* t&nt ftn ewWn?
He nodded.
/4W MM dfe CC9LkC~ MMitM tttw!
He nodded, caught himself with a jerk. "Lightning ma-
chine? What lightning machine?"
She stood up, her face blank-
"And what are you doing here?"
Dipped a curtsy, and left.
He tried to throw the covers back. Tried to follow her.
But his arms, his legs wouldn't answer his demands, and
before he knew to question, he was asleep.
From beyond the bathroom, a strange sound filtered into
Kiyrstin's half-awake thoughts. Deymorin . . . crying?
She slipped from her bed and padded her way through
the bath chamber, and cracked the door into his room.
Definite adult, male sobs, that hoarse, unpracticed choking
sound was unmistakable.
As she paused, wondering what she should do, the sound
caught on a sharp, suddenly awake breath. A long harsh-
breathed pause, then:
"Rings, fry, I'm so sorry . . ." The whisper rose from the
darkness. "I never knew . . ."
There was a thump, then, of a fist pummelling a pillow
until the seams were in jeopardy. She opened the door a
bit farther; light from her fading fire piercing the darkness.
A pillow flew out of the darkness, and straight at her
face.
She caught it reflexively.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Deymorin, I'm . . ." But damned if she was. She raised
her chin and finished firmly: "Woke me up, Rags. I came
here to shut you up."
She threw the pillow back at him and crossed the room
to the bed.
"Get out, shepherdess," and his deep voice caught,
"Can't you tell when you're not wanted?"
"So throw me out. I dare you." She sat down, caught his
hand when he raised it to strike, knew she'd done right to
force the issue when he collapsed back against the head-
board, his hand going limp and falling to the quilted
bedspread.
"More nightmares?"
Head turned toward the darkness, he nodded.
"Nikki's?"
His head turned slowly side to side.
"Khyel's?"
He bit his lip, an endearingly childish gesture she'd not
have credited him.
"It was the room," he said, his voice low, strained.
"The one at Darhaven? The nursery?"
He nodded just as slowly. "I never spent much time
there-was out riding with the adults almost before I could
walk. With Mikhyel, it was differentat least, after Nikki
was born. Before Nikki, we did everything together. After
. . . it seemed so strange, Mikhyel was always a clever, very
serious child, almost an adult himself. He could hold his
own in adult conversation at nine, but after Nikki was born,
he chose to stay in the nurseryrefused to join the adults
until after Father died. I never understood, at the time. I
think, gods forgive me, I resented it, thinking he preferred
Nikki's company to mine."
"And the room?"
"The day Father died, he was there. It was Mikhyel's
birthday. His thirteenth. Father wanted him to join us on
the hunt he'd organized for the celebration. Mikhyel de-
clined the honor. Father got very angry. I didn't know pre-
cisely what happened. I was out helping with the horses.
All I knew was I heard a lot of yelling, and then Father
stormed out, red-faced and furious. Later, we discovered
he'd locked Khyel in the storage closet."
"In that room?"
He nodded.
"Poor child."
"I'm . . . afraid I didn't see it quite that way. Father al-
ways rode rather ruthlessly. That day, he was ... crazed.
He pushed his horse at one barrier too many . . ."
His voice choked.
"That's how he died, isn't it?"
He nodded. "I fear I blamed Mikhyel for his death. Poor
fry. We had to haul him out of the closet. He was this sort
of broken little lump. But I couldn't really see, and no one
told me, or let me near him for months.... Rings, what
must he have thought all these years?"
"I don't know, Deymorin. Can't." She slid over beside
him, not touching, just to be in range, should he want her.
"But I think, just to be fair"
"I should ask him?"
She nodded.
His breath came and went in deep, shuddering waves.
Then, without looking at her, he rolled into her waiting
embrace.
"Get up."
Warmth, love, safety. Mikhyel resisted the pull at his
shoulder to bask in the unfamiliar sensations.
"I said, wake up!"
A hand struck his face, not so hard as to constitute a
blow, but definitely more than was strictly necessary.
He cursed and struggled to consciousness.
Brolucci. Anheliaa's pet captain of the Tower Guards.
"How dare"
The captain grabbed his shoulder and pulled him out of
bed, cutting his protest short.
"Get dressed," the man's voice grated on drug-sleepy
eardrums. "The Lady demands your immediate attendance
in the Tower."
There were four large guardsmen behind Brolucci, each
one capable of forcing his compliance. No way to object.
No way to avoid a confrontation which could easily mean
imminent exile, if not death.
He staggered to his feet and sought clothing with numb
hands.
Mirym. Her presence here last night, and the drug that
still  fogged  his  thinking.  He'd  been  wrong,  disastrously
wrong, in his judgment of her.
Cold water head to foot helped clear the fog, but
worsened the shakes. He fought to steady his limbs, and
by the time he was dressed, managed at least a semblance
of control, though he made no attempt to braid his hair,
recognizing a coordination currently beyond him and refus-
ing to display that deficiency in front of Brolucci.
He made the trip to the lift in a cloud of Tower Guards,
like some violent criminal. In the Tower, Anheliaa was
waiting, with only Lidye and Mirym. Nethaalye was no-
where to be seen. Anheliaa Was declaring her alliances,
which includedhe felt vaguely illMirym.
He stood just beyond the lift, silent, waiting for Anheli-
aa's decree.
"Darius curse you, Bro," Anheliaa snapped, "take your
hands off the boy, and get out of here."
"But"
"I said leave'. And don't come back until I invite you."
And when the guards were gone: "Mikhyel, darling, I'm
terribly sorry. Brolucci must have completely mistaken
my meaning."
"I doubt that."
"Don't be that way, darling. Please, sit down, be
comfortable."
"Anheliaa," his voice shook and he fought it steady,
"just do it, will you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, irri-
tably. "And if you don't sit down, I'll knock the feet from
under you. I hate staring up at people."
She'd rather look down at them from her oversized chair.
All the same, he sat downbefore his knees failed.
"Now, Mikhyel, haven't you something to tell me?"
"The Council has been giving me a great deal of trouble
regarding land appropriations for the inter-ley road system.
Perhaps you'd be interested in helping me out?"
"Perhaps later, darling. Mirym here, has been telling me
some most interesting observations regarding you and your
brothers. Most interesting. I did wonder, when Nikki
claimed to have heard something I'd told exclusively to
you, darling. I very much feared that you'd begun betraying
my confidences."
He swallowed hard, every thought muddled and con-
fused, wishing she'd simply do whatever she'd planned, and
quit playing with him.
"She also tells me that Nikaenor is with that infernal
machine, now."
She paused, obviously expecting an answer. He shook his
head slightly and whispered, "It was a dream, Anheliaa.
Like many other dreams I've had over the years. I don't
know about any machine!"
"But this is a very important machine, darling. A very
dangerous machine, and you're going to help me destroy
it, aren't you?"
His dreams knew nothing of machines, only fear and
lightning that wasn't. It was Mirym who had mentioned a
machine . . . just after she drugged him. But Anheliaa didn't
want to hear that. He hadn't the words Anheliaa wanted
to hear. All he could do was stare at her and await the
inevitable. He didn't look at the rings. Seeing wasn't neces-
sary. "The hum filling the air now told him all he needed
to know.
"I'm assuming you're ignorant as to the ramifications of
your relationship with your brothers, which accounts for
your silence. I thought it time to bring it all out in the
open. See how best to use these newfound abilities."
"It's nothing, Anheliaa. Dreams. Nothing more."
"Nothing?"
An ear-filling hum threatened balance. Behind Anheliaa,
the rings were a whirring blur, and suddenly, he was
Deymorin.
"M'lord?"
The voice whispered weakly through the undergrowth.
Deymorin pulled his horse up, scanning the bushes.
"Who's there?"
"M'lord? Please . . . help .. ."
And then he recognized the voice.
"Ben?" He slid down, threw the reins to Kiyrstin and
swept his way through the undergrowth to where the old
lightwatchman was resting, propped against a tree, a blood-
ied strip around his arm. "Rings, man, what happened?"
"They got him, m'lord. Must help . . ."
"Easy on, old friend."
He searched the old man for wounds, but besides a few
lumps and bruises, found nothing of consequence other
than the arm. And when he would have bared that: "Leave
it, m'lord. No sense starting it bleeding again."
"What happened? You were with Nikki, weren't you?
Where is he?"
A weakly shaking hand rose to hush him.
"Not far ahead now, m'lord. Watch for him, you must.
They came at us. Too many. Pistols with more than one
shot . . . nothing we could do . . . Nothing. . . ."
"Easy on, Ben." He pressed the uninjured shoulder
lightly, turned to find Kiyrstin already with them.
"Who was it?" she asked, and her voice was cold with
anger. "Who attacked you?"
"Trader. Out of Mauritum, so he said. Name of dunGar-
shin. Vandoshin dunGarshin. Had a bunch of men. Waiting
for us at Darhaven, they were, m'lord."
"Van." Kiyrstin spat the word out and spun on her heel.
Deymorin let her leave, knowing she'd not go beyond
earshot.
"What about Nikki, Ben?"
"Got shot, Deymorin. Bad one to the shoulder. Thought
I'd taken the bullet, he did, but the bastard's gun had more
... don't know how. Don't know how many it held. Care-
ful, m'lord. Be careful. Guns don't need reloading."
"We will, Ben. But Nikki, where is he?"
"Ahead, m'lord. DunGarshin's men, they hurt him bad,
wanting to know why he was there and looking for you."
"Hurt him how?"
"Knocked him around a bit, but mostly they went after
that shoulder, m'lord."
"He's still alive?"
"Very much so, m'lord. They was goodaimed to hurt,
not end with a carcass. But he's your very own brother,
m'lord, make no doubt. Hurting bad as he was, they had
to tie him hand and foot and stuff a rag in his mouth to
keep him quiet in the cart, they did."
"Cart?"
"They're making a move on Rhomatum, m'lord. Have
him tied up in a cart. Brought Tonio along as nurse."
"Move? With what?"
"The boy's machine, m'lord. DunGarshin, he means to
use Master Nikaenor to get past the Tower Guard, where
so dunGarshin claimsthe machine will destroy the Rings,
unless Anheliaa cooperates."
"Cooperates? How? What does he want?"
"Dunno, m'lord. Money? Revenge, mebbe?"
"Revenge on whom?" he wondered aloud.
"Garetti," Kiyrstin hissed behind him, which made some
sense. Money was the more likely goal, but he might also
want to destroy all chance of Garetti securing Rhomatumin
allies. Possibly set himself up as the primary contact be-
tween the two webs.
"What about the others, Ben. What happened to the
other men with you?"
"Some dead. Some not. Scattered, they were, to the
winds and more."
The pain was getting to Ben, his mind was beginning
to wander.
"Ben, I've no one to leave here with you. Only the
woman, and"
Ben's hand fumbled for his. He grasped it and squeezed.
"Be fine, m'lord. Save the boy. Did well, he did. Tried
hard. Good instincts, just hke you taught him. Just didn't
know about the guns."
"We'll be back, Ben. If we're free to be anywhere."
"Can reach old Talvanni's place. Got the strength for
that. The boysthey was under orders to head toward
Armayel. You get the boy free. Head there. Don't worry
'bout me."
"I'll be back," he said firmly, and Ben patted his hand
and said past a hint of a smile, "You're a good man,
dunMheric."
He squeezed the hand, and left without another word.
But just before the brush closed between them, he glanced
back, found Ben staring after him, still with that half-smile,
his head tipped back against the tree, and from under heavy
hds, his brown eyes glowed ever-so-slightly green.
"Birtram's hells!"
Anheliaa's  exclamation brought Mikhyel  shuddering
back into the Tower.
On the rings' central sphere, a picture of the scene he'd
been participant/witness to.
Green glowing eyes. Mother. The dream.
Mikhyel shuddered again.
"Who is that man?"
He shook his head, fighting giving Anheliaa anymore
information. Surprisingly:
"A nasty old lightwatchman," Lidye hissed. "Name of
Ben. Kept pushing at the Rhomandi for an audience, when
I needed to talk to him."
It was all beyond himor he beyond it, conversation and
Tower alike. He was with Deymorin. Was Deymorin riding
beside his lady love in search of their brother. The woman
had been crying. Angry, he thought, though the thought
had no rational basis.
He tried to blink. Tried to break the spell, but Anheliaa
hissed at him and he realized he couldn't move at all. Could
only watch those rings spin and await the inevitable meet-
ing on the trail. . . .
Intercept romMaurii, determine what he was after and
negotiate a deal for his brother's freedom: it all seemed
quite straightforward . . .
Until they rounded a bend in the road and sighted the
encampment at the Boreton turnout.
RomMaurii and his menat least three times in number
as the band they'd left in the forests west of Darhaven
with wagons and horses, not all of which were Darhaven
stock.
"They're Garetti's," Kiyrstin said, in a hushed voice and
of the new forces.
"Those chasing you?" he asked, in the same tones, and
she nodded.
"Sweet Maurii, what have I gotten you into?"
He reached across and squeezed her hand. "Not your
fault, shepherdess."
But as a handful of men, including romMaurii, mounted
their horses and rode toward them, romMaurii's possible
goals expanded enormously. If he was still Maurii's loyal
priest, still Garetti's man, he might well be after the rings
themselves, either to destroy them, or to control them, and
nothing Deymorin Rhomandi dunMheric could offer would
counter that objective.
"Well, well, well." RomMaurii hauled on his reins, bring-
ing the poor creature beneath him to a gagging, head-tossing
halt.  "Look  who's  come  home.  Kiyrstin.  Just  Deymio.
Welcome."
On either side of the priest, large men with pistols drawn,
showed rather better horse sense. RomMaurii alone, they
could easily outrun. These others . . . even were Nikki not
involved, he'd not risk his or Kiyrstin's life on any lack of
skill on the Mauritumin guards' part.
"What are you doing here. Van?" Deymorin asked,
keeping his voice casual. "I thought we had an agreement."
"Not being privy to the agreement, the men were a bit
restless when Barinni returned with the report you had
boltedand with Kiyrstin and the boy. Shame, Just Dey-
mio. So I thought, to keep the boys occupied, you know,
that we'd work a bit closer to Rhomatum. Make ourselves
a little more conveniently to hand."
"Quite a caravan you've amassed." He rose in his stir-
rups, gazing down the road at the camp. "Where'd all this
come from, priest?"
"Mostly, it's thanks to the generosity of your friend the
Rhomandi. The rest ... well, we picked it up along the
way."
"Picked up a few men as well, did you?"
"A few. But come, JD, join our little feast here. It is,
after all, of your provisionindirectly speaking, of course.
What do you say? A bit of a bite over which to discuss the
status of the agreement?"
"Why not?"
They rode toward the camp, two guards ahead, rom-
Maurii, Kiyrstin and himself abreast, and two more men
behind.
He dismounted lightly, ducked under his horse's neck to
catch Kirystin in his arms as she slid off. She propped her
elbows on his shoulders to stop her slide halfway down,
wrapped her arms around his neck, and whispered into his
ear, "What are you up to, JD?"
"Two against an army, shepherdess." He brushed his lips
across her cheek and nibbled her ear. "Keeping things
calm. Let's find the lad first."
She stared fixedly over his shoulder.
"Calm? Maybe not." Her hands tangled in his hair and
her lips pressed his, hard, possessively, openly staking her
claimor perhaps declaring her preference.
Hard to question precise motivation when one's mouth
was the object under attack, and one's lips were taking on a
mind of their own, unmindful of the gravity of the situation.
But a man's somewhat less directly involved brain had
to wonder just whom she meant to impress.
"Deymio? Kiyrsti?" RomMaurii's voice, cold and hard,
interrupted.
Kiyrstin released her hold, he released his, and she
dropped the remaining distance to the ground, avoiding his
eyes, meeting romMaurii's glitteringly angry gaze. Enough
to make a man worry, until he realized her ploy had shifted
Van's scowling attention squarely onto her.
Distractingly on her.
He scanned the camp, searching for any sign of Nikki.
Darhaven equipment, much of it, and several times what
he'd authorized sent to romMaurii's supposed camp, evi-
dence that sustained the worst of his fears. He only hoped
the bulk of the staff had escaped before romMaurii arrived.
One horse nickered recognition at him. He laughed, and
said, "Excuse me," and before the priest could object or
order him stopped, he had crossed to the horse's head,
Kiyrstin at his side, the priest hot on his heels.
He played with the eager nose, scratched the ears, en-
dured a rough boot in the ribs, and said, "I trained this ill-
mannered creature years ago. You'd think he'd be better
mannered by now."
He slapped the muscular neck, smoothed mane hair care-
lessly twisted beneath the headstall, and worked his way
down the horse's back, ostensibly checking the equipment.
But the instant his hand touched the cart, he knew that
what had truly drawn him to this particular wagon was not
the horse.
"What's in here?" he asked, fingering the tarp stretched
over the wagon's bed.
"Supplies." RomMaurii's reply did not invite further
investigation.
"From Darhaven?" He snapped the end of a retaining
rope loose. "Mind if I"
"Actually, yes, I do mind. Step away, Rhomandi."
He froze, hand on the next loop. "Ah, who told you?"
"Now, dunMheric!"
He shrugged and turned, not particularly surprised to
find the priest's pistol in hand and leveled at him. It was
an interesting piece. Small, almost elegant. And more than
single shot, if Ben had seen true.
He leaned his shoulders against the wagon and said, "I
wondered when you'd confess that particular bit of infor-
mation. How long have you known?"
"Since you arrived, you self-deluded fool. Just Deymio.
Really, Rhomandi, did we truly appear that stupid? 1
said, step away."
"All right, all right." He rocked free of the wagon, and
took a single step forward. "You knew, and you didn't tell
Kiyrstin? Not exactly sporting of you, was it? Garetti's man
are you?"
The priest shrugged. "After a fashion, only. Garetti and
I . . . we did argue at some length about the boy's machine.
Garetti couldn't see past the internal problems it would
cause. I saw a chance to take Rhomatum." He rubbed the
back of his free hand up under his chin and along his jaw-
line in a move  he undoubtedly considered tantalizing.
"After Kiyrstin's . . . one hesitates to call it an assassination
attempt ... after she escaped, Garettisaw value in my
idea, and sent me after the boyand incidentally the wife
who'd made a fool of him."
"So why, once you caught up with them, didn't you and
your men take them back to Garetti?"
"I told you, I had a differentvision. The descendant of
Darius should appreciate visions."
"Oh, I do, romMaurii, believe me. So you want to take
Rhomatum? And you're willing to defy Garetti's orders to
do so?"
"That's one way of putting it."
"Isn't that rather dangerous to admit in front of Garetti's
men, here?"
"They have been . . . brought about to my way of think-
ing, Rhomandi."
"Turnabouts, are they? How did you manage that?"
"Same way I managed with Kiyrstin."
His heart skipped a beat, and the next pounded loud in
his ear.
"How"
"I convinced them I could do it. I had my doubts about
how I was to accomplish this miracle, until Anheliaa herself
dropped our letter of introduction right into my lap."
And on the third beat, he knew better than to believe.
The man was trying to separate them. He'd seen that kiss.
Wanted a rift between them large enough to insinuate
himself.
"Me?" Deymorin laughed. "Surely you're joking."
"Not particularly. How about it, Rhomandi? How would
you like to see Anheliaa thrown out of the Tower?"
"Thrown out? I thought you intended to destroy the
rings with that contraption. Now, you're going to replace
her?"
"Her power's waning, Rhomandi. Everyone knows it.
Everyone also knows she's desperate to find someone to
replace her. / can. Once in there, given the choice of de-
struction of the rings or an heir primed and ready, which
would any ringmaster choose? Which would you?"
"I think you know the answer to that, romMaurii. I don't
like ringmen, ringman. I thought I made that clear to you.
I don't trust any of you, not Anheliaa, not Garetti, certainly
not a man who just stole my horses!"
"But then, there are other things at stake now, aren't
there?" The hand reached his lips and he ... kissed the
back of a finger, then turned the hand, displaying
"Where the hell did you get that?" Deymorin hissed.
"What, this?" With a surprised look, he held his hand
out, studyingand displayingthe  ring on his middle
finger.
His ring.
"Why, is it yours? But the man I got it from did claim
it was his. Would you like it back? I'm sure we can come
to an agreement, Rhomandi. Don't you agree, Kiyrsti,
darling?"
"How dare you" Kiyrstin hissed, her eyes narrowed to
angry glittering slits.
"Still playing the loving turnabout, Kiyrsti?" romMaurii
asked. "Don't bother. The man's got too much at stake to
trust you any longer. You can see the doubt in his eyes."
For a moment, perhaps, he'd doubted, but only for a
moment. RomMaurii was a man who dealt in subterfuge
and lies, who derived his own power by undermining the
influence of others, who divided opposing forces by twisting
perceptions of loyalty.
So when Kirystin's haughty challenge met his glance, he
gave her a shadow wink. Let the man think he'd divided
them. Let her turn to romMaurii ... at least long enough
to turn tables on him. Now. Tonight. Tomorrow. As long
as Nikki was aliveand at the moment, Nikki was alive
and strong. Deymorin could feel thatthere was time.
"Shepherdess?" He let a breathy disappointment into the
single word.
"JD, no! Surely you don't believe . . ." Her voice drifted
off uncertainly.
Priestly  laughter  filled  the  air.  "You've  lost  him,
shepherdess."
"I don't ..." Kiyrstin backed away, toward romMaurii,
turning away as if to hide her face.
Don't overdo, shepherdess, he thought, finding it hard not
to applaud her performance, utterly certain it was, indeed,
a performance.
And then:
"Mm-mm-ee-oh-oh." Came from under the tarp. And
a thud.
A worried older brother hardly had to ask what it was,
particularly an older brother who could feel the younger
past that tarp. Could feel the anger, the pain, and the utter
terror that all hope was lost. And suddenly any thought of
fooling the man who held his youngest brother captive lost
its appeal. Suddenly, any thought of leaving that fear unas-
suaged until tomorrow or even later was unthinkable.
"Let him go, priest."
"Why, what are you talking about? Him, who?"
"My brother. He's just a boy. I can get you into Rhoma-
tum. You can have the damn Tower."
More muffled protests from beneath the tarp, protests he
ignored, both without and within, concentrating his atten-
tion on the priest.
"Let him go. Get him to a doctor"
"Why, if I had such a person. Just Deymio, what makes
you think he'd require a doctor?"
"So, let me see him."
"I have no idea who you're talking about."
"Let me see my brother!"
"Oh, I don't think so. I see you've been playing with me,
and that I really cannot trust you, no matter what promises
you make. And I really don't need you, Rhomandi. I really
don't need you at all. Subdue him, will you, gentlemen?"
Two guards came around the end of the wagon. Dey-
morin dodged one, kicked at the other, knowing he had no
chance in the world and not really caring, wanting only to
do maximum damage to those who'd hurt Nikki.
That bhnding anger, and a buUheaded tenacity drove
him. As was the case when he'd attacked Mikhyel, there
was no sophisticated science to his technique, no cool
awareness of his actions and choice of targets, just release
of pent-up fury.
He threw a joint-fisted roundhouse blow, felt it land with
a satisfying squish, saw the man fall, took a blow in his
side, and kicked at the culprit's kneecap, collapsed with his
victim as his bad leg took the double weight.
Strangely, no one interfered.
Avoiding one guard's hands, he rolled and scrambled,
fought and clawed his way toward the legs he knew were
romMaurii's. If he was going down, that snake went with
him.
A foot aimed at his face. He blocked the toe with one
hand, grabbed the heel and twisted up and inward with
the other.
RomMaurii screamed, and crashed in a sprawling heap
that narrowly missed Deymorin's head.
And then he was on top, and once again a face was
turning red and purple above his hands. The priest's face,
this time.
"Uh, Deymorin ..." Kiyrstin's voice, her touch on his
shoulder, slowly edged their way into his anger-hazed brain.
He biinked his eyes clear and scanned the semicircle of
curious eyes.
Curious. And not a weapon in sight.
"Get away from him, Deymorin."
And then he saw why. Kiyrstin had romMaurii's pistol
in hand, and there wasn't a man present ready to question
whether or not she knew how to use it. Certainly none who
was ready to risk death for the man beneath him.
And more than Kiyrstin held them steady. Spaced
around the camp, weapons out and ready, were men he
recognized: old members of the guard, men he'd trained
with and under. Ben's men.
A slow grin happened from deep within. Rendezvous at
Armayel be damned.
"I said, get back, Rhomandi!"
There was a look in Kiyrstin's eyes. A hunger. For this
man's blood. And the cannon was aimed unwaveringly at
the priest's head.
"In cold blood, shepherdess?"
"I'm not particular, Rhomatum. Chivalry is for fools.
Wolf bait should be left for the wolves."
He felt the fear in the man beneath him. But romMaurii
didn't concern him. Kiyrstin did. Kiyrstin and tomorrow's
conscience.
"Please, Kiyrstin. Garetti was one thing. Thisyou'll
never be the same. We've options."
"Hang him?"
"Tie him up, yes." He jerked his head toward the watch-
ing men, both romMaurii's and Ben's. "Tie them all up.
We'll leave them here, under guard, take Nikki to Armayel,
and send additional men back for them."
The look faltered . . .
"Please, shepherdess."
. . . and died.
"Oh, hell, Rags. You're no fun at all."
A thud happened from the wagon.
He heaved a sigh and released romMaurii's throat, jerked
the knife from the man's belt and wavered to his feet. Com-
ing up hard against the wagon, he slashed a rear binding
and pulled himself up on a wheel to throw the canvas back.
It was nightmare become reality: blood-matted blond
hair, bruised and swelling-distorted features, eyes squeezed
tight and a half-naked body curled against further blows.
"Nikki!"
Mikhyel screamed, felt the agony in himself, and an all-
consuming anger that launched him from the wheel straight
at the hawk-faced man staggering to his feet.
He heard Kiyrstin scream.
He felt romMaurii's throat in his hands, felt the shock
run up his arms as the man's head struck the ground.
Vision hazed. All was pain and confusion, anger and be-
trayal, and overwhelming all else, a need to stop the pain.
To protect Nikki from the ogre of death.
"Yes-s-s-s-s."
The word was a satisfied hiss in the hum that was the
singing of the rings.
He didn't care. He had to be with Nikki. Had to know
Nikki was alive and well, needed to know the reality behind
the image of blood, the wracking pain.
But reality rooted him to the chair in the Tower, where
the power of the rings was a palpable vibration in the air.
He fought that reality, straining against the invisible
bonds that held him motionless. Sensed a weakness in those
bonds and strained harder, demanding freedom.
He had to be with Nikki.
"Then go!" Anger. Exhaustion. Frustration in that hiss,
and like a released bowstring, the tension was gone.
Lightning happened out of a clear sky.
And thunder.
Kiyrstin knew the cause long before any of the startled
men around her. Was prepared, as they couldn't be, for the
body that dropped from the sky and into the wagon.
She wasn't prepared for the pistol in her hand flaring
white hot. But without so much as a single coherent
thought, she sent it flying as far from her as her arm could
throw it.
The first shot exploded before it touched the ground.
And then, the fires of hell descended around them as
firearms began discharging spontaneously.
The wagon swayed suddenly, the horses taking exception
to the fireworks. She yelled at Deymoriri, still rolling on
the ground, locked in idiotic manly combat, obhvious to all
sense of self-preservation, kicked him in the rear when he
ignored her, then ran to the plunging horses' heads and
slashed their tie rope with her knife.
They tried to bolt. She jerked at their bits, gained their
attention long enough to haul herself into the seat and kick
the brake free.
Then she just let them run.
Behind her, lightning arced.
And arced again.
Became a steady, blinding stream of destruction that
bathed the clearing from out of a clear blue sky.
And Deymorin was in the middle of it.
But she couldn't think about that. Either he came to his
senses or he didn't. If he did, he'd want his brother safe,
and the boy certainly couldn't save himself, unlike
Deymorin.
Damn him. Damn him for a fool.
Kiyrstin gripped the reins in one hand, the siderail with
the other, and braced herself against the sway and buck of
the wagon, blinking back blinding tears, telling herself
firmly it was just the wind and hair whipping in her eyes
that induced those tears.
What seemed a lifetime later, the cloudless storm faded
to silent daylight, and the horses, lathered and blowing,
slowed of their own accord. When they stopped altogether,
she dropped the reins and slumped, burying her face in
her hands.
Nothing could have survived that lightning bath. Van was
gone. Zandy's encapsulator destroyed. All those men.
Deymorin.
It was over. Six months of her life, her whole future as
she'd begun to imagine it . . . gone.
Except for the manmenm the back of the wagon.
Deymorin's youngest brother, whom she'd never seen, who
might be a totally useless human being, but whose undoubt-
edly bruised and battered and barely alive state he owed,
at least in part, to her. And the other one, whose fall from
the sky had preceded the firestorm. A man whose identity,
she somehow knew beyond any doubt, reasonable or
otherwise.
A thud of approaching hooves, possibly a local, drawn
by the fireworks, brought her to her senses.
Possibly help for the too-silent men in the back.
After all, she still had responsibilities: to Deymorin's
brothers and to little Zandy waiting at Armayel. She
pushed herself upright, sniffed, getting salt water up her
nose, and scrubbed at the tears with an impatient hand.
The hoofbeats stopped beside the wagon and a new
weight taxed the seat's springs to the limit.
And then, there were arms around her and a voice in
her ear whispering, "Don't you dare cry, shepherdess."
Contrary as ever, Kiyrstin wrapped her arms around his
neck and burst into tears. Not that Deymorin blamed her;
he felt a bit like howling himself, but settled for burying
his hand in her hair and his face in her neck.
His body was one enormous bruise and strained muscle,
not the least of which was a Kiyrstin-sized footprint on his
backside, but he was alive, thanks to that butt-kick, and
Kiyrstin was, and
A muffled protest from the rear, and the pain that
wracked his body, pain that was part of him and not, re-
minded him of other obligations.
"Rings," he said into her hair, "Nikki."
She sniffed, loudly, and pushed free, stared blankly at
him. Then her eyes widened, and she whispered, "Mikhyel.
Sweet Maurii, Deymorin. Mikhyel."
"Khyel?" And then he realized he should have known.
Would have, but for the confusion of emotions already
writhing within. His anguish. Nikki's. And Mikhyel's.
Kiyrstin twisted slowly up onto her knees to look over
the seat's high back.
"Oh, my god. . . ."
He didn't ask, didn't have to look. He could feel Khyel's
presence, now that he thought to try, isolate from himself
and Nikki. Worse, he could feel the destruction burning
into Mikhyel's very bones, the pain to which he himself
had been blessedly oblivious the time it happened to him.
He only wished he could say the same for Mikhyel.
Together he and Kiyrstin scrambled out of the forward
seat and hastened to the rear of the wagon, to find Mikhyel
piled against the backboard, where the wild jolting of the
wagon bed must have thrown him, a naked, reddened,
shapeless mass on the deflated canvas.
He seemed at first glance to be dead, but an ever-so-
slight movement of his ribs, and that other, indefinable
sense assured him that Mikhyel was not only alive, but all
too conscious.
"He's afraid to move," he said quietly, keeping his own
senses uncompromisingly separate. "Nikki's awake, too,
and . . ." Somewhere, he found a smile. ". . . smothering, so
he thinks."
"We can't just lift him," Kiyrstin said imperturbably.
"The skin is already rubbing off in places."
"Wait," Deymorin said, and cut the final lashing. "Khyel,
I know you can hear me. Don't try to answer. And, please,
brother, don't try to help. Just lie still."
Fortunately for them all, Kiyrstin wasn't a delicate
woman like Mirym, or the simpering Lidye. Kiyrstin was
strong-armed and steady, and together they lifted the can-
vas, with Mikhyel lying on it, free of a writhing Nikki and
a very unhappy Tonio, both bound and gagged and in a
crumpled tangle at the bottom of the wagon.
"Settle down, fry," he snapped at Nikki, whose blue eyes
sparked with indignation above the gag, and who seemed
amazingly hale for the injured condition Ben's report and
his own senses had led him to expect. And to Tonio: "I'm
sorry to get you into all this. I'll be right back."
With Kiyrstin's help, he eased the tarp to a grassy spot
in the shade and straightened Khyel's limbs as gently as
possible, talking all the while, explaining to Mikhyel what
he knew about what Mikhyel was suffering, describing, as
best he could, what had happened. Speaking for his own
sake as well as Mikhyel's sanity.
Nothing seemed broken, but in that seared mess, it was
difficult to tell. Tears seeped from under Mikhyel's closed
eyelids, the only outward sign he was awake.
"Hang in there, Khyel. Same happened to me. Hurts like
hell, I know, but you will live, much as you might not care
to at the moment. Kiyrstin, stay with him, will you?"
Tonio had wormed his way free of Nikki, and was strug-
gling to sit up. Taking the gag from Tonio's mouth, he
asked, nodding toward Nikki, "How is he?"
Angling his hands to be cut free, Tonio said dryly, "He'll
live, m'lord. Hole in his shoulder, but we fixed that. Rest
is messy, but a long way from his heart."
"Good." He handed Tonio the knife. "Cut him loose,
will you?"
An indignant squeal sounded from behind Nikki's gag.
"Dammit, boy. I'm not ignoring you. I've got to go
back to the camp."
"You can't" Tonio exclaimed.
"I must. There's an ointment ..." There was no such
protest from Kiyrstin, on the ground beside Khyel, and he
turned to ask her: "Any idea where to look, shepherdess?"
She shook her head, her forehead puckered with worry.
"Just . . . if there's anything left, look for the clothes trunk.
It's where we kept all that sort of thing."
He cursed softly as he hauled himself into the saddle.
"JD?"
"What?"
"Be careful."
"Not a firearm left alive back there, Kiyrstin. Anything
else attacks me at its own risk."
He forced the horse, much against its greater wisdom,
back the way they'd come.
Deymorin was leaving.
Choking on gag-contained screams, Nikki struggled to
gain his knees, falling atop Tonio as the world whirled and
buzzed around him. He collapsed in a heap, and just lay
there for a moment, waiting for his head to clear, kicking
Tonio away when he reached for his arms to cut him free.
Settle down? All he'd been throughfor Deymorinand
all Deymorin could say, all the time Deymorin could spare
for him when after months of anguish and separation they
were back together, was settle down?
Deymorin could spare the time to cut Tonio loose but
not his own brother? Well . . . damn Deymorin Rhomandi
dunMheric! Damn him to the eighteen hells of Rhomatum!
Who needed him?
He kicked Tonio away again and shoved himself back up
to the nest of blankets that had been his bed since last
night. Since they'd shot him and stolen Deymorin's ring
from around his neck and beaten him, demanding to know
why he was there, and why he was looking for Deymorin,
and who Deymorin was and why he had been exiled.
Well, he hadn't told them. Hadn't given them anything
to go on, not even when they struck that bullet hole.
Repeatedly.
It just wasn't fair.
He'd been lying right here in these blankets, under that
stifling canvas that "protected him from the sun" ... and
from the view of casual passersby; he'd been lying there,
victim of Mikhyel's betrayalMikhyel, who had told him
to go to Darhaven when Anheliaa's rings couldn't possibly
have found Deymorin there. He'd been lying there, search-
ing for some way to escape before they reached Rhoma-
tum, to deprive these Mauritumin invaders of their hostage
and so their bargaining power, when, as if by magic, there
had been Deymorin's voice, right outside the wagon.
Unable to hear clearly, afraid Deymorin would leave,
he'd tried to call out. There'd been a fight; the canvas had
been ripped away; and there was Deymorin.
But only for an instant. Deymorin had leapt away, his
face dark with anger, and then the thunder had come
though he'd swear there'd been no sign of storm that morn-
ing when they'd stretched the canvas over his headand
lightning had blinded himand something large and heavy
had struck him, just before the horses bolted.
Then had begun a long, deafening stream of thunder,
blinding light, and the pummeling of the swaying, bucking
cart that left him dazed and terrified.
Silence, after that. And dark. And pain . . . blinding, blis-
tering pain like that filling him now until all he wanted was
to scream. . . .

The monster was grabbing at his ankle. He pressed
against the chimney's ho~, sooty bricks, tried to squirm
higher, but the creature had him, pulled him, ripping the
skin from his body. Its roar filled the air around him, drove
the soot deeper into his ears and skin.
And above him, Nikki screamed. For Deymorin. Always
for Deymorin. But Deymorin wasn't there. Deymorin was
never there anymore, would never be there again. Dey-
morin was gone forever, driven away. By him.
He clawed at the brick and screamed at the ogre to leave
Nikki alone and called to Nikki that everything would be
all right and to be quiet so the ogre couldn't find him.
But Nikki didn't listen. And Nikki's screams went on
and on and on, and he was falling, falling, to where the
ogre waited.
A steady stream of curses and cries of protest and calls
for Deymorin arose from the wagon bed. Evidently Tonio
had removed Nikaenor's gag.
On the canvas-covered ground beside Kiyrstin, Mikhyel
writhed, shedding bits of skin that would be scars, if he
survived, and wasted hard-won breath and precious energy
whispering reassurances to his unseen, but excruciatingly
noisy brother.
Mikhyel was unquestionably conscious and aware. And
not just of his own agony. A reflexive jerk from Mikhyel
and an angry, "Dammit, Tonio, be careful, " from the wagon
confirmed her suspicions that Mikhyel was also still cogni-
zant of Nikki's physical state. Much as Deymorin had
sensed both Nikki and Mikhyel on the trail and last night.
One could also assume that Nikki was suffering Mikhyel's
pain now, perhaps without realizing why, or even that it
wasn't his own.
Sim:
"Dammit, Tonio," Kiyrstin hissed at the unseen valet.
Concern for Mikhyel's life left her little sympathy for a
man who had the strength to protest so loudly. "Can't you
keep that fool quiet? He's disturbing my patient."
Silence. Blessed silence.
And then a golden cloud appeared above the wagon's
sideboards, and below the cloud, a startlingly handsome,
though somewhat battered and definitely indignant, face.
"What did you say?"
Giving Mikhyel a murmured reassurance, wishing the
more satisfying gift of physical touch were feasible, she
stood up to face this precious Nikaenor directly.
He was balancing on his knees and leaning heavilyand
without obvious discomfortagainst the wagon's side-
boards, while Tonio sawed the bindings from his wrists.
She saw no indication whatsoever that he shared Mikhyel's
suffering. In fact, he seemed amazingly healthy, for some-
one whose health had been such cause for Deymorin's re-
cent concern.
She saw now that blood matted the blond cloud in places,
and his shirt was in tatters, but his eyes were bright and
clearthough one was swollen nearly shutand the shoul-
der wound that had caused Deymorin and Mikhyel such
misery, appeared tightly and cleanly dressed.
Certainly his voice was strong enough.
"Let me paraphrase," she stated coldly. "Either you shut
your mouth and endure your minor discomforts and com-
plaints quietly, or I'll shove that filthy rag right back down
your gullet and with luck, you'll choke."
His eyes raked her up and down, and his expression was
one of increasing distaste as he took in her borrowed
clothesMikhyel's clothesher shorn hair and the filth.
"I  know you,"  he  said  then.  "You're  Deymorin's
ringdancer!"
"I'm not a dancer. I've never been a dancer. I never
intend to be a dancer. And if anyone accuses me of being
Deymorin's anything again, I'll"
"Please don't, shepherdess," Deymorin's voice inter-
rupted, weary but amused, and then Deymorin himself was
there, walking his horse up to the far side of the wagon,
riding more slowly than she'd ever seen him, and he stag-
gered when he slid from the saddle.
Nikki's face lit like captured sunshine, and he rocked
about to face Deymorin, radiating love and adoration and
vulnerabihty. Maurii save them, no wonder his brothers'
common sense went southward where this boy was concerned.
Deymorin dropped his horse's reins, leaving the foaming,
exhausted creature to its own devicessomething he'd lec-
tured her severely againstand reached over the end
boards to clasp the boy's hand in both of his own, a quiet,
but undeniably heartfelt greeting.
"Do you better when we're not both walking wounded,
fry."
"I.O.U.?" Nikki asked softly, with the faintest of quivers
in his voice, and giving his older brother a shaky grin.
"Something like," Deymorin said, releasing Nikki's hand
to caress Nikki's swollen cheek.
Vaguely  disgusted,  Kiyrstin  reminded  Deymorin
abruptly: "Did you find the salve?"
Deymorin grinned fleetingly. "Nikki, this is Kiyrstin. Be
nice. She saved my life."
"Several times. Well, did you find if!"
"It's a war zone back there, Kiyrstin." Deymorin's voice
was hushed. Shaken. Hiding emotions she could only imag-
ine. "I've never ... seen the like. Splinters, blood, bits of
this and thateverything burned beyond recognition. The
amazing thing is, the fire didn't spread. But not a live body,
not an unshattered container anywhere."
No pamicci balm meant no way to stop the searing de-
struction from moving inward, through muscle, all the way
to bone and vital organs. Which meant, quite simply, Mi-
khyel was going to die.
And Deymorin, from the way he avoided looking at Mi-
khyel, from the devastation on his face, knew it. After all
this, Deymorin was going to lose a brother anyway.
She was shaking. She knew that as she knew, from an
inward distance, when Deymorin's arms surrounded her,
but little else.
"Nothing else we can do?" he asked gently.
"We ... we can try immersing him in cold water. I've
heard that helps other sorts of burns . . . But, Sweet Maurii,
Deymorin, what if I'm wrong?"
"Heard? If? What sort of doctor are you? Deymorin,
what's going on? Who is this patient she's going to drown?"
She stiffened, said into Deymorin's chest. "That's that
brother of yours, isn't it?"
"I'm afraid so."
"You tell him, Rhomandi, that if he so much as opens
his mouth again, he'll find out what sort of doctor I'm not."
Over her head, Deymorin said, with forced humor in his
weary voice, trying, she knew, to disguise his own fear and
shelter this younger brother who was, in her humble opin-
ion, damn well old enough to handle the truth. "Nikki, lad,
much as I love you, much as I know you've been abducted
and tortured and nearly died for my sake, I think I should
warn you that Kiyrstin is an escaped convictan assassin
by trade, and you'd do well not to get her angry. At the
moment, you are alive and comparatively well."
"You call this"
"Shut up, Nikki. That weight that squashed you in the
wagon was our other brother, as you'd probably realize, if
you were a little less sore and bruised yourself. At the
moment, he's very close to dying, thanks, to our loving
aunt's interference, and if you don't want Kiyrstin to help
you precede him into the hereafter, I'd suggest you watch
what you say."
"N-not Anhehaa."
The weak whisper rose from the ground behind him.
"Khyel?" At least the brat had the decency to sound
remorseful, and when the partially clad, cut, bruised, and
flayed brother worked his way gingerly over the wagon's
sideboards and dropped to his knees beside the burned one,
Kiyrstin found her opinion inclining toward leniency.
"Don't touch him," she warned, and the desperate blue
eyes that shifted her way, the reddened hand that sought
Nikki's despite the warning, melted the last of her resis-
tance, especially when Nikki, showing some real sense, re-
sisted the natural urge to grab indiscriminately, and instead
placed his hand gently in his brother's, letting Mikhyel con-
trol the pressure.
Deymorin sank down at Mikhyel's other side. "Khyel,
don't answer if it can wait, but what did you mean, it wasn't
Anheliaa who sent you through?"
"M-my fault. I ... did it. Rings just -.. Ni-k-ki hurt.
Couldn't not . . ." Tears leaked with Mikhyel's effort, and
Deymorin, his own eyes damp, brushed hair back from
Mikhyel's forehead, then clamped that same shaking hand
across his own eyes, squeezing his temples.
"Tonio," Nikki called softly toward the wagon, "is there
anything in that medical kit of yours that might help?"
"Medical kit?" Kiyrstin repeated and eagerly pawed
through the bag Tonio tossed down to her. But it was noth-
ing useful, as far as she could tell. Standard ointments and
herbs, some strips for dressing wounds.
She met Deymorin's anxious gaze and shook her head.
His shoulders, his entire body, slumped in weary despair.
"His scalp's not burned . . . under the hair." Nikki com-
mented absently. He was rocking gently, just staring at
Mikhyel.
"That's just the way it happens," she answered, only half-
listening, worried about the wild look beginning to fill
Deymorin's eyes. "The beard, the eyebrows, I've never
seen them damaged, but they'll fall outno way not. May
grow back. May not, but it's the skin that's damaged. The
scalpperhaps it's different. Maybe it's just that the hair
protects it. I just don't"
"Forget about eyebrows!" Deymorin snarled. "What can
we do?"
"Pull yourself together, Rags. Nothing here, that's for
certain. Get him in the wagon, I suppose. Try to keep the
sun off him and find water. I know the plant the balm is
distilled from, butdammitallit's a desert thing, imported
from"
"Oh, Basstisstist's hells, woman. Just let him croak the
big one. "
They stared at one another in shocked silence. That
cackle had most definitely not come from any of them.
"Who's there?" Deymorin demanded of the sur-
rounding woods.
"Thought you'd never ask."
An old woman trundled from out of the shadows, leaning
heavily on a cane, carrying a rag-covered basket. Her rag-
ged hem dragged the ground, brushing an eerie path
through the roadside dust.
Her head extended outward from her scarf-swathed
shoulders . . . rather like a turtle's . . . and turned side to
side as if examining Mikhyel with the one eye visible past
. grey rattails and a headscarf's ragged fall.
"Skinny," she declared flatly, and plucked a drenal leaf
from the basket. Her single eye blissfully closed, she flicked
the leaf with her tonguetip, and nibbled a corner of the
leaf. "Let him die."
Another deft flick of the tongue. Another .nibble. This
time, Kiyrstin saw the tiny green speck she savored.
An aphid.
More than sufficient to break the strange spell the old
crone's arrival had cast on themat least she and Dey-
morin were free. Nikki was still staring at the crone, seem-
ingly captivated, his eyes wide and wondering.
"I don't know who you are," Kiyrstin said, "or what
right you think you have to interfere"
"Right?" the cackle screeched. "You're the trespassers,
Kiyrstine romGaretti, and don't think to oust me from my
own house."
"How do you know ..." The crone's eye glimmered
green and Kiyrstin's indignant question faded in her throat.
She'd swear fangs glittered in the scarf-shadowed face.
"Yes-s-s-s. Now, what are you going to do with this
rotting carcass?"
"Sweet Tamshi, don't be angry," Nikki whispered, and
stood up, hands outheld in appeal. "Sweet, sweet mother,
please help us."
Mystical Tamshi as he claimed, or perfectly human crone,
the lad's splendid, though slightly damaged, body quite ob-
viously caught the attention of the single visible eye, which
widened and openly scanned him.
And he, in his turn, was staring almost reverently at her.
"He's not a carcass. He's my brother. And I'm afraid he
means far too much to me to just let him die here. If you've
any advice for us, or if you can save him, please, help us
now."
A sly smile stretched the wrinkled face. "M-m-m-much
better, pretty human." The rag-draped, grey-haired head
raised its nose in Kiyrstin's direction. "Much better."
The last time she'd seen that look, it had graced a child's
face. A child whose eyes had a disturbing tendency to
change color, and whose fingers glowed green.
That same color tinged the long ragged fingernails that
stroked Nikki's arm. Seeming oblivious to that oddity,
Nikki took the green-glowing hand in his and turned that
devastating sweetness on the attached crone.
"Please?"
Green-glow spread even to Nikki's curls. Then:
"Oh, hell. Move over, brat."
And in a drifting cloud of filthy rags, loose dust, and
bugs, the crone sank down at Mikhyel's side and placed a
claw-fingered hand on his forehead.
It was an ancient room this court at the core of the build-
ing within building within building maze. Traditional in a
way the ring stadium itself was not. Technology changed
the Dance and increased the danger to the radical dancer,
but the tradition which housed the aspirants to the coveted
position would never change, not so long as one true be-
liever rem'ained.
And in Khoratum, there were many more than one.
Seven had been led here, blindfolded, at dawn. Sunlight
slanted, now, across that vast expanse, the only indication
of passing time. Three competitors remained, each waiting
anxiously for their number to be called.
Randomly chosen numbers, so tradition said.
Others, long since gone, had boasted you could rig that
order, get yourself out first while the voters were fresh. If
you had the connections. And the money.
But if you weren't one of those with connections and
money, if you played fairly, according to the old rules, you
never knew when your time would come, so you used this
room to keep muscles loose, the spirit ready, and trusted
that the best dancer would win.
A dancer had to believe in the ultimate justice of the
system. There was no other option, not when dancing was
your life.
Not when you only got one chance.
Two of the remaining three cavorted nervously about the
tile floor, challenging each other with increasingly complex
tricks performed to hand-clapped rhythms.
In the shadows along the west wall, Dancer completed
one more warm-up routine and began again. Always the
same routine: a series of bends and stretches that warmed
and flexed each muscle group, advancing into long, slow
moves of balance, flexibility and strength, and ultimately to
five strings of rapid, tumbling moves to hone reflexes.
The others had long since ceased to gawk, absorbed as
they were in their own tight competition. They'd watched
each other practice, knew each other's strengths and weak-
nesses, and counted on the weaknesses of the other dancers
to make them stand out rather than on the intrinsic quality
of their own performance.
Dancer knew this, having heard their strategies, and
struggled instead for personal perfection. Struggled to ig-
nore Shasari's flashy moves which might work into the com-
position and might not, determinedly trusting the voters to
look beyond the momentary difficulty of a single move to
the synchronicity of the entire dance.
A slow-motion, single-hand walkover. A cardinal point,
delayed pirouette. One never quite achieved perfection,
and so the practice was never in vain. Still, as nerves grew
increasingly frayed, even the flawed executions wavered.
Only one would be chosen. Several might diethe dance
had its built-in dangers, and competitions always included
those who miscalculated their own skill.
In the midst of a backhand walkover, a tingling engulfed
Dancer's body, and the tiles beneath Dancer's fingertips
faded to green nothingness.
*     *     *
"First priority must be the eyes-s-s."
The old woman's index finger traced long slow circles,
a continuous double-loop pattern, around Mikhyel's eyes, just
below the arched fingertips of her other hand. And with each
completed figure, the angry redness within its borders lightened.
From the moment the old woman's hands touched him,
Mikhyel's agony had eased, Nikki's inner connection told
him that, when Nikki thought to ask it, and now that finger
was healing the deep burnshis eyes told him that.
It waswonderful.
And Mikhyel would be fine now. This wonderful, magical
creature would see to that. Just as the old Tamshi stories
promised.
Nikki crouched beside the Tamshi, watching her every
move with an eye to the minutest detail. Each inflection of
the sibilant voice, each subtle color shift of her fingertip's
clawed end suggested a full explicatory stanzaperhaps
even a complete ode unto itself.
The creature's single, green-glowing eye flickered toward
him. Her wrinkled upper lip stretched lopsidedly, revealing
an abnormally sharp canine.
"This interests you, young dunMheric?"
"Very much. Sweet Mother." Mother, as in Mother of
the Earth. That was the way the old stories said to address
these spirits of the leythium underworld.
"Yes-s-s-s." The smile stretched to the other side of her
mouth. "It would."
He didn't ask how she knew. Tamshi just did. Tamshi
could read the hearts and souls of ... certain ... special
... individuals, those who could themselves see past the
illusion and know what they faced.
 And he had known her for Tamshi from the moment he
saw her exit the woods. Perhaps . . . just perhaps
A crackling glow in the forest's deepening shadows cast
flowing streams of pastel color over Mikhyel's pain-creased
face. Nikki leapt up, squinting into the radiance, which coa-
lesced into a human-seeming form running toward them, as
if from a great distance.
"Dammit, Mother!" Sound reached them before the
creature itself did, and the sentiment flowed oddly on the
musical voice. And with a sobbing catch: "How could
you?"
Then the creature was standing before them, glowing,
graceful...
And furious.
The Tamshi looked up slowly, her single eyebrow raised
cynically. "Well, Dancer. How do? What brings you here?"
Dancer. Spoken as a name. As Mother had been a name.
"You know damnwell how I do. The trials are today,
I've yet to dance and you dragged me here without so much
as a by-your-leave. You and your damned web"
"Watch your language, brat. You're in company. Show
some respect."
"Respect? Why? This time you've gone too far"
"I've done nothing, human-spawn. I ask again, what
brings you here?"
'Human-spawn'? Nikki studied the creature, at least,
what he could see of it past the glow. A human who called
a Tamshi mother, not, as he had, human to goddess, but
as child to parent? Who dared argue with and curse at her?
who glowed and appeared from nowhere?
"N-not?" The creature Mother called human, and
Dancer, knelt on the Tamshi's far side. "Mother, you must
have. I certainly didn't. The othersMother, they were
there, waiting their turn. They will have seen . . . The trials
. . . my turn . . ."
The creature's lips began to quiver, liquid gold spilled
from large, long-lashed eyes, dripped from pearlescent skin
to land on Mikhyel's cheek, making tiny, glowing puddles
in the seared flesh.
Golden tears. Pearlescent skin. Human? Somehow, Nikki
didn't think so. tiuman-spawn, the Tamshi had said. Per-
haps some magical combination of human and Tamshi? The
tales hinted at such.
{Never again ...  only one chance . . .}
Nikki's heart skipped a beat. Dancer's lips hadn't uttered
those words. Nikki had . . . heard them in his head. Heard
them as if they were his own, half-formed thoughts.
Thoughts which, from her expression. Mother heard per-
fectly well and in their entirety.
Mother's hands left Mikhyel to cup Dancer's face.
{I'm sorry, child.} Her thoughts were much clearer than
Dancer's. {But it wasn't me. Wasn't my pattern. Was never
my pattern.)
Dancer's eyes scanned Mikhyel, then, and Deymorin, and
lastly, himself. Scathing, hate-filled eyes.
{Theirs.)
No hint of question in that. But:
{Possibly. Probably, at least in part. But not willfully,
Dancer, and design is everything.)
A scholar had to wonder what it all meant, particularly
a scholar who'd felt his brothers these past dayswho felt
them now, when he triedin a way that defied rational
explanation. Particularly a scholar who had waited all his
life for a moment such as this, an opportunity such as this.
And one remembered childhood dreams of Tamshi in the
closets and adult dreams of taking oneself into the hills to
find a teacher
"Dammit." Deymorin's verbal hiss to the redheaded
woman seemed painfully loud to someone listening with
that inner voice as well as his ears. "He's hurting again, I
can feel it. Why'd she take her hand away?"
Deymorin didn't hear them talking. One who could hear
had to wonder if Mikhyel heard. One who could had to
wonder if perhaps one didn't share, at least in some small
part, the Talent these two exquisite creatures so obviously
possessed.
"But, Deymorin," the redheaded woman's voice was less
obtrusive, being in his ears alone. "Looklook at his face."
Where the tears had fallen, Mikhyel's skin was clear.
{How...}
That was Dancer.
{Residual ley, child. I'll explain later.}
Explain. As a teacher explained to a student. That came
through, underlying the silent words. Mother was Dancer's
teacher. If Mother taught Dancer, might she not teach oth-
ers? But Mother had also called Dancer, who was obviously
an adult, 'child.' So perhaps Dancer was, in truth, Mother's
child. Which would mean Dancer wasn't human, and so
perhaps Mother might not take a human on as a student.
But then again, she might.
Mikhyel groaned, then, ever-so-softly, or perhaps the
sound was just in Nikki's mind, and Mother without sparing
so much as a glance down, replaced her fingertips absent-
mindedly on Mikhyel's temples. To Dancer, she said aloud:
"Since you're here, make yourself useful. Go back and
bring me the oil."
"For himi" Dancer answered, also aloud. "Why should
I?"
"Oil?" Deymorin cut in eagerly. "Pamicci oil?"
"Oh, you humans." Mother waved a talon-fingered hand
carelessly, setting rags to fluttering. "Something like. Par-
nicci is an . . . adequate substitute."
"And you know where it is?" Deymorin asked Dancer.
"Can get it?"
"Know; yes. Can; yes. Will" Dancer's nose rose. "No."
And Nikki, listening with that internal sense, felt some-
thing new. Something strong and vital: Deymorin. And as
clearly as if the emotion were his own, Nikki felt Deymor-
in's anger, felt it growing, feeding on the need for some-
thing to replace the personal exhaustion and the fear for
Mikhyel's life. Knew, before it happened, that that temper
must flare, felt Deymorin's weight shift as if it were his
own, felt legs flex and set.
"You" Deymorin made a flying leap for the kneeling
creature.
Dancer swayed, graceful as a willow in a breeze, and
brushed Deymorin's attack aside as casually as Mother had
brushed Mikhyel's suffering aside. Deymorin crashed into
the bushes; his redheaded woman cursed and rushed past
them to his side.
Dancer twisted into a supple curve, wide eyes following
that rolling tumble, and the woman's pursuit, and Dancer
nodded solemn agreement at the redheaded woman's,
"Damn foot, JD, " then turned back to comment indiffer-
ently: "Temper."
"What would you expect of Mheric's son?" Mother an-
swered, while that other 'voice' said {Nice move.} "But pay
him no mind. Just go fetch."
"No! I must return to the waiting chamber!" The glow
still surrounding and obscuring Dancer flared orange and
red, colors Nikki just knew were a result of the creature's
anger, which was a palpable force in the air.
"Must?" Mother hissed. "Hah! You always have a
choice."
"But it's possible my number has not yet been called.
That the others haven't noticed my absence. There's still a
chance"
"And is your dance more important than this man's hfe?
I can't wave my hand and heal him, you know that. It
would take days and would be a blasphemous misuse of
the ley."
"The dance is my life. Mother!"
Mother just stared at the other in silenceif radiant dis-
appointment could be termed silence.
"Can't you go get it?"
Mother's single eye narrowed in a worried frown. Or
perhaps not worried, Nikki corrected himself meticulously.
The ancient diaries warned of placing too great a human
value on Tamshi feelings. Perhaps it was puzzlement that
creased the cronelike skin about that eye. Perhaps Dancer's
response was simply a . . . curiosity to Mother.
The Tamshi sat back, removing her hand from Mikhyel's
forehead. This time, Mikhyel remained silent, not due to
unconsciousness, Nikki knew when he queried that inner
sense, as he'd known Deymorin's feelings. Mikhyel was
awake enough to fear the fact his eyes would not open.
Enough to be embarrassed at his weakness and his naked-
ness before strangers he could sense but not see.
Nikki absorbed the feelings, fascinated with their depth
and clarity.
"Touch him," Mother hissed.
Nikki dropped again to his knees and reached eagerly
for Mikhyel's forehead, wondering what else he might
sense, only to have his hand slapped away.
"Not you, idiot."
He flushed, mortified, and clenched a stinging, bleeding
hand.
But Mother paid him no mind. Mother's eye was fas-
tened on Dancer.
Dancer's chin lifted obstinately, and Dancer's hands re-
mained folded.
{Touch him, and then tell me to leave!)
Dancer jumped, then stretched a reluctant, quivering
hand to Mikhyel's forehead. Dancer's large eyes closed.
Moments later, golden tears were seeping between the
long lashes.
"Dancer?" Mother asked. "Dancer!" And then she
swept Dancer's hand away from Mikhyel, replacing it in-
stantly with her own.
Dancer collapsed, clenched hands pressed to his bare
middle, slender shoulders shaking under a veil of hair that
was dark, nearly black, at the scalp, shading to the color
of time-bleached bone on the tips that brushed the ground.
Mother hissed her disgust. "Now, human, you may return
to your . . . dance."
Human. Unequivocally.
"You-you know I can't without help." Dancer's musical
voice was barely audible. "We're much too far from a node.
I still don't understand how I came to be here."
"No? Haven't listened very hard, have you?"
Eyes of a color as uncertain as the hair biinked across
Mikhyel's body-at Mother, closed briefly, then scanned
them all: Mikhyel. Himself. Deymorin, who had propped
against the wagon wheel, his bad leg thrust out before him,
and finally returned to Mother, seeking confirmation.
"The pattern." Dancer murmured, and then more loudly.
"They are a node. A human node!"
{High time you woke up.)
Dancer's eyes fell. "Nonetheless, I still can't, Mother.
You, or someone, brought me here. Without the oil"
"So. Because of your inadequacies, I must take life-giving
energy from this innocent young man to send you back to
make a travesty of the dance. Very well." She hfted a hand.
"I didn't say that. Mother."
"Then what do you say?"
Dancer's head tipped, those amazing eyes . . . absorbing
Mikhyel, and Dancer's translucent, high-tendoned hand
reached again for Mikhyel's brow, drew back before mak-
ing contact.
{To the cave.}
Mother raised her hand again. There were webs between
the fingers.
"And, Mother." Different tone, this time, teasing, and
mildly disgusted. "You look ridiculous. Put yourself back
together. You're embarrassing me."
{Oh, go screw a knothole . ..}
She waved her hand, and the creature she called
human disappeared.
"Mother?" Nikki asked, when Dancer was gone. "Can
you teach me as you did him?"
"Him?" Mother squawked. "Who him? What him?
Teach? I don't teach hims."
"Dancer, of course."
The redheaded woman, Kiyrstin, laughed. Nikki frowned,
not at all certain he liked this friend of Deymorin's.
"What's so funny?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing. Nothing, child. Really," she said, and
added condescendingly, "I'll explain later."
He stared at her, indignant without knowing over what,
then turned to Deymorin for support. But Deymorin wasn't
listening. Deymorin's attention was for Mikhyel. All for
Mikhyel.
Support came on a quiet hiss and from an unexpected
quarter; "You would do well, Kiyrstine romGaretti, to
question your own senses before you ridicule those of
others."
Nikki, somewhat mollified, smiled at the scowling red-
head, then turned back to Mother, placing a hand on her
rag-shrouded arm, eager to take advantage of her mood.
"Does this mean you'll teach me?"
The Tamshi seemed taller than before. And she leaned
back to stare down at him, her second eye a ghtter in the
darkness beneath the rattails.
"Why should I?"
"Why? I . . . Well, because I want to know."
"You ... want to know. Fine. And why should you,
above all others, receive this precious knowledge of the
ages?"
"I ... Well, I hear you and Dancer 'talk.' That must
mean I have at least some Talent. And because I respect
the old ways. And because I'm ... dedicated to making
people understand each other and if I could"
"Bat's poop, if ever I've heard it. You're dying of vulgar
curiosity and jealous of a skill someone else has that would
impress all your friends if you had it, and you think that
by batting those baby-blues at me you'll get it. Well, go
suck an aphid, human."
"But"
"Tell me, human, whose brother lies so near to death
before him. Tell me what you feel when you look on him?"
"I feel ... sorry for him, concerned, of course. I want
him to be well. But you're caring for him now, so he'll be
all right, won't he?"
"Will he? And how do you feel, human who has been
so terribly ill-treated?"
"Why . . . I'm quite well, thank you. The pain is . . ." He
realized suddenly and with no small surprise: "Gone."
"And how does this dying brother of yours feel, oh great
and Talented one?"
"He's . . . well, obviously he's in pain." Nikki probed gin-
gerly with that Talenttouched the searing .pain, the fear,
and more: a gratifying, soul-warming concern over his well-
being that assured him Mikhyel loved him and had never
betrayed him, no matter what he'd thought. . . .
"Hmph." Mother grunted, then: {And have you not yet
wondered why he feels such pain and you feel none?)
"I . . " He felt a coldness inside him, sensing a test and
having no idea what the right answers might be.
{There are no right answers, human. Only Truth and
Character. If you know the answer to the question now, it
does not explain why you never thought to ask it.}
"Can I learn?"
(Only if you can teach yourself.)
"I don't understand."
{When you can come to meon your own, we'll discuss
it.}
"Come to you?"
(Maybe.)
"Where?"
{If I'm in the mood.)
"How?"
"If you have to ask, I haven't the time to waste."
And slowly. Mother began to glow all over, the rags fading
into billowing, glowing lace draperies, her body, serpentine-
lithe  beneath  them,  her  skin  glowing  in  faintly  scaled
iridescence.
Kiyrstin had to assume she'd become immune to mira-
cles. Or perhaps, the satisfaction of having her suspicions
regarding Mother's nature validated outweigh the shock of
confirmation. Whichever happened to be the case. Mother's
transformation mixed with Nikki's pouting frustration sim-
ply made her want to laugh.
Nikki's 'baby-blues' flashed outrage at her, and she
smiled back, feeling quite charitable with him, now someone
who mattered to him had called his innocence-incarnate bluff.
It had been an entertaining exchange, if somewhat dis-
jointed toward the endobviously the lad was hearing
things she could not. But then, Deymorin had been feel-
ing things for days, so that didn't particularly surprise her
either.
She'd heard enough, however, to know the lad had come
up against something he wanted badly and couldn't have,
which seemed to her a very good thing. On the other hand,
Nikki didn't, as she would have expected him to do, leave
Mikhyel's side in a petulant, ill-used huff. Didn't 'complain
or further press the creature he called Mother. Instead,
Nikki sat back on his heels and watched and listened, tak-
ing in all he could, taking advantage of current opportunity
rather than sinking his trust in some future revelation.
Which said much for his basic nature. She could see value
in himhope for the man he might becomeprovided
Deymorin ceased to encourage that patently assumed
naivete.
Meanwhile the creature who was, Kiyrstin was convinced,
also the little girl from the streamside, was rattling on,
growing quite talkative, now she'd shed her cronish rags,
complaining about upstart humans playing with lightning,
and getting themselves burned by thinking they knew more
than they did.
"Getting burned," Kiyrstin repeated into that hissing
stream of words, testing both her suspicions and the crea-
ture's  veracity.  "You  mean  like  Alizant's  potentiator
burned youT'
Green, pupilless eyes scanned her, narrow and calculat-
ing, the hissing stream temporarily dammed.
Into that suspicious pause she asked blithely: "How's
your finger, missy?"
"Oh, that thing." Slender shoulders lifted bonelessly.
"Lightning in a box. That's between you humans and the
sky. / object to your foolish Rhomatum ringmaster's nox-
ious, so-called experimentation. Certainly, there's much one
can do with the ley, much we could teach you silly crea-
tures, but we're not so foolish as to turn such short-sighted
morons loose with the secrets of the universe."
"We?" Deymorin asked, and Kiyrstin was relieved to
see the conversation had managed to pierce his unhealthy
absorption in Mikhyel. "There are more of you?"
"Of course. Aphids and oranges, are all humans so igno-
rant about reproduction? You certainly practice enough.
We don't get along nearly so well, but we certainly know
how it all works. My valley counterpartRhomatum's
'god,' don't you know?has burrowed in, waiting for you
irritants to leave the surface and quit mistreating his node.
I'd think"
Mikhyel spasmed suddenly, and threw his head back as
if trying to remove the clawed hand.
"Stop it, child," the Tamshi said, her voice amazingly
gentle of a sudden. "We're going to save you in spite of
yourself."
"What are you talking about?" Deymorin asked harshly.
"Why he's here. Why that," her head swung in the gen-
eral direction of the destruction, "happened."
"You know?" Kiyrstin asked.
"Well, of course, I know. Anheliaa caused itwell, sort
of. The boxed lightning helped. The boys, here, did. Actu-
ally, come to think on it, Anheliaa was barely a factor at
all. That creature couldn't possibly have managed such a
magnificent display alone. Ley doesn't like it, you know."
"Doesn't like it?" Kiyrstin asked, wallowing in a morass
of undefined 'its'. "Doesn't like what?"
"Lodestones,  potentiators.  Encapsulators.  Eatorators,
feetorators. They argue. All the time. Like the ley argues
with lightning. Like brothers. Doesn't like lodestones,
doesn't like kitty-cats and chickens." The creature's mouth
stretched,  exposing impressive dentition,  and a forked
tongue flicked. "The ley and I . . . disagree in that sense."
"But what about Mikhyel?" Deymorin asked. "Why is
he here? How? He said he did it, not Anheliaa."
"Think, Mheric's son. Your dear auntie knew about the
boxed lightning. Your dear auntie needed a node to arc
the ley-energy from Rhomatum to the machine. Your dear
auntie was watching you and your pretty brother, there,
through your skinny brother, here, and when you two
pulled him through from Rhomatum tower, you became
the node your dear auntie required to perform that magic.
Anheliaa might have started the argument, but once begun,
nothing would stop it until the boxor the ringshad been
destroyed." Mother grinned. "And ley doesn't like to lose."
"But why . .. how . . ." Deymorin rubbed his forehead
confusedly. "What was that about saving Mikhyel in spite
of himself?"
"How? A node wants to be whole. Division is against
nature. Why? For that, you'll have to ask him, now won't
you?"
A glow began directly above Mikhyel's head, moved
slightly to one side.
"Ah, here we are."
Dancer. But then, who else would arrive in a bubble of
light, Kiyrstin asked herself, then immediately regretted the
question, not really interested in an alternative answer.
The young woman arrived carrying a bowl of translucent
light-veined substance, and the light in those veins ...
pulsed, like blood in human veins. Dancer's boyishly flat
body glistened now as if covered with oil, and the glow that
had surrounded her the last time was dissipating rapidly.
Boyishly flat, but definitely not male. One did have to
wonder how Deymorin's brother had gotten to his ad-
vanced age without knowing the difference.
And one had to wonder why, if Nikki didn't, Nikki was
staring at the creature as if entrancedas was Tonio, sitting
silent in the wagon bed. Only Deymorin seemed immune:
even when Dancer knelt opposite him and handed him
the bowl.
But then, Deymorin had eyes only for his brother.
Vaguely disgusted, Kiyrstin pulled a blanket from the
wagon bed and draped it across Dancer's bare shoulders.
A knowing glance met hers, and at that look, she was no
longer certain what she touched, except that a sweet smile
and musical Thank you, assured her the gesture was recog-
nized and, in some sense, appreciated.
The next moment, the look was gone and Dancer had
turned away. Fingertips dipped into the phosphorescent oil,
and smoothed it almost tenderly over Mikhyel's face, in
and around the hairline, around the Tamshi's reptilian fin-
gertips that raised one at a time for coverage beneath, and
down over Mikhyel's chin and throat. As she had feared,
the short hairs of his beard and mustache came away onto
Dancer's fingers, to swirl and disappear in the strange oil
when she dipped again.
It was as if the oil absorbed them.
And where the oil touched, the skin clearedwithout
the sloughing characteristic of the pamicci balm, without
the wait, like . . . magic. And the dark eyelashes and brows
lying within the double loop Mother's finger had earlier
traced, showed no sign of sloughing.
Face, ears, and neck covered, Deymorin, at Mother's in-
structions, dribbled the luminous substance down Mikhyel's
body, a small section at a time, warned against wastage.
Dancer's long fingers followed the golden trail, spreading
the oil into even coverage, not actually touching Mikhyel,
Kiyrstin slowly realized, but gliding a hair's-breadth above
his seared skin, the oil following the fingers, not preceding
fingertip pressure.
With Dancer's spell apparently broken, Nikkiignored,
and effectively shoved to one sideretreated to the wagon.
He leaned crossed arms on the sideboard next to Tonio,
pouting, but with enough sense, she would judge, to realize
ne'd been a publicand heartlessfool, and perhaps, just
perhaps, he was bright enoughand caring enoughto
think about how and why.
She'd known his sort: impossible to live among the
wealthy and privileged and not see them. Youngest, beauti-
ful as a child, breathtaking as an adult . . . heady stuff for
anyone. Add two older brothers vying for the right to love
him and it was small wonder he was more than a little self-
centered. Instinct urged her to go to him, to reassure him,
but her better sense held her back: more admirers, he
didn't need. Not if he was ever successfully to grow up.
One side completed, Deymorin and Dancer eased Mi-
khyel's unresisting body over, revealing the real damage of
the fall from the sky and the wild wagon ride.
"He's a bloody mess," Mother commented phlegmati-
cally.
"We can see that," Kiyrstin returned. "Will he live?"
"You worry too much. Of course he'll live, Mother's
here, now. But there will be scars." Mother grinned. "Of
course, we could send him through again and start fresh."
Mikhyel, obviously awake, shuddered and muttered a
protest. Dancer passed a reassuring hand over his hair and
hissed: "That's not funny. Mother."
"No need to get huffy, human-spawn." Mother sniffed.
"It was just a suggestion. So what are you waiting for,
Mheric's son? Pour away, pour away!"
And indeed, once the oil had done its work, Mikhyel's
back looked painful, but not life-threatening, and when the
Tamshi withdrew her fingertip anesthetic at last, Mikhyel
sighed audibly and cradled his face in crossed arms, ap-
pearing almost comfortable.
But he never truly awakened again, and by the time they
covered the deepest, still-raw wounds with simple, human
dressings from Tonio's kit, and lifted him into the back of
the wagon, it was obvious to all of them that he was not
going to waken.
"What's wrong with him?" Nikki asked, propped on his
elbow in his own makeshift travel-bed next to Mikhyel's.
"Attitude," Mother said, and sniffed indifferently.
"He'll return to you if and when he decides to, and noth-
ing you can do will change it. Dancer, time to leave,
child."
Dancer was sitting cross-legged at Mikhyel's head, fin-
gertips to Mikhyel's temples as before, the glow markedly
diminished, though still hazing her delicate features. But
when Mother would interfere. Dancer brushed her hands
off and hissed in excellent imitation of Mother herself.
Mother frowned, clasped Dancer's thin wrists and pulled
them forcibly away.
Dancer's eyes opened, and they were filled to overflow-
ingwith normal, clear, human tears.
"I can't. Mother. Not yet."
"Again, I'm hearing can'tl"
"You made me part of this pattern, for all you deny your
hand in it. I must stay until that pattern is healthy!"
Mother hissed, her eyes, burning an angry red, reflected
off Dancer, who faced her without flinching. Then the Tam-
shi whirled about and returned to her basket of leaves,
whisked it into one hand, cradled the oil bowl in the other
" and disappeared in a swirl of lacy veils and a red glow that
crackled and snapped, then popped out of existence.
Dancer stared after her, eyes wide, hps beginning to
quiver.
One began to suspect there was much one missed in a
conversation between these two.
"She didn't mean it, Dancer," Nikki said gently. "She
couldn't."
A blink and the trance broke.  "You heard that?"
Dancer whispered.
Nikki nodded. "I hear her very clearly. You . . . only bits
and pieces."
"Interesting . . ." But the lilting voice shook past Danc-
er's obvious attempts at composure. Then Dancer's chin
raised. "Makes no difference. I couldn't leave. Not without
knowing..."
"Without knowing what?" Deymorin demanded harshly.
"I've had damnwell enough of half-sentences and allusions.
I want to know what's wrong with my brother!"
"He's . . . willing himself comatose, Deymorin Rhomandi
dunMheric. Perhaps to death."
"You can't know that."
"I can. You can. You just don't want to hear it."
"Why would he do that?"
Dancer's eyes met Deymorin's as firmly as they had
Mother's. "He's running from you, Deymorin dunMheric."
"From me? Why?"
"Embarrassed.  Frightened.  Beyond  that,  I'm  not
certain."
"Of what?"
"Your rejection, I think. Your scorn. I'm certain. Mostly,
of being alone. I think he wants to die rather than be alone
any longer."
"He's not alone, dammit! So, stop him. Make him
wake up."
"I can't."
"Who can? Mother? Bring her back!"
"You know the answer, Deymorin dunMheric, or you
wouldn't have asked."
Deymorin's head dropped, his hair fell forward, masking
his face.
"Deymio?" Nikki said, and put a hand on his brother's,
but Deymorin brushed him away, and raised his head,
throwing his hair back to scowl at Dancer.
"How?" he asked abruptly.
"You must follow that linksomehow. Touch might
help, it does with Mother and me. I don't know with you.
Your linkage is . . . different than ours."
"Don't know? What sort of teacher are you?"
Dancer winced, as if struck.
"No kind at all, Deymorin dunMheric. I'm part of this
pattern, but only as an observer. I . . . can't be more. Don't
know how to be. But don't let him die, Deymorin dun-
Mheric. Please. He's your radical factor, your delicate link,
but he's an important one."
"Links, hell. He's my brother," Deymorin said, and set
his fingertips next to Dancer's on Mikhyel's face.
*     *     
Images of Mheric: wreaking terror and hatred and pain.
Images of himself, towering like some avenging angel,
and of nightmares and tears and a pillow called Deymorin.
The Deymorin-self that walked this shadow-realm ab-
sorbed those images and feelings and longed to take the
years back. He'd known his father's vicious temper, had
felt the back of Mheric's hand often enough. Had inter-
vened and diverted his father's anger when Mikhyel was
young, knowing his smaller brother was more fragile than
he ever was.
He'd never guessed Mikhyel was aware of his interfer-
ence, diversions he'd no longer created after Nikki's birth
. . . after their mother's death. He had been with the cadets
by then, had joined the adults at home and Darhaven.
Mikhyel had opted to stay with Nikki. By preference, so
he'd thought.
For honor! Mikhyel's soul screamed. For need!
Need he hadn't seen. Mheric had, to his eyes, simply
ceased to care about his children. He'd seen nothing, expe-
rienced nothing like the terrors Khyel's mind held.
But a green-tinged voice whispered Nothing? and he re-
membered a thirteenth birthday, and a bleeding, broken
bundle of humanity dragged screaming from a mass of shat-
tered toys, and was no longer certain what was real and
what imagined.
But Mikhyel believed, and, somehow, because of that
belief wanted now to die.
Deymorin felt that in his brother, as Dancer must have
sensed it, but the why of Mikhyel's determination still
eluded him. Fear of Anheliaa he'd have understood, but
Anheliaa wasn't the dangernot to this Khyel-self. Mheric
was gone, now. Nikki was grown. There had to be
something....
Following that thought, the confusion of shadows and
images vaporized. At the far end of this tunnel. Hell's Bar-
rister barred a door: the blockade Dancer had encountered.
He sensed that, as he sensed now that Dancer had been
guiding him along this shadow path within Mikhyel's soul.
The Barrister had confused Dancer, but Deymorin knew
betteror Deymorin hated the Barrister more. He gripped
black-shrouded arms to cast the Barrister aside ... and
found he held nothing but empty rags that withered and
vanished on an unfelt breeze: a meaningless fac;ade to keep
the world away.
To keep him away.
Deymorin gripped the doorhandle to Mikhyel's inner-
most self, and sensed:
Guilt, because he saw Mheric and their mother arguing
and did nothing. Because he saw Mheric striking their
mother and did nothing. Because he saw Mother falling and
did nothing.
Never mind, the Deymorin-self insisted with gentle sar-
casm against the Mikhyel-selfs guilt, there'd been nothing
child-Mikhyel could have done.
Guilt, the Mikhyel-self insisted, because at their mother's
bedside, he'd assumed the duty of Elder Brotherpromised
to protect the blond-haired baby so like their motherand,
frightened of the horrors Deymorin had endured for him,
had wanted, in this innermost self, to deny that duty.
Never mind Deymorin never had endured any such, at
least, not as Mikhyel imagined. Never mind, no sane human
would want to assume such a horrifying responsibility.
Guilt for his desire that Mheric be dead and never touch
him again.
Greater guilt when that wish came true.
Hatred, for the image in the mirror, an image so increas-
ingly hke Mheric's it had made Mikhyel avoid mirrors
throughout puberty.
Never mind, the Deymorin-self interrupted gently, that
Mheric's face had been thicker, warped into massiveness
through years of hard laughter and hard anger, of never
feeling anything part way and never controlling those feel-
ings. Khyel's face was that of an esthete, almost feminine
as a child, fragile now, especially in its current gaunt
desolation.
The dark, straight hair, the full curved lips, those were
Mheric's, the Mikhyel-self insisted, to which there was no
argument...
And with that acquiescence, Mikhyel's imagery erupted
around him, engulfing him in Mikhyel-reality:
. . . Mikhyel, fighting daily the urge to smash that revela-
tory mirror, resisting the urge to take the pieces and slash
the face and hair to destroy that likeness, fighting those
instincts because Nikki would have wondered, and worried,
and Deymorin would have demanded explanations he'd
never accept...
... Mikhyel's growing the beard, not, as everyone as-
sumed, to make him look older, but to mask, as did the stoic
veneer and somber clothing, that despised similarity . . .
. . . and the greatest, darkest similarity of all, a similarity
turned undeniable six months ago, when his hand had
drawn the blood and his hand had so nearly destroyed the
very child he'd promised to protect . . .
. . . and for lack of courage: hiding behind fatalistic logic
as Mheric had hidden behind anger, he'd stood by as An-
heliaa tortured Deymorin and sent Deymorin away, had
stood by while Anheliaa forced Nikki into marriage, aiding
and abetting her with hes until the truths had built to over-
whelming proportions and flooded a vulnerable child with
righteous indignation . . .
. . . and then not having the sense to let Nikki go search-
ing blindly, but instead aiming Nikki right into the face of
the danger...
And the Mikhyel-self had to wonderhad he wanted,
deep inside, to lose Nikki as he'd lost Deymorin?
He should have gone after Deymorin, the Mikhyel-self
insisted, it should have been he in the stolen wagon when
Deymorin lifted that covering cloth. Instead, Khyel had
seen, through Deymorin's eyes, Nikki sprawled there help-
less and batteredterrifiedall because he'd been too
cowardly to go with him, hadn't, when it most mattered,
kept the promise to their mother. . ..
"Oh, Khyel, ..." Deymorin murmured into the flood of
self-incrimination, and opened the door.
It was a room Deymorin had never seen before: book-lined
shelves, fey, graceful statuary that defied gravity and engi-
neering, a fire in the hearth. And a painting above the
mantle: their family portrait with a stranger as the father,
a stranger whose face was a caricature of his own.
Reality as Mikhyel would have it: a room of safety,
warmth and privacy. But it welcomed him now, the fire and
the books, and Mikhyel himself, comfortable in dressing
gown and loose hair, seated in a deep-cushioned wingchair,
the goblet he held a ruby-red jewel in the firelight.
Mikhyel smiled, and gestured to a second chair, identical
to Mikhyel's in every respect, even to a wine glass that
floated in the air, awaiting his hand to cup it.
And with that thought, he was in the chair, though he
hadn't consciously moved; and the wine was warm and
soothing on his tongue.
And somehow, in that endless instant between standing
and sitting, all the explanations had been made and met,
accepted and countered . . . images and experiences shared
on a level that defied mere words.
Or at least, all that required sharing. There remained a
core of reticence Deymorin hadn't toucheda protected
realm of personal horror Mikhyel reserved, not for deceit,
but out of respect for Deymorin and Deymorin's good
memories of their father, for which Deymorin thanked him.
But what he had learned left no room for doubt, not of
those fears, or the acts that engendered them, or of the
infinite courage of the boy who as a man accused himself
of the most shameful cowardice.
Acts of which Mikhyel's thirteenth birthday had been
only perhapsthe worst.
"I never knew, Khyel," he said, because some things had
to be said, for honor's sakefor lovebecause saying was
harder, and spoken explanations somehow more real.
"After Father died, Diorak wouldn't let me see you for
daysnearly a month. They just dragged you screaming
from the closet and took you away to the healers' Tower
at Barsitum. They said you were upset by father's death.
That I'd frightened you, and to stay away."
Mikhyel stared into the wineglass, turning it in the fire-
light, searching, Deymorin knew in the way of this place, '
for words to describe the indescribable.
"You did," Khyel murmured at last. Which hurt, though
he knew it wasn't meant to. "I was alone. Completely, ut-
terly alone except for Anheliaa. All in a day, I'd killed
Nikki, killed Mheric, and killed you."
That was too cryptic even for the underneath feelings to
sort. Deymorin knew, out of those shared experiences, that
Mheric had told Mikhyel Nikki was dead, knew Mikhyel
believed he'd smothered, or crushed, their four-year-old
brother in his desperate attempt to protect Nikki from
Mheric's riding crop. But Mheric? Himself?
Khyel sensed his confusion and smiled with infinite sad-
ness, and Deymorin remembered, then, his brother's anger
toward their sire, the hatred, the wishing. . . .
"I was afraid you see, that you'd realize those wishes had
killed Mheric."
In this shadow-world of truth, Mikhyel could never call
Mheric Father.
"I knew you loved him, and I was certain, once you
knew, you'd hate me, and that we'd be dead to each
other forever."
"And are we, Khyel?" He had to ask, though his heart
screamed for it to be otherwise.
And there were tears in Mikhyel's eyes, he knew that,
though Mikhyel tried to turn his face away, in this place,
where there was nowhere to hide, because there had never
been a need.
"I tried, Deymio. I tried . . . so hard to love him. And
all I ever wanted was for him to be dead. I was never sorry,
afternot even for your sake. I couldn't help being glad he
was gone, even though it made you hate me more and"
He left his glass floating in the air and reached for Khy-
el's thin wrist, felt it relax and twist, entwining impossibly,
in this place of impossibilities, with his own.
"Khy," which he'd never called his younger brother be-
fore, "had I known, I'd have killed him myself."
Though he meant it with all his heart, Mikhyel chuckled
softly, and said, "No, you wouldn't, Deymio. You're no
killer. You'd have stood between, taken the blows until he
killed you."
"Which is all you ever did, fry."
"Only for lack of viable options, brother."
Which in this land of truth, he knew had to be, for all it
hinted at a darkness within Mikhyel that a man hated to
admit he saw. That Mikhyel could kill. Would kill, and
without remorse. And he knew, somehow, it was self-
awareness of that darkness that made Mikhyel want to
die now.
"Please don't die, Mikhyel."
"I must, Deymio, don't you see?"
"No, I don't see!"
Mikhyel grasped his wrists, demanding silence, forcing
him to feel Mikhyel's deepest fear, drawing it like a dark,
malignant growth from that final, untouched citadel at his
core, forcing him to understand the true source of Mikhy-
el's agony and shame and wish to die.
Mikhyel knew and accepted beyond a doubt that he did
have it within him to kill their father, and that he felt noth-
ing but relief that their father was dead. But it wasn't that
soul-deep flaw that drove him- now toward suicide.
It was Deymorin himself. Deymorin and Nikki. Mikhyel
feared their impossible, but undeniably real unity with a
horror so deep it eclipsed all else for the instant Deymorin
shared it. Feared that through it he had the capacity to kill
his brothers, just by wishing. Feared that soul-deep likeness
to Mheric might one day drive him to it. Just. by wishing.
A casual, infinitely evil, thought.
"I'll take my chances, fry," Deymorin whispered, into
that horror. "Better that than to lose you this way."
"What better way?"
"Not at all, dammit!"
"Why not? You and Nikki together and safethat's all
I truly wish for, now."
"What about happy? Do you think we1 could be,
knowing this? Khyel, for the gods' sakefor ours"
"Deymorin, I've done so many things wrong, made so
many mistakes . . . I've finally done something right What
better time?"
"I'm older."
"And so should go first?"
Gentle, wry laughter, that drew Deymorin in, but only
made him want to weep, because he knew he was losing
this battle that he wanted so deeply to win.
"Besides, you'll be happier. You and Nikki both." For
Khyel there were no tears, only resolve. "You need each
other, not me."
"You know better than that."
And Mikhyel did, had to, in this place of absolute Truth,
which brought tears to his silver-grey eyes at last.
"Please, Deymorin, don't do this to me," he whispered
on a shaking breath. "Don't you understand? I'm tired,
Deymio. So . . . damned . . . tired."
"So ... sleep"' His voice cracked and he tightened his
grip on Mikhyel's thin wrists. "All day, a week, a month.
As long as you want. I'll personally keep everyone from
your door. You don't damnwell have to die."
Mikhyel buried his face in their still-clasped hands, and
his shoulders shook with mingled laughter and tears.
Deymorin knew, then, what Mikhyel would never know-
ingly say: that it wasn't physical exhaustion that was de-
stroying him, but the constant life and death decisions, a
pressure he'd lived with since before their father had died.
Of fighting the constant desire to just be Deymorm's
brother again, to be able to make a mistake and not have
to justify it, not have to wonder if that mistake would ruin
someone's life.
Deymorin dropped to his knees in front of Mikhyel's
chair, trying to see Mikhyel's face, slipped one hand free
of Mikhyel's grip and slid it under the satiny fall of loose
hair, urging Mikhyel's head up.
And it wasn't the bearded man who looked at him with
tear-filled eyes, it was the brother he'd deserted so long
ago to Anheliaa's den . . . and the brother he'd chased onto
a moonlit balcony.
Their combined memory shied from that second image;
he drew it back firmly.
"Didn't I risk my fool neck once trying to save your
hide?"
"Risked your neck? I don't understand, Deymio."
And he drew Mikhyel with him into the memory of that
birthday so long ago, the practical joke gone so sadly awry,
and sensed another deep Mikhyel-self guilt: debt to the
brother he'd grounded forever. A debt he could never pos-
sibly repay.
"Why, Deymio?" Mikhyel whispered. "Why did you
have to follow me to the roof?"
"I was horrified, Khyel. I thought . . . I'd always sensed
that you were unhappy. I just didn't know why. I wanted
to break you free of Anheliaa's poisonous influence. To
make you laugh again, like you did when we were children.
When Anheliaa interrupted you and Tirise, and you bolted,
naked as the day you were born, up to the roof . . ."
"You felt guilty. Feared I meant to jump. . . ."
"You thought I was angry and very sensibly dodged
when I lunged . . ."
"It was my fault . . . and you almost died."
Mikhyel's image wavered wildly between child and Bar-
rister, Mikhyel's guilt flinging a wall between them, trying
to force his hatred. Instead, he held tight to hand and neck,
countering with his own images of that night, forcing them
at the Barrister, who shriveled, leaving the child unpro-
tected against his assault.
For an instant, they shared the moment, the race to the
rooftop, the low stone wall, the fall ... Khyel's anguished
cry . . . the anguish in Khyel's face when the black of uncon-
scious lifted.
And the child was crying, wanting to believe, wanting it
to have been different, to have accepted the love offered,
and the absolution. But it was more than a child within
Mikhyel, and the adult had accepted the responsibility and
tried to live with it.
"Not your fault, fry, never your fault." And with that
hand on Khyel's neck, he drew him, child and man, into an
embrace that transcended physical limitations, that melded
them briefly into one entity. And he whispered/thought/
believed, "There's a word for what happened, brother. It's
called an accident. Not fate. Not malice. Just an accident,
which, I can tell you now, hurt you far more than ever it
hurt me, my poor Khy."
And there was quiet then, their two minds thinking as
one, just for this short time. And he knew they'd never
agree on that issue, that Mikhyel would forever shoulder a
blame not his. But for his part Khyel would know that,
even if the accident had been his fault, Deymorin under-
stood it happened in all innocence, and that Mikhyel's insis-
tence on shouldering the blame only increased his value in
Deymorin's eyes and Deymorin's heart.
And then they were apart, two individuals sitting beside
the fire, sipping vintage wine.
"Nikki won't be pleased, you know," he said at last to
Mikhyel.
"Because he should be here?"
"He thinks he should, at any rate. But he's wrong, isn't
he?"
"Perhaps . . . another time."
"Another time? Then you will go back with me, won't
you, Khyel?"
Hesitation, born of fear. "You don't need me. I'm happy
here. Safe."
"Safe, perhaps. Happycan we truly be happy alone,
Khyel? I know I can't. Please, brother, come home."
The pattern was nearing completion, and in it. Dancer
found new melodies, new harmonies to experience.
Most unusual of all, was this sense of human caring, of
real family, a sense Dancer absorbed vicariously and with-
out shame, suspecting in it Mother'sor the ley's, as
Mother insistedpurpose for Dancer's own inclusion in the
dunMheric brothers' web.
As Mikhyel rose out of his self-induced otherwhere, and
Deymorin wrapped him in his arms, the jealousy, the sense
of exemption that had surrounded Mheric's youngest son
strangely vanished, and Nikaenor knelt with his brothers,
exuding relief and joy uncolored by any negative emotions.
Mikhyel's eyes leaked cleansing tears, one hand sought
Deymorin's long before his eyes biinked open, the other
reached for Nikaenor, circling the younger man's waist and
drawing him close.
But when Mikhyel's eyes did open, it was Dancer's they
intercepted, not his brothers', and for a long frozen instant,
no one moved or spoke. And within those pale eyes,
Dancer saw much that was at once familiar and not. And
Dancer remembered the pattern, alone in the dark, trying
to absorb the damage: selflessly, foolishly destructive.
But most of all. Dancer saw the courage it had taken
this middle brother to return to the other two when to stay
in that inner sanctuary would have been so much easier, a
courage greater than simple endurance of pain, and con-
structed wholly of love.
And with that realization, Dancer sensed a pattern com-
pleted: Dancer's own pattern.
Then Nikki said, "Khyel?" and grey eyes flickered to
meet blue, and the spell dissolved, flowing into the ground.
Having learned all that was appropriate, Dancer wrapped
the blanket tighter, and slipped off the end of the wagon,
then edged past the human woman, seeking the solitude of the
evening shadows.
"Dancer?" The woman's touch was light, but insistent,
her voice a whisper on the wind.
Dancer paused, uncomfortable as always in human social
interactions, but less so after having shared souls with the
dunMheric brothers.
"Tell your Deymorin thank you," Dancer said without
turning to face the woman. "It was a brave thing he did."
"He didn't do it for you."
"I say it for Mikhyel, because Mikhyel might not realize
when he truly wakes."
"Why not?"
"Memories can be . . . hazy after what he's been through.
And it's best not to force him to remember. Let him know
only what he asks to know. At least for now. Let him find
his own level of understanding."
"How do you know?"
Dancer shrugged. Personal experience was only half-
truth. One knew such things because Mother wanted one
to know. Truth shouldn't need justification.
"Can't you tell them yourself?"
Dancer shrugged again, wanting to be free of her and
her questions, wanting time alone to think and process
new perceptions.
"Are you leaving?"
"I'm going to try. Mother said" Dancer's voice caught.
"She said I'm no longer welcome, but perhaps, if I can
reach a node..."
"Stay here, Dancer. At least until you're sure. They'll
want to thank"
"No!" And on a gentler tone: "I want no thanks. Lady
Kiyrstin. I deserve none. What I've done, I had to do."
"As did Deymorin."
"I . .. wouldn't know about that." The issue was growing
hazy. Too much new sensation and imagery coming far too
fast. Dancer felt a loss of connection, a latent desire for
something outside Mother's world, outside anything Rhyys
could offer, and felt in that desire a personal deficiency, a
disloyalty to those who were dearest. To those who de-
served more.
"Mother took me in, years ago," Dancer said, trying to
explain for them both. "She taught me. Gave me love and
family, such as she could. I think, maybe, this was her at-
tempt to give me what she thought herself incapable of
teaching. And she's left herself alone, cut herself off from
me. Perhaps that's as she wanted it. But perhaps it's not."
"How will you know?" the woman asked.
Dancer looked away, the memory of that room and
Khyel's loneliness too powerful to ignore. And as Dey-
morin, had said, such an existence was wrong . . . for anyone.
"I won't, will I? Until she lets me come home."
But the human woman was shaking her head. "No,
Dancer. There must be another answer. Wait here. Let me
get-"
Dancer smiled, sad but content, and slipped the blanket
from his shoulders.
Postlude

"Well, brothers," Deymorin said, closing the sitting room
door behind the messenger. "Ben wasn't at Talvanni'sor
anywhere else between the inn and Darhaven."
He crossed the room and settled on the couch between
Kiyrstin and Mikhyel. Kiyrstin tucked her feet up and
curled into the curve of arm awaiting her, and decided that
Armayel was a very comfortable place, and that Deymor-
in's was a very comfortable arm.
Alizant, playing in the garden outside with a very amia-
ble litter of pups, couldn't be happier. Three days ago, he'd
greeted them at a spot well down the drive, where he'd
awaited their return, so Gareg claimed, every day since she
and Deymorin had left for Rhomatum.
It was, of course, quite possible that the nearby pond
and puppies learning to swim after sticks accounted for
both the choice of lockout and his dedication, but Kiyrstin
would never suggest such a thing to Alizant.
They'd brought Nikki and Mikhyel here to Armayel to
convalesce and to give them all time to regroup. Nikki's
wounds had proven more extensive than any of them had
supposed, due to his deceptive ease of movement and ap-
parent overall lack of discomfort.
Ultimately, they'd traced that strange dearth to Mikhyel,
who somehow, through that strange three-way linkage, had
been absorbing Nikki's pain. Protecting Nikki, so he in-
sisted, in his less coherent moments. Since then, they'd also
discovered that Nikki could, with conscious effort, stop
what was for Mikhyel an agonizing flow of sensation.
Nikki could contain the feeling, but no effort of Mikhy-
el's could stop it, and the instant Nikki's concentration fal-
tered, the flow resumed, sometimes with the shocking surge
of a burst dam.
But two days of rest and Armayel kitchen's excellent
food, and youthful resilience had eased that problem, and
today Nikki paced the room like a caged animal wanting
action, while Mikhyel sat, tired and pale, and a bit hazy
at times, but relatively free of painhis and Nikki's
at last.
Four days of healing, four days of Nikki's men, survivors
from the holocaust, drifting to Armayel's door, and four
days of messengers sent out to Darhaven and Talvanni, and
all points between, of taking account of the dead, which
were too many, and of the missing like Ben. Poor old light-
watchman, so loyal to both Deymorin and Nikki. Kiyrstin
felt as if she'd personally known him.
Nikki paused in his stalking, tension in every hne, and
said, with the hint of ill-temper that seemed to color his
voice more often than not, "I could have told you that.
Ben is dead. He died at Darhaven."
Shocked silence filled the room. Four days since the fire-
storm in the forest, and not a word of Ben's fate had passed
Nikki's lips. Not a word of concern for Ben or for any of
the men he'd led to their deaths.
Only a sullen retreat into glowering silence.
In response to this sudden, coldblooded announcement,
Deymorin's arm tightened on her shoulders. On Deymor-
in's far side, his pale face naked of both hair and control,
Mikhyel shuddered and pulled his quilt up, as if he sensed
Deymorin's perturbation as a physical chillwhich possibil-
ity lay well within the scope of probability.
It was likely Mikhyel was aware of the source of Dey-
morin's distress . . . and equally likely he was not. The ex-
tent and nature of the brothers' link appeared . . . mutable,
to say the least, and Mikhyel, drifting in and out of con-
sciousness as he tended to do, might well have missed
Nikki's comment.
Mikhyel undoubtedly missed the frown that creased
Nikki's brow when Deymorin murmured reassurances to
Mikhyel, set his other arm about his shoulders or bent solic-
itously over his black-haired head.
Ever since Mikhyel had awakened, there in the forest,
the two elder brothers had been unwillingor unableto
be separated for any length of time. Perhaps trying to make
up for lost years.
And perhaps not. It was too soon to know, their wounds
too fresh to test. Someday soon, Kiyrstin would expect an-
swers. She could afford to wait, but whatever emotions
were driving the apparent obsession, the overt expression
was taking its toll on Nikki.
She'd watched him, over a handful of days, pass from
childishly self-centered, to bitter and confused. And watch-
ing Nikki watch his brothers now, seeing the frown lines
deepen, Kiyrstin had come to believe that beyond the obvi-
ous jealousy lay very real pain.
Nikki had to know by their very silence that his brothers
disapproved of him, had to be turning his words over in
his head and wondering where he'd gone wrong, that his
two most ardent supporters in the past united now against
himcast him, to a younger brother's way of thinking, out
of the family unit.
She'd heard a great deal of reminiscing, over the past
four days, and it was obvious to even the most biased ob-
server that Nikki had never been anything but the center
of both Deymorin's and Mikhyel's attention. Considering
that other link which now tied the three together, Kiyrstin
could only imagine how his brothers' equally overt ostra-
cism, intentional or otherwise, must feel to Nikki.
With regard to herself and Deymorin, Deymorin's fasci-
nation with Mikhyel changed little. Mikhyel was still very
ill,  fading  in  and  out  of  reality  with  disconcerting  ease.
Right now, he needed Deymorin desperately. She knew
that and accepted easily whatever time or interest Dey-
morin had left for her. Besides, Deymorin was, for her, an
added bonus to an already full life.
She was an adult, entering Deymorin's life as an adult
and without a lifetime of expectations. She could afford not
to worry about Deymorin's obsession until Mikhyel was
wellor obviously beyond help. Even then, her concerns
would be for the unhealthy obsession, not for some per-
ceived personal slight.
Nikki ... Nikki was on the brink of adulthood. From
Mikhyel's comments these last few days, and from those of
the men he'd led, Nikki had been in the act of making that
difficult transition to manhood when he'd left Rhomatum
in search of Deymorin.
Considering the confusion and distress Nikki must be fac-
ing now, between the obsession of his brothers for each
other and the guilt of knowing his slightest twinge added
to Mikhyel's distress, consideration of anything or anyone
beyond that narrow personal sphere might be more grace
than was fair to expect of him.
"Ben is dead. Are you sure, Nikki?" Deymorin asked at
last and slowly.
"Yes, I'm sure." Nikki's clear blue eyes looked defiant.
His chin raised, proud, obstinate, very like his oldest
brotherthen crumbled, in confusion, at Deymorin's dark
frown. "Well, maybe not sure, but he took a bullet right in
the gut, Deymio. He certainly wasn't about to make Tal-
vanni's. What made you think he'd be there?"
Mother, Kiyrstin thought, and from the look Deymorin
sent her, he thought the same. But they said nothing, hav-
ing agreed to avoid all mention of Mother or Dancer or
any of those strange events.
But Mikhyel, a worried look on his face, wouldn't have
heard them anyway. Mikhyel's eyes were fastened on Nikki,
and his voice was at its clear best when he asked, "Don't
you care whether he's alive, Nikki?"
And Mikhyel flinched visibly when Nikki said, "Well, of
course I care, but he was my bodyguard, Khyel, and I
wasn't in much shape to ask questions, now was I?"
Kiyrstin tensed, but Deymorin's arm kept her silent.
"You've got a lot to learn about leading men," Deymorin
said quietly, and Nikki at least had the grace to look
ashamed.
Four days ago, Kiyrstin wouldn't have trusted that look
at all, but now she was less certain. The men he'd led, like
Mikhyel but with less bias, spoke well of their young leader.
The goal of the look might be to placate older brothers,
but the heart behind it at least appeared genuine enough.
Which led her to believe Deymorin when he claimed this
attitude his youngest brother had been displaying was tem-
porary, aberrant, that Nikki was truly a good-natured child.
"Give him time," Deymorin had said.
The problem was, Nikki wasn't a child, and Nikki was
running out of time. All tolerance aside, she called him
spoiled.
She'd said as much to Nikki's brothers, when Nikki was
out of earshot. Mikhyel had tried to take all the blame, but
Deymorin had said, "No more responsible than I," and in
that, she figured they were both right. Nikki suffered from
a plethora of protection, and sad lack of doing for himself.
Unfortunately, the first time he had taken control of his
life, things had gone awry, and there had been Big Brother
Deymorin to rescue him.
Hard to grow up when your brothers were so competent.
But Nikki was young; there was still hope. Especially if
he could be convinced to forget about Mother and all that
had happened in the forest.
Which Mikhyel had forgotten, as Dancer had predicted.
And, if Dancer's other advice had been equally sound, it
was just as well Mikhyel had spent the hours following his
awakening fading in and out, as nothing would quell Nikki's
rattling account of the Tamshi and her apprentice.
Eventually, Deymorin and Kiyrstin's pointed disinter-
est coupled with Mikhyel's obviously confused distress
had evidently convinced Nikki to keep his fascination
to himself.
As for DancerDancer had simply disappeared into the
forest shadows, leaving the blanket in a faintly-glowing pile
on the ground, and Kiyrstin could only hope Dancer's
peace with Mother was by now a fait accompli.
She'd certainly earned it. Or he had. Another point that
had somehow become irrelevant in the past days. When
one considered glowing bodies arriving out of nowhere and
crones shifting into scaled creatures before one's eyes, it
was difficult to trust one's senses absolutely. More difficult
still to think such trivialities mattered.
"So, brothers, what do we do now?" asked Deymorin
finally.
"I must return to Rhomatum," Mikhyel said, his voice
"sagged and thin. "Regardless of what has happened to us,
theCIty still has needs, and the Outside does as well."
"We've been through this before, Khyel," Deymorin said
firmly. "It's too great a risk. Anheliaa might not even rec-
ognize you now, since you've obviously defected. And I
hardly need a proxy, not being Princeps any longer."
"If Anheliaa wants to challenge us, she'll have to do it
in court. And in court, she hasn't a chance. What she's
done is too grossly illegal, even for her most partisan
supporters."
"And if Anheliaa has you arrested quietly? And leya-
pults you permanently?"
"I think Kirystin had the answer for that." Mikhyel
leaned forward to grin at her across Deymorin's chest.
"Chickens, was it?"
"Crates of them," she responded immediately, grinning
back at him. "You need to make a big impression. Right
off. The instant you pass the gates. Helps if you have a big
fellow like Deymorin to kiss you, after. Right there in front
of everyone."
A soft chuckle rewarded her efforts. "I'll keep that in
mind."
"We could all just fade away together, you know,"
Deymorin said, "Anheliaa used us to attack Alizant's ma-
chine. If she has any concept of the havoc she wrought, she
might well believe we're all dead."
"You going to run away again, Deymorin?" Mikhyel
murmured, and Deymorin tensed, his tightening brow hint-
ing at their previous animosity. "Somehow," Mikhyel con-
tinued softly, "I don't think so. I doubt you could leave
Darhaven and Armayel to Anheliaa's whims any more than
I can leave Rhomatum."
Deymorin's arm relaxed.
"Hell, I suppose not." And he grinned. "But I can
dream, can't I?"
"That's wonderful," Nikki snapped. "You've both got
your allegiances, your duties, your obligations. What have
I got?"
"Oh, grow up," Kiyrstin muttered, discovering clemen-
cy's limits.
"Excuse me?"
"You keep complaining no one treats you like an adult.
Well, start acting like one! You've a wife"
"Only in name."
"Funny way to put it when you've a child already on
the way."
"That's what it is! That child is Anheliaa's, the way
Khyel" Nikki broke off, staring in dismay at Mikhyel,
who shrugged and avoided everyone's eyes.
"Fine," Kiyrstin said, completely unwilling to let Nikki
wander off into extraneous recriminations, trusting .Khyel
to understand Nikki's meaning. "Then rear the child. Fight
Anheliaa's influence with your own. And if you grow weary
of that, you're Princeps now. I should think that would
keep anyone occupied."
Nikki's eyes widened in panic, sought Mikhyel's.
"She's right, Nikki," he said. "It's official. The Council
has confirmed the change."
"No! Deymorin's the Princeps"
"Hell, boy, I don't want it!"
Which made Mikhyel laugh, a nice sound, a healing
sound, and Deymorin grinned back at him.
"But"
"I think it's a fabulous notion," Deymorin insisted.
"But I don't know"
"We won't desert you, fry."
[We'll be there as much or as little as you like.)
A startled glance chased about the room, each man won-
dering who had 'said' that. . . . As if it really mattered.
Kiyrstin chuckled to herself and burrowed in closer to
Deymorin's side, not the least surprised to have 'heard'
along with the brothers, no longer finding much of any-
thing surprising.
Deymorin's arm squeezed briefly, then he asked:
"What about you, Kiyrstin? What do you want?"
"Right now? To sleep for about a hundred years. After
that ... well, Garetti will be back. He's got a cause, now.
Anheliaa drew first blood."
"I want you, shepherdess." His hand brushed her hair
back from her forehead. "I want you safe."
She shrugged. "I can take care of myself."
"We could annul your marriage," Mikhyel said. "It
would keep the locals, at least, from trying to collect on
Garetti's reward."
"Annulment? After fifteen years?"
"Under the circumstances1 think our courts, at least,
would uphold me."
"After putting her through hell," Deymorin protested.
"I'm not ashamed of what happenedor of anything
I've done."
He leaned away, staring at her with the strangest expres-
sion on his face. A mixture of pride, frustration, lust,
and...
Love.
"Neither am I," he said finally, then grinned. "Still, we
could just live in disgrace for a while. Maybe have a fry or
two of our own. It would drive Anhehaa out of her mind,
which might be fun."
"Deymorin, I don't care. I ask only two things. One, that
I be with you."
"Done." His mouth on hers created a pleasant, momen-
tary diversion. "And the second?" he asked against her
lips.
"No sheep."