Amber Quill Press, LLC

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Copyright ©2004 by Michelle L. Levigne

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10,000 SUNS

Book I Of The Bainevah Series

by

MICHELLE L. LEVIGNE

ISBN 1-59279-317-7

Amber Quill Press, LLC

www.amberquill.com

Shadow comes.

Threads tangle and break.

Colors spill and fade.

Warp weights clash and the frame breaks.

The Tapestry is destroyed by the Ones who give it life.

The Ram breaks his horns.

The old Ram attacks those who would free him.

He scatters fire and burns the land.

He lies down with the Bull and with the Viper and offers his flesh to his enemies for food.

The Ram tramples the incense and light scatters.

Sparks fade in the Shadows.

The Young Ram will spill the pure blood of the Wise. Ten Thousand Suns will witness.

After that will come the Flame to the broken Threads, the spilled Colors, the broken Loom.

Nothing remains beyond the Fire-home.

CHAPTER 1

The Reign of King Doni’Jazzan’Nebazz’Dayona

Thirty-sixth year

First Descent Moon

The wounded man had no shadow.

Challen paused in the tower doorway and stared out into the sun-hot daylight, positive she had been mistaken. Mackal, her father’s apprentice, knelt on the hot stones of the courtyard, tending to the wounded stranger. He dusted healing powder into the bronze basin, dipped up hot water from the kettle always steaming over the coals in the courtyard firepit, and carried the basin to the man. He had come in only five, maybe ten minutes ago, saying his horse threw him as he rode into the trading village at the Oasis of Benetheer.

The stranger’s desert robes were dusty, clinging to him with sweat, worn from travel—and who traveled the desert in the middle of the day, in the hottest part of summer, just after solstice? He was alone, and only fools and madmen traveled alone.

Or men with evil on their minds.

Challen flinched when Mackal glanced up from washing the man’s bleeding leg and called for her. She felt a chill run down her sweaty back when the stranger lifted blank black eyes and gazed at her. The chill turned into a queasiness in her gut when the man smiled, creating black crevices around his too-full mouth, sifting dust from his dirty beard.

“Do you think we’ll need the numbing dust?” Mackal asked. He gestured for her to look at the man’s leg, which had bits of grit, wood and even a few pebbles ground into his flesh by the force of his fall.

“Most definitely.” Challen raked her fingers through her ember-colored hair and retied the head cloth that kept coming undone. In another moment, her hair was covered, neatly tied off her neck, letting the warm afternoon air suck away the sweat almost as it formed.

“I’m a lucky man, to find a healer and his pretty wife so quickly,” the stranger said.

“We’re not married,” Challen hurried to say.

“Yet.” Mackal winked at her before turning back to picking the debris out of his patient’s leg.

Four years ago, when Mackal came to apprentice with the healer, Shazzur, Challen might have laughed with him, and let him believe such comments were funny. Four years ago, at age sixteen, she might even have been flattered that such a talented, handsome man was interested in her. In four years, Mackal had hinted too baldly at his desire to marry her, but never spoke directly to her of the matter.

How could Challen tell him that she would not marry him, when he never outright asked her?

It didn’t help that her father found it amusing.

Challen looked at the ground one more time, just to be sure of what she had seen. The stranger still had no shadow, though the afternoon sun hung at enough of an angle to throw a distinct, hard-edged shadow. She had a shadow. Mackal had a shadow. The bench the stranger sat on had a shadow. The table full of healing supplies, the courtyard walls, the awning stretching from the doorway, and the tripod holding the kettle over the coals—they all had shadows.

“I’ll fetch the powder.” Challen forced a smile before turning to go into the house.

She took the winding steps up to the tower three at a time and didn’t care that she was dripping wet and gasping in the scorching heat by the time she reached the top. Her sleeveless tunic stuck to her skin and her loose, open-weave trousers tried to climb up her legs. She slipped on the top step, her worn sandal strap breaking at the worst possible moment. A lean, steady, wrinkled hand came from seemingly out of nowhere to grab her arm and keep her upright when she would have fallen.

“My dear?” Shazzur tugged on her arm and led her to his worktable, gently pushing her down onto the bench.

“There’s a man—with no shadow in—in the courtyard.” Challen shook her head when he would have put a cup of watered wine into her hands.

“No shadow?” His thick eyebrows rose and gray eyes widened. A smile parted the tangled curls of his silver-streaked red beard. Then the smile turned into a frown. “Fascinating, but not welcome in the least. Come.” He stepped to the wide window that looked down from his tower room, over the courtyard of their house at the edge of the trading village.

Challen joined her father at the window. The silvery-pink stone of the ledge scorched her hands when she leaned out to look down. At this time of the afternoon, there were no gentle breezes to counter the oppressive heat. She wished everyone had the sense to sleep through the hottest part of the day—including the stranger below. He sat on his bench, leg propped up, watching Mackal fuss with bandages at the table strewn with ingredients for a salve he had been trying to improve for the past three moon quarters. Despite the way the man’s dun-colored desert robes draped around him, Challen could clearly see he still had no shadow. She shivered, wondering what it portended.

“Why can’t Mackal see? Surely he isn’t that dense?” she muttered.

“Dense might not be the question, my dear.” Shazzur glanced at Challen, then looked at the stranger again. “He has a shadow.”

“Father—”

“I do not doubt you. Your mother had many gifts, many ways of seeing, which were beyond my experience. She never told me of seeing anyone without a shadow, but then … perhaps she never had need of the gift.”

A pot shattered on the paving stones of the courtyard. Challen glanced down again. The stranger was on his feet, moving without a limp, and that sent another chill up her back.

“Mackal!” she shouted almost before realizing that glint of sun on metal was a knife in the stranger’s hand.

The black-haired, slightly chubby apprentice glanced up at her, then over his shoulder at his mobile patient. He ducked, barely avoiding a downward slash of the knife. He snatched up the first thing that came to hand. Fortunately for him, a bronze platter used for cutting fresh ingredients for his salves. The platter shielded his face.

Challen darted from the tower room, on Shazzur’s heels. Her father’s long legs ate up the steps, propelling him downward more quickly than Challen could move. She bit back a cry of warning. Fifteen years of exile at the edge of the desert had not been kind to her father, and he had not been young when they came here. But Shazzur moved as if he were still a young man, spying behind enemy lines in the stories he had told Challen when she was a child. He snatched up his long, age-blackened staff as he swept through the door and into the courtyard and swung it at the stranger.

Challen slammed into the doorframe and paused for a few breaths. The stranger had Mackal on the ground, bent over him, trying to stab him and making the bronze platter resound like a gong. Challen wondered why he didn’t have the sense to kick Mackal or try for another, easier target. His method of attack made no sense—not that she wanted her father’s irritating apprentice hurt.

Shazzur swung hard with the staff, hitting the stranger behind the knees, and toppled him. The knife sent up sparks as it skipped across the paving stones. The stranger made no sound and picked himself up almost before he finished rolling, as if he had felt nothing.

All the white had vanished from his eyes. They weren’t just big and black, but black pits. As if his skull were empty. Challen shivered, imagining she looked into the darkness of the Netherhells, where the rebel demi-gods had been consigned when the Unseen divided up the world among the deities.

“Father!” she shouted in warning, as the stranger pulled a sword from under his robes.

Challen spread her hands, mentally gathering all the heat of the endless afternoon. Eyes narrowing, she sent the heat and the force of her anger into the metal of the sword.

The man’s skin scorched. She heard it sizzle, all the moisture driven out—but he didn’t even flinch.

Fear made her falter, and the stranger advanced four more steps on Shazzur, who calmly waited with his staff held parallel to the paving stones. Challen wasn’t going to let the man take a swing at her father. He was once the Seer to the King of Bainevah. He deserved respect for that, if not for his age and his healing talents. No one was allowed to hurt her father. She refocused on the man’s chest.

His robes burst into flames.

The stranger brushed at the flames like another man would try to flick away flies. Mackal staggered up behind him and swung a bench like a scythe. The stranger went down. Mackal swung again. Challen approved—why take chances, after all?

“Father?” Challen squeezed a lemon before dropping the wedges into the heavy pottery pitcher of water. The lack of condensation on the outside attested to the dryness of the day, though the water inside was chill, freshly drawn from their deep, echoing well. She poured a cup and brought it over to Shazzur, who sat watching their bound and bandaged prisoner.

“Thank you, my dear.” Shazzur spared her a tired smile, then turned back to contemplating the unconscious man.

Mackal had left perhaps ten minutes ago to fetch the commander of the garrison, after helping to salve and bandage the man’s burns and tie him to the central support pillar inside the house. The solid stone pillar was wider than a man’s arms could clasp, and sunk deep into the ground. Even a madman couldn’t knock it loose. Challen had less confidence in the rawhide thongs binding his hands and ankles. She sat down where she could watch, ready to ignite him again if he broke free.

“He asked for me, specifically, by name,” Shazzur murmured, finally breaking the silence. “Not the Healer. Not even the old man.” He snorted, amused for a moment. “No, he asked for Doni’Hobad’Shazzur’Conia.”

Challen shivered. She hadn’t heard her father’s full Court-formal name in years.

“Mackal was, of course, confused. And that didn’t make our guest here very happy. He tried to come into the house, to look for me. Fortunately, Mackal is loyal as well as talented.”

“Someone from Court sent him?” Challen whispered.

“Possibly.”

“Shall we leave, Father? I can be packed by midnight.”

“Yes, we shall leave.” His frown softened to a sad smile and he held out a hand, beckoning her to join him on the long bench. Challen gladly retreated into the comfort of his arm around her. “But don’t hurry with your packing. I must first send for an escort.”

“Escort?” Her mind refused to follow down the path suggested by her father’s words.

“Yes. We can’t travel all that way without someone to guard us. It’s obvious my enemies have an idea where to find me now. And we have a certain prestige to hold up when we return home.”

“Return?” Challen closed her eyes and clutched the edge of the bench to preserve her outward calm.

They were returning to Bainevah, the capital. They were returning to the king and the Court, to the place where her mother had been murdered and her baby brother kidnapped. Even after all these years, Challen couldn’t understand how a priestess could be slaughtered in front of the very altar as she served Mother Matrika, yet no one had been caught or even identified. Yet it had happened, and Shazzur had snatched his young daughter up and fled the city that very night, positive that they were the next targets.

Challen had vague memories of bright colors and wide, sparkling rivers, crowded markets and the quiet, cool beauty of the temples. Part of her thrilled at the thought of living again in a place where water was there for the wasting and merely breathing didn’t drench her in sweat. A place where she could read hundreds of scrolls she had never read a dozen times already. Where she could hear birds sing and not worry that every stranger who looked at her too long was a slave trader looking for innocent flesh to kidnap.

Part of her wanted her sweet, dim memories of Bainevah to forever stay memories, and for her simple, dry, quiet life to go on unchanged. She was the daughter of the King’s Seer, daughter of a fire priestess, with power in her noble blood. By birth alone, she had the right to move among the elite of the Court, to drip jewels and expensive clothes, to stand before the king without fear or shame. By birth, she carried powers that were gifts from the demi-gods, and she had a responsibility to use them wisely. Here at the oasis, she had been content to be merely a scholar and a healer. When she returned to Bainevah, what would Mother Matrika require of her, to be a good steward of the gifts given her?

Challen was afraid, and not ashamed to admit it.

She knew better than to argue with Shazzur when he spoke so calmly, quietly, as if the fact had already been accomplished.

“Will Uncle Asqual come to escort us?” she asked, after many long moments of digesting this bit of news.

“I doubt he will allow anyone else the honor,” Shazzur said with a smile.

Mackal was not happy in the least, when Shazzur asked the garrison commander to send a message to Lord General Asqual, commander of Bainevah’s armies. Challen could almost hear the roaring of his thoughts as his world turned upside down. When did a nobleman soldier with his neatly pleated linen tunic and pressed trousers, bronze fittings and crested helmet, eagerly play the part of errand boy for a graying old healer who preferred to go barefoot and wear threadbare robes? Why didn’t the commander even ask what was in the parchment packet sealed with wax? Challen wondered what Mackal would think if he could see the crest pressed into the crimson wax. Very few men in the entire world had the right to use the ram’s head crest. The king’s former Seer was one.

The commander’s alacrity in obeying could partly be blamed on the prisoner. The man woke just moments after Mackal, the commander, and four soldiers came into the house. His eyes were gray, not black. He had a shadow, soft though it was, cast by the light coming through the partially shuttered windows. He told them he was a spice trader, and believed he was in the Oasis of Troanya—which was far to the northeast. The Oasis of Benetheer sat at the far-western edge of the desert in Bainevah’s lands. Shazzur asked the commander to send the man to Bainevah, along with the message. Challen was glad to have him out of their house, even though it was just another step in the long process of changing their lives.

“Are you leaving?” Mackal yelped, when Shazzur asked him to help Challen inventory and pack their belongings for departure. “Who will tend the wounded and sick? Where are you going?”

“To the first question … You will tend the people. Why do you think I took you as my student, if not to leave you here when I left? To the second, why … I am returning to the capital.”

“Sir.” Mackal moved stiffly as he crossed the room to stand in front of Shazzur’s worktable in the tower. “There is no time. I had hoped to be able to provide a better home for your daughter, but if you are leaving, I must respectfully ask now for the right to take her as my wife.”

“A better home?” Shazzur chuckled and gestured, to take in the tower, the courtyard, and the sheltered garden where Challen had grown her father’s herbals. “This has been my daughter’s home for most of her life and it has been more than suitable. It is now yours.”

“Then you will not be insulted, to leave her here as mistress of this house?” Mackal’s face regained some color.

“No. I will not leave her here.”

“But sir—I love her!”

“Did you tell Challen this? Did you ever ask if she loved you?” Shazzur glanced at Challen, who kept busy inspecting her father’s many scrolls as she put them one by one in the leather-wrapped baskets that kept them dry, whole, and safe from insects.

“Tell her?” Mackal gaped. “Such a thing isn’t proper.”

“Challen’s mother came back from death to be with me, because she loved me. I risked death during the siege of Dreva, to find Naya, because I loved her. The day our daughter was born, she made me promise I would never give our daughter to anyone, unless I was sure he loved her as I loved my Naya, and that our daughter loved him with all her heart and soul.” Shazzur slowly shook his head, that crooked little smile of fond disappointment brightening his weary face. “I have taught you many things, and you have been a brilliant student, but this is something you have yet to learn.”

“But sir—Challen, please, tell your father you wish to stay here. You don’t want to go to Bainevah. You would be lost there. You won’t belong. You would be far happier here.” He swallowed audibly. “I adore you. I would take good care of you.”

“My place is with my father,” Challen said simply, not even glancing up from her work.

“Her destiny is in Bainevah,” Shazzur said.

Challen heard the faint hint of echo in his words, as if he had spoken from the depths of Mother Matrika’s Temple. She shivered and fumbled the scroll she had picked up. That hint of power and wisdom hadn’t touched her father’s voice in years. Not since the night they fled Bainevah.

So, then, her father had had a vision to guide him, and he had not thought to tell her. Did that mean the vision did not concern her at all—or did it involve her so deeply Shazzur avoided telling her to keep from influencing her actions?

Either way, she knew her path had been laid out before her. She was returning to Bainevah.

“Don’t worry, little bird,” Naya whispered in Challen’s dreams that night.

She sat on the edge of her daughter’s bed, a glow like fire emanating from her white-gold hair and eyes the blue of the hottest part of the flame. Challen lay still, curled up on her side, content to watch her mother, content to feel the gentle touch like the sighing night breezes, as Naya stroked her hair.

“The Prophecy moves again. Despite all that foolish men do to avert the Prophecy, it moves on. As unstoppable as the rivers in flood.” She smiled, and a glimmer like tears made her eyes shimmer with brilliance. “I warned the people, and some say I died for speaking the truth. In some ways, it could be true.”

“Will Father die?” Challen whispered. She had always believed that the portion of Prophecy about the blood of the wise meant her father. “Will the king kill him after all? Are we going home to Bainevah to die?”

“For those who serve the Mother, death is merely a doorway,” Naya whispered. She rose to her feet with a whispering sound. Her robes the color of moonlight and shadows drifted around her like mist. “Your brother lives, and when the Prophecy is fulfilled, he will emerge from the shadows and sand in triumph.” She closed her eyes, and two diamond tears trickled down her alabaster cheeks. “Tell him I love him.”

“Mother?” Challen sat up, reaching for her—and woke.

She trembled as her mother’s dream words slid through her mind. Tell her brother? How would she even know her brother, whom she hadn’t seen since he was two years old?

CHAPTER 2

Challen brushed stray strands of hair off her sweaty forehead and sat back against the window embrasure in search of a bit of moving air.

Beyond the tower window that faced away from the oasis, desert stretched forever in white-gold waves, unbroken but for reddish streaks in the sand, or razor-edged spires of red-gold rock. It blended into the eastern sky without a seam.

Challen doubted nightfall would bring relief. Another stifling night of few breezes, a hint of coolness to make her whole body ache for rain. The topmost tower room with its six windows was usually cool enough to permit her to concentrate on her studies. Not tonight, she feared. Certainly not now.

The solstice full moon was three moon quarters gone and waxing again to full. When the king made the Sacred Marriage with the Sanctum Bride, Bainevah should have experienced a break in the summer burning. The shortening of days and the gentle decline toward fall rains might exist in the capital now, but here in the desert the summer only grew harder, hotter, drier.

“Patience,” Shazzur said, voice soft, eyes closed. If not for the slight bobbing of his white-streaked beard, he could have been part of the dun-colored shadows on the tower walls.

The years of voluntary exile had not been kind to Shazzur, and Challen wondered if the long days of waiting for their escort would be even crueler. His hair was short, cut close to his scalp, his beard trimmed to collar length because of the heat. It was thin, dusty, no longer kept braided and oiled, as he had done when part of the perfumed Court of King Nebazz. He wore a simple sleeveless robe in the heat, baring his thin chest; and long, loose trousers, all in coarse-woven, gray cloth that allowed supposedly cooler air to flow through.

Challen knew her father felt none of the discomfort that worried her on his behalf. His mind was elsewhere, preparing for whatever battle of powers and politics awaited them in Bainevah. She suspected he was excited, eager to return to the contest of wits. She should be happy for him, she knew. She tried to smile, but her face felt stiff with salty sweat and dust blown through the open window. Like her father, she wore loose trousers and a sleeveless sheath slit from knees to hips. The light clothing didn’t help. She wished she were a boy so she could seek coolness and comfort in a mere loincloth.

“Talent without discipline is like leaving sharpened swords lying on the floor,” she said, knowing her father would use the opportunity to slip in another lesson. “I wish I had water talent. What I wouldn’t give for a short storm.”

“Water can be as dangerous as fire, and fire as beneficial as water.” Shazzur opened his gray eyes, bright with humor despite his weariness. “Your mother maintained water was a more temperamental talent and thanked Mother Matrika often that she was gifted with fire. As you will someday, when the need arises.”

The only furniture in their workroom consisted of the trunks that now held Shazzur’s entire library, Challen’s wall-mounted loom, and the stone bench lining half the circular room. Reed mats covered the stone floor to keep down the inevitable dust. The mats were worn to shreds, Challen noted as she slid to her knees to find coolness in the stones of the floor. She would have to go to the trickle of river in the gorge beyond the tower and cut more reeds to weave new ones. They wouldn’t use them long, but why endure the long days of waiting in discomfort?

“It is not yet time for Mother Matrika’s plans to manifest, my dear,” her father said, as if she had spoken the thoughts and questions that plagued her since the attack four days ago.

“Father—”

“Her plan for each of us is different. Some must wait long for her to work through us. Others are constantly open aqueducts of her power and gifts.” Shazzur sat back. “You have a high destiny waiting, Challen. I train you so when the day comes you will be able to bear the burden. You now carry only a trickle of power and you are delighted with what you can do. Someday, you will carry a torrent. Mother Matrika will act in the time which she alone knows is best.”

“Father—it’s not that I doubt you—”

A flicker of movement in the bleached sky caught her attention. Desert hawks swooped up high and dove, not at all like their afternoon games in the rising drafts of hot air. The predators never broke their routines unless they were disturbed. Intruders disturbed them.

The next trader caravan wasn’t due for two new moons; Challen had their schedules memorized, so she could place orders for her father’s supplies of parchment and ink, ingredients for healing potions, and so she could reach the caravan leaders the moment they arrived. She had learned to retrieve messages for her father immediately, to prevent the curious, often unscrupulous inhabitants of the oasis from claiming the messages on the pretext of delivering them. Her father eventually did receive all his messages, but Challen lived in fear of the wrong people learning Shazzur’s business, or his true identity.

“Soldiers,” she whispered, listening to her heart rather than common sense. “But your message just left.”

“Indeed.” Shazzur nodded and stroked his beard and didn’t even lean forward to see out the window that looked to the east. “Great and sorrowful events must trouble the Court, if they come for us before I send for them.”

“Father!” Challen wanted to shake him. How could he take this so calmly?

“Come. We must prepare for them.” He rose smoothly despite the dizziness that sometimes came from the heat. Shazzur held out a hand to help her stand. “Trust in Mother Matrika. Her word always comes to pass, though it seems long to wait.”

Challen caught her breath. Now she knew for certain her father had received another vision. No wonder he was calm. It was like hearing a minstrel or Song Weaver perform, when he had already heard the last verse of the story. For Shazzur, this was simply a time of waiting to see how events unfolded to reach the ending he had already seen.

If only her dreams of her mother could have given her some warning. Challen mouthed “Prophecy,” not daring to speak the word aloud. Shazzur nodded.

The Three had fallen.

Despite her mother’s warnings before her death, despite all the advice her father had left when they fled the capital, nothing King Nebazz and his Council had done in the intervening years had prevented or delayed the Prophecy.

Challen straightened her shoulders and tugged her hand free from her father’s grip, and headed for the stairs. If her destiny was about to pounce on her, she would face it in her best clothes, with a cool bath behind her. Even if she hadn’t grown up in Court, Challen knew the power of proper appearances.

She would only be a footnote in history, but she determined she would play her part with dignity. Her mother had been a heroine in the great war with Dreva. Naya had been hated and hunted by the Drevans, and captured. Despite Shazzur’s best efforts, she had indeed died at the enemy’s hands, but Mother Matrika had given Naya back to the man who held her heart. As the daughter of such a heroic couple, Challen vowed to make her mother’s spirit proud of her, no matter what happened this day.

Elzan smiled at the sudden break in the baking heaviness of the air. A flicker of cool breeze teased his sweating face. Then the cool turned to ice in his gut. His wide shoulders prickled under his armor. His long, square face hardened and black fire lit his eyes as he sensed danger.

Coolness in the heat of the afternoon? In a sandy canyon?

Time froze in the middle of battle exercises, where the soldiers under his command drowned and baked inside their bronze helmets and leather breastplates. Elzan searched the broken, sky-scraping walls of stone around his two battling companies, straining his ears for sounds of danger.

Nothing but the clash-thud of blunted practice blades colliding and smashing on wood-framed, leather shields. Nothing but the whir and rustle of archers aiming for the man-shaped targets erected on the perimeters.

He turned, guided by the sensitivity inherited from his healer priestess mother. Toward the archers behind him.

“Rushtan!” he roared, as a dark line arched through the air toward his blond half-brother. For a split second, black fire trailed behind the arrow that had come from nowhere.

Elzan leaped for his black mare, even as the arrow flew down and caught Rushtan in the shoulder. The impact knocked him sprawling, skidding across the dry-baked, hard-packed ground. Andorn, Elzan’s right-hand commander turned, wheeling his frothing chestnut stallion to follow.

Anybody but Rushtan, Elzan pleaded silently, even as he nearly laughed at the irony.

Rushtan was his left-hand commander, captain of the archers in the Host of the Ram, and the only half-brother Elzan fully trusted. He felt sick as blood blossomed from Rushtan’s shoulder.

More arrows appeared from the yellow-tinted, burning sky. Andorn shouted commands as the battle exercise disintegrated. Elzan looked back once and saw more arrows pierce the spot where he had been moments ago. He beat his horse to go faster.

He yanked on the mare’s reins and leaped before she quite stopped, to drop to the scorching ground on his knees. Two of Rushtan’s men reached their commander at the same moment, but held back to let the prince tend to his brother.

“Where did—that come from?” Rushtan gasped, gagging as pain shuddered through his body. He turned his head, staring at the arrow in his bare shoulder.

“Told you to wear your leathers today. Brace,” Elzan ordered before he could respond. He slid his hand under Rushtan’s shoulder, clutched the arrow’s shaft, and helped him to sit up.

It was long. Twice the length of the arrows the two Hosts of the army used. The arrowhead was triple barbed and the bronze had a greenish tint under the dripping blood.

“Poison. You two—get the shaft out of him. Brother, clear your—”

“No,” Rushtan said. “You can’t. You always knock yourself senseless when you try to heal.”

“We’re not in battle. We go home tomorrow.” Elzan unbuckled his sword belt and slid his wrist guards off, to divest himself of metal that would blunt the energies he summoned. “Besides, Cayeen would never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t.”

Rushtan laughed, the sound breaking as his men braced him and snapped the arrow shaft close to the head. He shuddered, turning white under his tan. His full-blood sister, Princess Cayeen was called The Nightingale for her singing—but her tongue could scald when she rose to a fury.

“Imagine what she’ll say about you for letting yourself get hurt during training exercises.” Elzan lightly slapped his brother’s uninjured shoulder and signaled him to quiet.

He closed his eyes and reached with his mind for the energies of the soldiers around them. He had barely enough sensitivity to serve in the lower levels of the Healers Temple, if he weren’t a prince. That sensitivity let him gather energy to heal. He envisioned it as a glowing green pool in his hands.

His brother’s skin was already hotter than sunburn when Elzan grasped his injured arm in both hands. The prince mentally flinched from that sign of virulent poison at work. A black fog seemed to try to separate them.

Rushtan was the oddity among the King’s nine sons and Elzan valued him too much as friend and confidant to let him suffer. Blond and gray-eyed, when the other eight princes were black-haired and dark-eyed; Rushtan disdained Court and etiquette and the constant power struggle through the hierarchies. He had disavowed his distant claim to the throne before he turned seventeen and went to live in the soldiers’ sector of Bainevah, between the East and Memory gates. He alone wore a beard, when all the other sons of the King went clean-shaven as a sign of their indeterminate status. Elzan envied and admired his half-brother and refused to abandon him even for the time it would take to find another healer.

Mother Matrika, give me strength. Beseech the Unseen to spare my brother’s life. Take from me to spare him, I beg you.

Elzan gasped as the light evaporated from his hands and he went hollow inside, like wax melting in a furnace. A fog enfolded him, numbing his body, but he smiled, knowing that what emptied him went to heal his brother.

“Not fair!” a scraping voice whined. “I won that toss.”

“The pieces are not passive, stupid things,” an oily voice responded. “They choose and move themselves.”

“I want that one to die. He is not necessary to the game.”

“Then why must he die?” another voice asked; soft and sweet and vibrating like a harp string.

Elzan heard the voices and wondered where he was, what had happened. Gut instinct told him he didn’t want to know who spoke.

Mother Matrika, help me! he cried from his soul. Am I dying?

Light appeared, soft and hazy and touched with red-gold, as if someone had lit a fire far off in the distance on a rainy night. Elzan tried to get up and move toward that light. He had no body. Somehow, that strangeness was easier to accept than the voices that seemed to grind at him with unrelenting acid hate.

No, that wasn’t a light. It moved like … like hair, hanging free in a gentle breeze. Eyes appeared, gray and brilliant in a golden tanned face. Laughing eyes, and a mouth that sent a throb of hunger through Elzan. A mouth made for kissing.

A maiden’s face hung before him in the darkness, wreathed in red-gold hair that moved of its own accord, like flames in a gentle breeze.

He wanted her. He wanted to know her name and wrap himself around her, taste her kisses and hear her whisper his name with hungry love.

The black fog shredded inside Elzan’s mind.

“Curse you!” Andorn growled, slapping Elzan’s face. “Give me that water skin!”

Elzan opened his eyes to see a silver gush of water hit his face. Gasping, he struggled to sit up. His head wanted to split open, as it always did when he tried to heal anything more extensive than a candle burn.

“My brother,” Rushtan whispered from somewhere behind him, “you are a fool.” A sigh. “Thank the Mother.”

Elzan grinned and let Andorn push him down onto the pallet half-soaked with water. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious. It didn’t matter.

Or did it? Where had that dream come from? Was it a dream? A hallucination, or something full of portent? He vowed to search the Scribes Hall until he found an explanation.

“The arrows?” he said, turning to face the other two.

Rushtan sat propped against the center post of Elzan’s tent, his shoulder bandaged but unstained by blood. He shook his head and glanced at Andorn. The other commander’s dark, square face grew darker and for a moment he resembled his uncle when the commander of Bainevah’s armies was at his most furious.

“No more arrows,” he growled. “No idea who shot them. If you hadn’t already been going to Rushtan…”

What more needed to be said? Both princes knew they would be targets until the crown settled on one head.

But why here and now? Elzan wondered. What had been going on in Bainevah for the last two moons?

Challen reached out to steady herself, her entire body buzzing pleasantly.

One moment she had been standing over the bronze basin, trying to arrange her hair by the reflection in the water. The next moment, she looked at two men on a sandy, burning plain.

Soldiers, she supposed, judging by the armor one wore. The blond one fell with an arrow in his shoulder and the dark-haired one leaped to pluck the arrow from him. Black death writhed through the wounded man’s body and the other yanked it free. It turned to a snake and the dark-haired man fought it.

Challen reached out with her healing gift, offering her strength to the man. She flinched as her hand touched the tepid water in the bronze basin. Even as the vision flashed and died, the snake shattered into shreds of shadows and the man turned and looked at her.

The man in her vision could see her!

They looked into each other’s eyes. Heat rushed through Challen’s body and she nearly cried out from a hungry pleasure that threatened to melt her to the floor.

Then the vision ended.

What did it portend? Would she see that very soldier among the company approaching the tower? Would he recognize her when they met face-to-face? Would he smile and run to her side?

Would he expect her to run to him? Had he felt what she felt, just for that moment?

Foolishness, she scolded herself, and went back to arranging her hair. She was the daughter of Shazzur the Seer. She would hold herself with dignity and refuse silly daydreams.

And yet … she tried to recall the sensation that threatened to make her knees wobble, as she joined her father at the gates of their courtyard when the soldiers appeared.

“Greetings and long life to you, Doni’Hobad’Shazzur’Conia, Seer to the King who is the adopted son of Mother Matrika!” the man leading the mounted soldiers roared.

Challen grinned, despite the apprehension that had dogged her ever since her father’s revelations an hour before. The soldier sounded most cheerful. The situation in Bainevah couldn’t be that dire.

“Father?” Challen tugged straight the pale green pleated skirts of her formal Court sheath, and wondered for the first time if it was out of fashion. She had made the dress based on her memories of her mother. Would her soldier—if he was in this company at all—laugh or think her beautiful?

Stop this foolishness, she scolded herself silently, and stepped back into the shadows of the gate.

“Mother Matrika gives us what we wish before we even think to ask,” Shazzur murmured.

He raised the bowl of wine that was the customary greeting for welcome travelers. The commander laughed louder and waved to them. He kicked his horse into a faster trot.

Challen swallowed hard and straightened her shoulders and watched the soldiers ride past them, to enter the sheltered courtyard around the base of their tower home.

The high stone walls were clotted with blown sand, worn down with decades of scouring, but they still protected from the dust storms and provided shade in early morning and late afternoon. She decided she would miss this sandy, dusty, dry place. Twenty soldiers entered through the archway, sitting tall on their horses when camels and their riders had to stoop. Challen pitied the horses, struggling across the scorching sands when camels were better suited.

The soldiers threw back their white desert robes, revealing bronze-plate shirts and armbands and conical helmets touched with gold and turquoise. They belonged to the Host of the Ram, the elite of Bainevah’s soldiers, where the princes trained. Shazzur was indeed in high royal favor, to send soldiers from the Host to escort him. Every one had oiled beards and black kohl lines extending their eyes. How long ago had they stopped to put on ceremonial decorations? From the lack of sweat smearing their faces or dust dulling the shine of their beards, Challen calculated they had stopped in the shade of the dune that filled the eastern horizon, two hours of walking away.

Her vision soldier wasn’t among them. She could tell that in an instant, and her disappointment shocked her.

The soldiers were here to take them to Bainevah with honor. There were empty pack mules and two riderless horses—royal black horses, no less—among the soldiers, obviously intended for Shazzur and Challen and their household goods. Challen brushed her tightly pleated skirts out and stepped up next to her father. She was glad she had taken the time to wrestle her hair into the coronet of braids wrapped around her head, studded with gold, turquoise and pearl pins. It was worthy of her father’s renewed place. Did she look proud and noble to these strangers, or like a silly child dressed in her grandmother’s discarded robes?

“Sweetmeat? Is that really you?” The commander stumbled as he dismounted. He stared at Challen.

Shazzur burst out laughing. He set down the welcoming wine and opened his arms. The commander roared laughter as he stepped up to meet him, arms spread wide. The two men hugged and thumped each other’s backs. Challen and nineteen soldiers studied the toes of their boots and sandals. She smiled as memories flitted through her mind.

Only one man in all Bainevah would dare to call Shazzur’s daughter “Sweetmeat.” Commander Asqual, Lord General of all Bainevah’s armies. He always gave her treats during ceremonies, to keep her quiet while her father stood with the King or her mother officiated at the altar. He had carved her dolls and told her stories about desert birds and captive princesses during the flight into exile long ago. Some of the letters to her father each fall and spring referred to her as “our little Sweetmeat.” He always had a little gift for her along with the scrolls and reports and supplies he sent to Shazzur.

Challen swallowed hard and assayed a smile at the black-haired, broad-shouldered, leathery man with such a rough yet comforting voice. She had forgotten what he looked and sounded like, and yet he held a warm place close to her heart.

“Welcome, Uncle,” she said with a smile.

“If only I were your uncle. Hopeful young soldiers would drown me with gifts, to put in a good word with your father.” Commander Asqual let out another roaring laugh.

Challen took deep breaths to fight the horrid blush filling her face, rushing through her body. She wanted to retreat to the tower, but didn’t dare. Appearances were everything.

“Enough, old friend,” Shazzur said, thumping Asqual’s arm. “I sent for you, but I see some disaster has prompted the King to send for us, instead. Is our exile truly finished?”

“Ah, it’s impossible to surprise seers.” The commander shook his head, sighing. His eyes sparkled despite his rueful tone. “You are once again desperately needed at Court. The King threatens to behead three-quarters of his Council. You were the only one who gave him solid advice to stave off the trouble.”

“The Three have fallen?” Challen clutched her father’s arm.

“Vanished. Along with all their priesthood and the Hidden City. Thread Woman, Color Man, Weaver Girl—all gone. The rains stopped at spring equinox. The Sacred Marriage failed at summer solstice. Now the King remembers you predicted disaster when others screamed the words you and your Naya spoke would destroy the kingdom.” Asqual spat to ward off the ill omen of his words.

“We are needed immediately, then?” Shazzur murmured. He stroked his newly-braided beard and gazed out over the desert.

“Yesterday, if the King could have it. If I know you, you’re already packed and ready for us.” He winked at Challen.

“Of course.” Shazzur shook his head. “I knew this, but I didn’t want to believe it. Come, we must drink and sleep away the rest of the day’s heat. We will leave with dusk.”

Challen choked down a cry of protest. Their possessions were indeed packed and ready. All that remained to do was gather up food, fill skins with water, and dismantle her wall loom. Still, she felt four hours notice was too short to prepare to leave the only home she truly knew. She smoothed the pleats of her sheath dress and shifted her shoulders against the bite of the bronze clasps into her bare skin. She couldn’t wait to take off this dress and put on sensible, light clothes, even if it was to work.

A prickling sensation crept over her body. She glanced up to meet the gazes of most of the soldiers. Some smiled. Most nodded respectfully to her and looked away, as was polite. A few looked her over as Challen imagined a man would do when buying a horse or slave. She envisioned flames traveling up the linen undertunic of the blond soldier who licked his lips.

She turned in a swirl of pleats and stalked back to the shadowed cool of the tower. Behind her, Shazzur and Asqual discussed the rigors of crossing the desert in summer, dust storms and bandit bands roaming the thin necklace of oases. Faintly, she heard the startled cries of a man and the laughter of others. The breeze brought her the scent of burned linen.

CHAPTER 3

Second Descent Moon

“How long ago did Commander Asqual leave?” Elzan demanded, barely giving the eunuch, Jushta time to open the door before bursting into his mother’s workroom in the Healers Temple.

“Good morning to you, my son,” Lady Mayar said, as if he had greeted her properly. “You are home in time to celebrate the moon fullness with me. I am pleased.”

She put down the wax slate she had been reading, likely a report on activities in the temple during the night. She wore the simple, dark green robes of the healers. Sitting before her long worktable, straight and poised in her green-cushioned chair of ebony, she was as regal as the king in Court.

As always, her impeccable appearance made Elzan feel eight years old and grubby. Indeed, he was grubby after riding six days and not even taking time to splash his face when he reached the palace. The news he had heard was more important than washing before racing to the temple to greet his mother.

“It may surprise you to learn I do not know everything that occurs in the palace.” Mayar nodded, dismissing Jushta so she and her son were alone in her workroom with its wide windows and green-tiled floor. “As a member of the Host of the Ram, Captain of the East Gate and the Water Gate, I would expect you to know the activities of the army better than I.”

“Mother…” Despite the slow burn of frustration, Elzan smiled. Only his mother could rebuke without screaming. That had always set her above the King’s other concubines. He settled onto the edge of the table covered with slates and jars and boxes of healing powders and salves, slightly to her right. “For the last two moons the East Gate has been trying to beat some skill into the Host of the Water Gate. We never heard about the failure of the Sacred Marriage until we were two days away.” He scratched at the stubble of beard grown during his long, hard ride back to the capital. “How is my—how is the King, since that happened?”

“Shaken.” Mayar contemplated her unadorned fingers in her lap. “Rumors circle the palace and fly out into the city, my hawk. It is hard to quiet them, when the drought proves them true. We should have had torrents of rain, but there was no virgin blood spilled. The maiden was not inhabited by Mother Matrika. And before we could gather the priests and learn who was at fault, she or the King, she vanished.”

“Ran away?”

“If she lost her virginity while living in the Sanctum, I would expect her to flee for her life. The remains of her body were found three days later, eaten by dogs. Rumors say she was killed to hide the fact that the King was at fault.”

“No.” Elzan stood to pace as he thought through implications and possibilities. “My father—the King would never order it. He would admit his guilt and willingly take the punishment from Chizhedek. But others would act to protect him, if they thought he was guilty. How do we find the truth and prove it?”

Elzan’s head ached and he was tired and gritty from his long ride. He wore his traveling leathers and they stuck to his bruised, sweaty flesh like an unpleasant second skin, scraping as he paced. For the first time in moons, Elzan looked forward to his summer Court costume of short kilt and bare chest. He was glad tradition forbade him to grow a beard until he was invested in his permanent rank; whether as a soldier, on the Council, or as the Crown Prince. With the growing heat, the less hair and costuming he had to endure, the better.

“Could the Bride have been drugged to block Mother Matrika?” he finally asked.

“If Matrika wished to bless Bainevah, could mere drugs keep her away? Many believe the foretold disaster is coming on us. I am among them,” his mother admitted.

“What haven’t I heard?” He went to his knees beside her chair and clasped her hands. It surprised him, as always, that he was taller than his mother, his hands larger. She was still the guiding light of his world, the source of calm and wisdom and strength—how could she be small?

“The Hidden City and the Three have vanished,” Lady Mayar whispered, closing her eyes.

“The Prophecy.”

“Yes.”

“Anath made me believe Shazzur was being brought home in punishment, not to help us.” Elzan bared his teeth. “The King must believe now only Shazzur understands the Prophecy. Only Shazzur can guide Bainevah from disaster.”

“Therefore, he sent Asqual to bring him home in honor. And with speed.”

“And?” he prompted, when she began to speak, then hesitated.

“And with his daughter. My dear friend Naya’s child. We must prepare to protect her, my hawk.”

“Protect?” He tried to recall dim memories of a quiet child with big, gray eyes. What was her name?

“Naya did not die simply because the ignorant and foolish thought she spoke blasphemy. Many priests agreed with her warnings of disaster. She was slaughtered in front of the altar to harm Shazzur, more than any other reason. Theirs was a great love—losing her could have stolen his mind and made him useless to the King. If he had not had their daughter to protect, he might have indeed followed her into death.”

“You think someone will try to kill her daughter, for the same reason?”

Lady Mayar shook her head as the roses faded from her cheeks. “Use her, twist her, degrade her to harm her father. The enemies of Bainevah will not try the same tactics again. They know she will be protected as if she were the only Sanctum Bride in the entire world. Indeed, that might be a wise idea…” Lady Mayar’s gaze grew distant and she nodded, smiling grimly. Then she blinked and seemed to come back to the moment.

“Whoever will try to take Shazzur’s wisdom from the King will do it subtly, attacking his heart by discrediting Naya’s daughter. Promise me, you will protect the girl as if she were your own full-blooded sister.”

“I swear, Mother.” Elzan clenched his fist, pressing his signet ring against his breastbone, so the sapphire in the ram’s mouth left a dent in his flesh.

“Forgive me.” She cupped his rough, dirty cheek in her hand and gazed into the luminous black eyes he inherited from her.

“For what?”

“For not giving you a host of full-blooded brothers to stand with you. These are perilous times we enter, and you have so few friends among the princes.”

“The ones I have are true and worth ten times the others.” Elzan flinched as he remembered what had slipped his mind. “Mother, Rushtan was poisoned while we were at battle games.”

“How is he?” She stood, reaching for her healer’s bag.

“Fine. I … healed him.” He stayed kneeling, feeling again like the impetuous little boy who had tried for grand things and only made a mess.

“Ah. I see.” Lady Mayar sat again and caught his chin with two fingers to tip his head back and look into his eyes.

A faint, golden glow sprang from her fingers and encircled Elzan’s head. She frowned as the healing aura faded.

“Elzan, will you let me call Vandan to examine you?”

“Please, Mother. I heard strange voices when I fell into the blackness.” He shook his head. “Do full healers hear voices, as if dark spirits were arguing over souls?”

“Not that I am aware. Vandan would know.” She reached for the jade mallet to tap her silver gong, to summon Jushta. “These are perilous times. Matrika guards Bainevah, but what if the guardians of other lands attack her? It is not for mortals to know what the Unseen permits among the demi-gods.”

Two hours later, shaved and washed, oiled and dressed for Court, Elzan walked the long hallway reserved for the royal family, which led to the King’s Council chamber. He went to formally present himself to the King and announce his return to the city, as required. He hoped also to learn the preparations for Shazzur and his daughter’s return to Bainevah.

Vandan, a third rank healer, had looked into his mind to determine what Elzan had witnessed after healing Rushtan. The priest had no idea, though he agreed with Lady Mayar’s theory. He promised to research the matter with the keeper of the archives and send word to Elzan when they had an answer. He warned it might never be more than his mother’s theory. Elzan had to be satisfied with that.

His white summer Court kilt whispered against his knees and the edges of the star-shaped plates of his green enameled belt scratched his bare midriff. Elzan tried to ignore the itch of the kohl around his eyes and the heavy slipperiness of the wide enameled pectoral collar he wore. It didn’t take long to get used to a simple lifestyle, he reflected; and to grow un-used to the jewels and costuming of Court. Sometimes he wished he could renounce his royal blood, take himself out of contention for the throne, and become something less hazardous to his health and sanity; a soldier living on the border with Dreva or constantly chasing the raiders from Chadrasheer, for instance.

Rushtan and other half-brothers could do that without fear of reprisal from the next king. They had not been considered heir apparent from the day they were born. As the King’s firstborn, son of the First Concubine and High Priestess of the Healers Temple, Elzan was too public a figure to give up the throne without outcry from both commoners and nobles. People would rally to him and rebel against the next king, whether Elzan wanted it or not.

More important, Elzan believed only two other princes able to lead Bainevah if he did not. He loved the kingdom and the people too much to entrust them to the other contenders.

“Back so soon?” Anath said, as Elzan rounded the final corner in the hallway to reach the Council chamber.

Three princes sat in the round room before the closed door, all dark of hair and eye, with wide shoulders and the square faces they all inherited from the King; a face that could look noble one moment and ugly as an enraged bear the next.

“You can’t go in,” he added with a smirk, as Elzan opened his mouth to respond. “Can he?”

Abrak and Mornan shook their heads. Neither one ever said much in Anath’s presence.

All three were dressed to the height of fashion, their kilts heavily embroidered with gold and precious stones so Elzan thought the cloth would tear from the weight. Their collars hung nearly to their navels. They wore enough rings and armbands for a merchant’s shop, and their slippers were heavy with gemstones. In contrast, Elzan’s gold-painted leather sandals looked almost naked with simplicity.

Elzan felt half-naked compared to his three half-brothers—and he felt more like a man than they looked.

“Is the King with Council, or is he ill? Rumors say he might have been poisoned,” Elzan added. Lady Mayar had told him all the news of the city. Poison was one of many explanations for the failure of the Sacred Marriage and the dearth of rain.

“The rumors say more than that.” Anath slouched against the wall and daintily crossed his ankles.

Elzan looked at his three perfumed and painted brothers and knew the disaster Shazzur predicted was already on them. If King Nebazz died tomorrow and enemies stormed the gates by noon, Bainevah was gravely in trouble. All the princes had nominal charge of different Hosts and Gates, to lead in the defense of the city. Elzan imagined his brothers squabbling over their hierarchy of command instead of concentrating on defending Bainevah. The country would be torn apart while they argued over who had the right to wear gold while the others wore silver and who would coordinate all the army units.

Elzan wished, not for the first time, that the tradition of the king taking many concubines and producing many sons had never begun. Those who supported the conflict claimed the practice provided the best possible heir, but Elzan saw it only as trouble for the land. Long ago, the king and the High Priestess united in the Sacred Marriage at solstice. There were no Sanctum Brides, no virgin at each ceremony. No concubines and half-brothers to squabble for precedence. The High Priestess’ son was the next king, with no one to contest his claim.

When had there been a priestess born to the sacred line? Not in two hundred years. High Priest Chizhedek’s only daughter had been the hope of those who wanted a return to the ancient ways that blessed Bainevah, but she had been murdered.

“Rumors say many things,” Elzan said, yanking his thoughts back to the present moment. “The truth always drowns them out.”

Anath snorted. “What is truth? It is whatever the powerful wish it to be. Remember that, when truth and power collide.”

Elzan knew better than to retort. Anath liked to play with words. He was a vicious enemy to have, and a dangerous friend, difficult to keep content.

Deciding to take his half-brother’s words at their opposite, Elzan strode to the door into the King’s chamber and rapped once; enough to get the attention of the guard on the other side of the door, but not disturb any discussions or a man who truly felt unwell. The door opened, the guard looked out and beckoned for Elzan to enter. The King expected him.

Elzan knew better than to glance over his shoulder to smirk his triumph at his half-brother. What game did Anath play? What did he know, and try to use against Elzan? He was glad to know Shazzur returned from his protective exile. Elzan spent hours every moon quarter studying in the Scribes Hall, trying to understand the web of prophecies that guarded and guided Bainevah and the Prophecy now coming to pass. Still, he had little hope of ever attaining the wisdom of the man who had spoken the Prophecy.

“Welcome Prince Doni’Mayar,” King Nebazz said, standing from the squared horseshoe of tables where he sat with his Council, the Lords of the eight Gates of Bainevah and his surviving half-siblings. “Only good news has come before you, regarding your work with the two Hosts entrusted to you. You please the throne and you serve Bainevah well.”

The door closed with a sharp click. Elzan bowed to the King and bit his lip against a smirk. He hoped his half-brothers had heard that praise. The King was pleased with him, and how often had the King praised his other sons so publicly?

“Control your dreams. Phrase your prayers carefully,” Challen murmured. She tightened her legs around the lamb’s wool-padded saddle and forced herself upright with bruised muscles. The easing of pressure brought a prickling sensation through her numb buttocks. Needles were an improvement, though she vowed she would never sit comfortably again.

For years, she had read stories where the heroes flew on horseback. The sorry pack mules and shaggy, hardy beasts used by merchants hadn’t been enough. Even the soldiers at the garrison hadn’t been given beautiful horses for desert patrol duty. She had sighed to see a horse from fable and legend. Riding anything resembling a horse had been just a dream. Until now.

For years, she had looked across the white-gold horizon to the red razor mountains and wished to see more green and blue than was contained in the oasis.

For years, she had contemplated her few memories of Bainevah and dreamed about the day she could visit the markets, see the gardens of the palace, walk through the Memory Gate and cross the Loom River to the burial grounds, and burn incense at her mother’s grave.

Now all her dreams would come true. With a vengeance.

Challen had never truly considered what the words “with a vengeance” actually entailed until now.

Her father had often warned her to be specific with her words, her dreams and wishes, with her opinions. He had trained her to be a scribe with clear eyes and probing mind. Shazzur had raised her on tales of magic and dealings with the demi-gods to teach her by example. Those who made vague and general wishes got what they wanted, yet never quite what they envisioned. The only way to avert disaster was to be specific.

For instance, he would tell her: Never wish for merely twenty horses. Wish for twenty brown horses with strong, tested saddles and good shoes. Older than two years, younger than seven. Well trained. With saddlebags full of fresh food, beautiful clothes suitable for travel and weapons for defense.

“I should have wished for fabled magic carpets to fly us home and buckets of snow to refresh ourselves at every stop,” Challen murmured.

The background thump-slide of hooves behind her changed tempo. She braced for the nightly attempt by yet another soldier to engage her in conversation and silly contortions of the face. Her father said the young men flirted with her. Challen thought their winks, raised brows and smirks were ridiculous and highly undignified, both for them and for her. Nineteen soldiers. This was their eighth night on the road; soldier eight would now try to engage her interest. Challen wondered why the previous seven didn’t warn their fellows not to bother her.

She dug her heels into her horse’s sides and urged it up alongside her father. Shazzur rode in the lead with Commander Asqual from the moment they left their resting place at dusk until they made camp at dawn. They talked constantly, Shazzur asking about the kingdom and Court and Asqual answering in details thick with his opinions.

“An hour earlier than usual.” Shazzur nodded to her, then glanced back at the soldier she had left behind.

He never teased her about her suitors, but Asqual grinned every time she used their company as protection. Challen suspected the big man seriously wanted to marry her off before they reached the end of their trip. He was proud of the men under his command, and she could understand why he believed a soldier in the Host of the Ram was the best possible husband for a girl to have. Still, why couldn’t he command his men to give her breathing room? She was going to Bainevah; she wanted years to roam and explore and taste before she settled down. She was her father’s right hand, more knowledgeable about the Prophecy than anyone in Bainevah except Shazzur—why couldn’t she have ambitions beyond capturing a man’s passion?

Moons of work and study waited for her. While her father spent his days at the King’s side, re-learning the pulse of the kingdom, Challen would live in the Scribes Hall, studying the scrolls denied her all her life. She would speak with the scribes and seers and distill their knowledge for her father’s use. They had planned this for years. Knowing what she would have to do to aid her father, Challen paid careful attention to everything Asqual said and analyzed it against what she knew.

The Three lived in the mountains north and west of Bainevah, inside a maze of twisting canyons in the appropriately named Hidden City. They served Mother Matrika as her prophets; spinning, dying, and weaving vast tapestries to foretell the world’s destiny. Yet in the centuries since the mortal family had been rewarded with semi-deity status for their sacrificial service to Mother Matrika, they had gradually stolen worship from her. Shazzur had warned against it. Naya had spoken so energetically against worshiping the Three, she had died for it.

Others had taken up the call to repentance and a return to the ancient, pure ways, when Naya died and Shazzur fled into exile with their daughter. They believed Mother Matrika would punish Bainevah. The Priesthood, including High Priest Chizhedek, supported the teachings, but it hadn’t been enough to turn the people’s hearts. It pleased Challen to learn Prince Doni’Mayar and his mother both openly held such a view. The prince had been her father’s pupil. She had grown up hearing her father reminisce about the bright boy who had valued his studies as much as soldiering. Yet despite everything the Priesthood and even the royal family had done, it wasn’t enough to avert disaster. The Three, the Hidden City, and their priests had vanished. And now the Sacred Marriage had failed.

One failure was a warning. If the Sacred Marriage at winter solstice failed, would Bainevah vanish? Would it be too late? Would the King be sacrificed, as in the ancient times of darkness and savagery?

Challen felt chilled as she listened to her father and Commander Asqual discuss that possibility. They pondered which faction in the Court would gain dominance, which would put the prince of its choice on the throne, and how much the resulting chaos would harm the kingdom. Where would her father be? Perhaps destroyed with the king he served?

She listened, ordering her thoughts and questions as Shazzur had taught her. “The Mother gave you two ears, two eyes and a brain ten times larger than your mouth,” he often told her, eyes bright despite his serious words. “Speak in just such proportion to what you see, hear, and think.”

“Five more days?” Challen asked, when Asqual paused to check their path by the stars nearly two hours later.

“Five if we don’t run into distractions.” Shazzur tipped his head back to look at the streaks of light across the sky. The first hints of dawn glowed pink and purple and green along the horizon to their right.

Distractions were dust storms, other travelers asking for directions, supplies or protection, or bandits demanding more.

“We’re turning a little too far north,” Challen said, after glancing upward and orienting herself to the Summer Star.

Asqual opened his mouth to respond, then frowned and glanced at her and pulled out his ombra. Part compass, part sextant, it carried a bit of enspelled silk which pointed directly to the heart of the palace and changed color if they were off track.

“For a girl who has never been anywhere…” He sighed and his frown melted into a grin. “You have your lady mother’s gifts, Kena’Shazzur’Challa’Naya.”

“Thank you, Commander,” she responded with a slight bow from her saddle. To use her pedigree name complimented her parents. “Perhaps someday I may serve with you as she did.”

“Hah! Every gray hair I wear came from worrying about her safety. And knowing your father would call down curses on me if anything happened to her.” He cast a sideways glance at Shazzur.

“My dear Naya was full of gifts, not all of them so worrisome as you remember,” Shazzur said with a smile that spoke the years of shared history between the two men. Challen was glad once again her father could return to his former place.

He had counseled her often not to rage against the tragedy that had struck them—her mother’s death, her brother’s kidnapping—but to see such changes in the river of their lives as gifts, and be glad for the years of quiet study and shelter from Court life. She tried to be grateful, but how could she be grateful for what did not trouble her if she had never experienced that trouble?

“Will you be a Sanctum Bride like your mother?” Asqual asked.

“I hope not.” Challen quelled a shudder.

“Challen doesn’t want to marry. She wants to be my assistant forever.” Her father chuckled. “I think the idea of participating in the Sacred Marriage frightens her.”

“Father!” She closed her eyes, wishing away the heat in her face.

She thought of the soldier who had tried to approach her. By the prickling in her back, she knew he watched, waiting until he could approach her again. He had learned nothing from his friends’ failures. She had no patience for fools. Unthinking, she transferred the heat from her face into his helmet.

A muffled curse and the thump of bronze against the cold desert sands told her she had succeeded.

“Challen,” Shazzur scolded, grinning. “I applaud your control, but your use of the Mother’s gifts needs refinement.”

“She’s doing me a favor,” Asqual said. “That one is determined to be the father of a nation before he passes on to Mother Matrika’s arms. But seriously, to serve as a Bride is an honor. Men will clamor to take you as wife.”

“I’ll only be allowed to marry a nobleman, and he’ll want me to be an ornament,” Challen said with a sigh. “He won’t let me continue my studies or serve as a healer as my Mother did. That’s the problem. Losing my virginity to the king has nothing to do with it.”

“It is ultimately your choice,” Shazzur said. “You forget, Naya refused all suitors when she left the Sanctum. She served as a healer and spy during the war with Dreva. Where would I be, where would you be, if she had not gone against all tradition?”

“In a way, Mother began a tradition which I could follow?” Challen smiled at that thought.

Behind them, the chastised soldier scooped up his helmet and remounted his horse as his companions passed him. There was silence beyond the thump-slide of the horses’ hooves on the cold sand. No teasing, no chuckles. Challen imagined the soldier intimidated his fellows with his scowl.

“Think of the benefits if you do go to the Sanctum,” Asqual continued. “Only two maidens are chosen each year. You might never go to the Chamber of the Suns. Your dowry comes from the king’s treasury. For whenever you choose to marry, or not marry,” he added, with a grin directed at Shazzur. “The blessings of Mother Matrika rest on you and your children.”

“The blessings didn’t keep my Mother alive.” Challen studied her fists clenched around her horse’s reins.

“I believe Matrika took her to protect her,” Shazzur said with a sigh. “I know my Naya still serves, in other ways, and I know we will be reunited someday. Death is only a doorway, my child. Remember that.”

“What happened to the Bride at solstice?” she asked, to fight off the shiver that came from her father echoing the words her mother had spoken in that last dream.

“It is uncertain,” Asqual said a little too quickly.

“Uncle.” She felt no guilt using that term of affection to command him. It had taken one day to learn Commander Asqual could deny her nothing when she addressed him so.

“She … is dead. Whether suicide or murder, it was still undecided when the King sent us to fetch you,” he admitted after a few seconds of harp string-tight silence. “What little the dogs left was barely worth examining.”

“Some would think being devoured by dogs is a sure sign of the Mother’s disfavor,” Shazzur said with the concern of one asking for salt.

Challen shuddered. Had someone murdered the girl because she had been impure? Or to hide some failing in the King? Or had she killed herself in guilt at failing Bainevah? Did she know some terrible secret and enemies feared she would tell?

Challen knew she would be offered the honor of being a Sanctum Bride because her mother, Naya had been one. She would refuse. It was her right.

CHAPTER 4

“Nine princes, three princesses,” Challen muttered an hour later, after she had dropped back behind her father and Asqual to study a scroll. “Why learn their names? I will never go to Court. The King’s children will not seek me out as a friend, so what does it matter?” She snorted, amused at how her horse’s ears twitched in rhythm with her grumbling.

The King’s Council, however—those names were important. The Lords of the Gates did not inherit their posts but were granted their positions as they proved themselves of service to Bainevah. Each Gate governed a section of the city, and had its own Host to protect it, each commanded by one of the King’s brothers or sons, in partnership with a seasoned, proven soldier. The North, Water, East, Memory, South, River, Merchants, and West gates. To round out the King’s Council were his three surviving half-brothers and two sisters—High Priest Chizhedek, Cho’Mat of the Scribes Hall, Commander Asqual to represent the armies, and the King’s scribe, Abendago.

Shazzur would return to the Council as King’s Seer. Asqual had very carefully not said what had happened to the last in a long line of priests and scribes who had tried to replace Shazzur in the last fifteen years. Challen did not want to know, and she was only partially amused that her father had not asked, either. Then again, for all she knew, Shazzur had seen it in a vision and didn’t need to ask.

“There is a good spot.” Asqual stood in his stirrups and gestured toward a blot on the horizon, which Challen hoped was an oasis. Last night’s camp had been around a spur of rock that provided changeable shade as the sun traveled the sky. She prayed for trees and pools of water, maybe a few birds.

As the silvery glow on the horizon changed to purple and rose and then to gold as day crept in, the blot resolved into an oasis. Challen smiled, though it made her dry lips crack. The horses moved faster, smelling water and greenery. She smiled at the soldiers who rode alongside her now, their traveling group losing its disciplined order in the rush to reach their goal.

She had temporarily forgotten about the soldier whose helmet she heated, but when she dismounted at the edge of the oasis, she braced for the next attempt. Why did these soldiers play their silly courting games with her? Didn’t they have sweethearts and wives waiting for them? Why trouble her? Why return for one rebuff after another? Why couldn’t they leave her alone to live in her father’s shadow as a scribe, as she wished?

“Lady Kena’Shazzur?” The soldier in charge of the horses approached her. He held out a hand for her horse’s reins and didn’t look directly at her.

“Thank you, Ballon,” Challen said. She liked the dark-skinned young man, scarred from the hooves of pain-maddened horses. Ballon didn’t court her, but told her about his sweet, quiet wife and twin sons waiting at home.

The horseman grinned and nodded over Challen’s shoulder once before he led the mare away. Challen sighed, knowing it for a warning that someone waited to catch her alone.

“Father?” She hurried through the soldiers unloading the tents from the backs of the mules.

The man behind Challen didn’t follow. She felt no prickling of gazes trying to pierce her desert robes. This sense of warning, according to her father, was not an ordinary thing among young women. Was it a gift, inherited from her mother who had spied behind enemy lines? Or merely a result of having lived so isolated all her life?

Challen rather hoped the sensitivity would stay, even at the price of discomfort. She felt safer knowing someone watched her, rather than the illusion of obscurity.

While she busied herself finding their bags and drawing water to wash, the soldiers set up camp. Challen gratefully slid into the warm darkness of her little tent to wash and change into clothes that didn’t smell of horse and sweat. She brought her robes outside to dry and air in the breezes flowing through the oasis. She gloried in the feel of moss and grass, cool under her bare feet as she went to the cook fire to fetch bowls for herself, her father, and Asqual.

Shazzur and the commander were already deep into their morning game of Draktan when Challen brought lukewarm stew and greasy bread to the base of the tree where they sat. They smiled and nodded thanks, said not a word and bent their heads over the map drawn on an old, worn hide. Challen sat where she could see the playing field and ate in silence.

Draktan was a game of strategy, sometimes played with pebbles on a field drawn on a skin, sometimes with carved semi-precious stones on an ornately inlaid wooden board. Shazzur had taught Challen the game, but she had never cared for it. The only part of Draktan that fascinated her was how the playing pieces did not retain the ranks they held at the start of the game. Low-ranked pieces could be forced into actions, moving in patterns that did not benefit them but aided the larger, more powerful pieces. That made sense. However, weak pieces could manipulate conditions so strong pieces were forced to act and sometimes lose rank. Keeping the current rank of each piece straight in her head was a challenge she enjoyed, and a skill Shazzur insisted she learn.

“Tonight we will leave the desert,” Asqual said as he paused to wipe spicy gravy from his bowl with the last of his bread. He grinned at Challen. “Not that you could tell the change, with the drought, but our going will be swifter.”

“We should reach the walls of Bainevah before the moon darkness,” Shazzur said, nodding.

“Is that important, Father?” Challen said.

“The fewer chances our enemies have to strike at us, the better I feel.”

“Enemies?” Asqual sighed. “Is there something you’re not telling me, old friend?”

“The Sacred Marriage has failed and the Three have vanished.” Shazzur examined each pebble as he put away the game. “As Bainevah has enemies among other nations, Mother Matrika has enemies among the demi-gods. The heresy of the Three has perhaps helped her enemies against her. Is it not logical they wish to keep us from mending our ways, so she remains vulnerable?”

“I thought I was glad to have you returned to your old place.” The commander mustered a grin and shook his head. “Has he talked in riddles like this all your life, Sweetmeat?”

“No.” Challen picked up their bowls and took them back to the cook fire, where another soldier set grains to soak for their evening porridge.

How could Commander Asqual accuse her father of speaking in riddles? What Shazzur had said made too much sense, and Challen mentally kicked herself for not realizing it earlier.

Mother Matrika’s power lay in the moon fullness. During the two nights of fullness, the people celebrated; marriages and betrothals were performed and children named. Children born during the fullness were considered lucky. Solstice and equinox festivals were always during the nights of fullness.

Conversely, people stayed home during the nights of moon darkness when the moon hid its face in the night sky. Expectant mothers tried to slow their labor, if it appeared their child would be born in those days.

When would be the most propitious time for an enemy to strike? During the moon dark nights, of course.

Challen blamed the heat, the spices in the stew, and Shazzur’s words for her restless day’s sleep. She could not blame them for her dreams, however. She had been dreaming of the bull-horned shadow-man for moons now, it seemed. He stood at the edges of her dreams, watching her, his clawed hands open like a child waiting to catch a ball.

After all this time, Challen had grown adept at escaping her dreams the moment she sensed his dry, cold presence. She did so now, irked that she had lost what little sleep she had found. If only her vision-soldier could come and drive away the shadow-man. Ah, but such wishing was for frightened children. She had been trained by Shazzur the Seer and knew better.

Challen whispered a prayer to Matrika to guard her and silently recited the most boring historical ballad she knew to drive herself back into sleep. It usually worked wonderfully.

It didn’t work now, in the hissing silence of the oasis.

She finally gave up and crept out of her little tent when the sun still hovered two hands’ width above the horizon. There were two soldiers on watch, one on either side of the oblong oasis. She studied them to determine the pattern they walked to watch the horizon and stay within the shade. Then, she went back to her tent and peeled off all but her sleeveless sheath and padded barefoot and silent to the spring.

Using a cooking bucket, she dipped up water and poured it over herself, always careful the runoff did not go back into the water but filtered through the soil. There was the courtesy of the waterhole to maintain. She couldn’t pollute the only drinking water within a day’s journey.

In the warm, thick air the drenching wasn’t as refreshing as she hoped, but Challen still sighed for pure pleasure. She stood a long while, luxuriating in the decadent sensation of her hair dripping wet and heavy down her back and her clothes sticking to her skin without sweat salt.

If only she could sit with her clothes nearly sheer with water and wait until they dried. But that would encourage those idiot soldiers. No, it was time to head back to her tent.

A thread of ice ran down her back. Challen turned to find the cooler air and follow it.

The chill air wove through the oasis like a snake’s undulation through the sand. Challen frowned after the sixth crooked step and the chill crept through her middle instead of simply raising goosebumps on her flesh.

This did not make sense.

“Uncle?” Challen yanked aside the door curtain of the tent Commander Asqual and her father shared. “Father? Something is wrong.” Quickly, she told them of the chill breeze that did not follow a straight path, unaffected by trees or other obstacles.

Shazzur was on his feet and outside, hands outstretched and eyes half-closed before Challen had finished. He pointed from the midpoint of the oasis, straight north. A jagged lump sitting on the horizon was the shattered feet of the mountains. He intoned a prayer and held out his hands. Challen gripped his hand and immediately the glare of sun on sand changed hue. Distant features appeared clear in gray, black, and poison green.

“There!” She pointed with her free hand and turned to see Asqual had done the same.

The dark line on the horizon wavered and broke into black dots and those dots grew larger with every heartbeat. Something moved toward the oasis in the considerable heat of the afternoon; moving with unnatural speed.

Commander Asqual shouted orders. He strode off across the oasis as his men leaped from their watch posts or shelters and fell into battle readiness.

“Father?”

“The enemy is desperate to have us, my dear.” Shazzur caught her elbow in his hand and directed her back toward her tent. “The timing is bad for them, but good for us.” He looked her over with a crooked smile. “You had better change your clothes. Something you won’t mind staining with blood and ointments,” he added before Challen could blush. “Thank the Mother you have Naya’s healing gift in full portion.”

The hard part was the waiting. Despite the speed of the enemy bearing down on them, it was nearly twenty minutes before those waiting in the oasis heard the thud of feet on hot sand, the jingle of harnesses, the scream of the rising wind across spear points and arrowheads and sharp-crested helmets.

The soldiers moved with dream-like quiet efficiency and speed. They collapsed the tents, herded the animals into the middle of the oasis and wove a makeshift pen of ropes among the trees. Challen and Shazzur fed the cooking fire and spread out the contents of the healer’s chest. Challen took three knives and two spears from the stock of weapons. She could defend herself and her father, and she would. As she prepared, she sent up a prayer that her skills would meet the challenge.

The rumble of the oncoming attackers burst on them, like a glass bubble of perfume shattering, spreading sound and a poisonous chill across the oasis. Challen held her breath, crouched next to her father, fearing the air had turned deadly.

“They use magic to disguise their presence,” Shazzur murmured. “Comforting to know it takes little to disperse it.”

“We were warned.”

“Yes. We were.” He cast a measuring glance at her and smiled. “Your gifts emerge as they are needed.”

Challen bit her lip against her usual complaint that not knowing was the worst part. As her father constantly told her, she had to trust Mother Matrika to know best.

A hoarse shout rolled across the oasis. Not human or any animal Challen could imagine. She gagged as a noxious stink filled the air. It smelled like a wound gone gangrenous, wrapped up in filthy bandages in scorching heat. A drover had been injured and neglected his wound until he was too ill to move, when Challen was ten. He had lost his leg, and she would never forget the stink that made her empty her stomach.

“So it begins,” Asqual said, joining them. He wore a silver browband just visible under his helmet; studded with turquoise, emeralds, and sapphires sacred to Mother Matrika. “They do not outnumber us, and that worries me.” He held out a hand and Shazzur sprang to his feet to clasp it.

Challen stayed silent. She knew the band let him see through his soldiers’ eyes and speak guidance to their minds. The nineteen young men ranged around the oasis formed a living fence with their bodies and swords, shields, spears, and arrows.

The enemy did not outnumber the Host of the Ram, so how many were there?

Another unnatural scream slashed the air. The sound of clashing metal shrieked along her nerves. A dull thud resounded as bodies met with speed and force.

If the enemy did not depend on numbers for victory, they depended on dark powers. Commander Asqual needed Shazzur’s extra strength to guide his soldiers. Challen paused only a moment to consider, then clasped her father’s free hand.

Well done, my dear, Shazzur thought to her. Float, as I taught you. Listen and watch, but do not even think.

She fought not to even nod acknowledgement of his order. Challen was in the link to give strength, and nothing else.

Through one soldier’s eyes, she saw a black, undulating cloud with armored arms and legs, flashing two swords. He thought of his crippled musician father before leaping forward and swinging at the place where the head belonged.

Another soldier lunged into the saddle of a creature with a horse’s head, snake’s fangs, six legs with claws like an eagle’s, and a tail with a scorpion’s sting. The soldier hung on with his legs and stabbed long knives into the neck and belly and head with both hands, while the monstrosity shrieked and reared and stumbled across the churned sand. Blood geysered greenish-black and glistening in the unrelenting sun.

The blond soldier who had licked his lips thrust his spear into a man twice his height and as the giant staggered, fumbling at the shaft in his chest, drew his sword and hewed at his legs. The sword rang against leg scales like a bronze axe on stone. The blade spat sparks and snapped with an ear-piercing shriek. The giant plucked the spear from his chest, dripping orange blood, and flung it at the soldier.

He ducked, but the steaming spearhead scored his arm, sending fire through his body. He went down as paralysis ate at his limbs.

To him! Asqual commanded, and instantly three soldiers leaped to shield their comrade.

Challen drew back from the link when the images came in multiples. She clung to her father’s hand as the oasis spun around her; as if she stood in the tower room and twirled on her toes, seeing through all the windows at once.

“Enough, child,” Shazzur whispered, and released her hand. Challen staggered backwards, a protest creaking from her lips. “We have won. It is time to heal.”

The blond soldier was the only one seriously injured, poisoned by the enemy’s blood. The others were bruised, their armor dented, their bodies caked with dust turned to mud by their sweat. They smiled grimly as they gathered up the fragments left behind by their fleeing enemies and made a pile at the eastern edge of the oasis.

Challen moved in a daze, carrying hot water to wash scrapes, mixing potions, dipping out energizing brews for the soldiers to drink and cleanse their blood. After giving so much in the link with Commander Asqual and Shazzur, her father refused to let her touch-heal, and she was grateful. She tried not to think, leaving that for the long nighttime ride.

The soldiers all washed vigorously. Their lives depended on cleansing themselves of any poison left by their enemies. They passed the metal pieces of armor through the cleansing fire Shazzur built outside the oasis. They scrubbed the leather and cloth pieces with a dry mixture of holy herbs.

There were only four enemy monster warriors and their unnatural mounts. Four, against twenty from the Host of the Ram. Why so few? Challen thought about the magic that had enfolded the approaching enemy, keeping them silent and unseen. They had come in the heat of the day, when travelers would be muddle-headed if not asleep.

“They were too arrogant,” she said in a voice full of pottery shards.

“Hmm. Yes.” Shazzur tipped a healing brew down the throat of the blond soldier, who had regained control of his limbs, but shivered too much to hold a cup. “They will not be so again.”

“Father, they were after you. They know you can help the King and return the Three.”

“I hope so.” He stood and held out the empty cup to her. When she reached to take it, he stopped her with a hand cupping her cheek. “When they strike at you, then I may falter.”

“But I am useless.” She almost laughed. “I am your student, an extra pair of hands and eyes and ears. Nothing more.”

“Pray our enemy believes so. It will keep you alive and invisible.” Her father smiled, caressed her cheek with his rough thumb, then yanked her tangled, unbound hair. “Come, it is time to leave.”

Challen swallowed a groan of pure frustration. Her father talked in riddles. What irked her was the sense she should understand him, and he spoke to confuse strangers.

She turned as a crackling sound filled the air, and saw a fire leap from the center of the enemy’s leavings. The aftertaste of rot in the air began to dissipate. Challen welcomed the heat, feeling the cleansing in it. Strange, how brightly the flames leaped, casting a pure white light outlined by black shadows as the fragments of cloth and broken spears and even sand tainted with poisonous blood went up in flames.

A chill ran down her back as the events of the afternoon galloped through her memory.

“Father?” She dropped the cup. “They had no shadows!”

“Hmm?” Shazzur’s quizzical frown was almost comical.

He pressed his fingertips to his temples and she knew he cast back in his memory to the battle they had witnessed through the soldiers’ eyes. After a few heartbeats, he stiffened and nodded. Something in his measuring gaze made her uncomfortable, as if she had changed the color of her hair or skin.

“You are right. I could not see it except through your eyes in the link of our minds. How strange that such a clear sign evades me. Well, once I am able to confer with Cho’Mat again, we will find a way to see more clearly. In the meantime, we must rely on you as our watchguard.” He nodded sharply and smiled. “The Mother does have an ironic sense of humor, does she not?”

“Mother, you sent for me?” Elzan nodded to Jushta as the eunuch closed the door to his mother’s suite of rooms. He grinned at the aromas of pheasant stuffed with peaches and the tang of bogberries in heavy sweetbread. His mouth watered as he crossed the reception chamber and opened the door into the room where Lady Mayar entertained guests at meals. “Mother?”

“She’ll return in a moment.” King Nebazz stood from the long bench covered with cushions between the table and the wall.

“Majesty.”

Elzan felt that jolt he had always hated since he was young and realized he was different from other boys. He could not run to his father to share adventures and secrets or ask advice; he could not address him as Father, or hear his familiar name spoken except in rare, private moments, for the King was always the king and could not show favoritism even to the lone child of his favorite concubine.

That jolt, Elzan had learned long ago, was part regret, part resentment, part aching confusion over his beloved mother’s uncertain status.

“Welcome, Doni’Mayar.” He crossed to the table where jugs of wine and trays of delicacies waited to tempt the appetite.

“May I serve you, Majesty?” Elzan looked but saw no one else in the room; not even a lone bodyguard or scribe. A faint evening breeze shifted the sheer green curtains covering the open windows that filled one long wall.

“We are both your mother’s guests tonight.” He smiled and shook his head and hefted a pale green jug of the watered wine Mayar preferred. Bits of berries and lemons countered the tang of the wine with sweet perfume.

Elzan waited until the King had filled his goblet before he served himself. He took a half serving of new wine, barely allowed to ferment, and added water scented with apple blossoms. Never in his life could he remember a private meal shared with his mother and the King. He knew better than to believe this was some last-gasp effort at familial closeness. He knew better than to hope the King would tell him he was to be named Crown Prince.

“Majesty, does this have to do with the return of the Seer, Doni’Hobad—” he began.

“Yes, this has much to do with my faithful Shazzur’s return.” The King sipped at his wine and studied Elzan, who remained standing with half the length of the room between them.

“Don’t look so stunned, my hawk,” Lady Mayar said, coming into the room.

Elzan had no idea how he could be more stunned. His mother carried a tray with their first course of the dinner—bowls of cold fruit stew and long fingers of dark, bitter bread. Why would his mother serve them, unless there were no servants present? This evening, he suspected, was to be far more momentous than a rare family meal together.

“Sit, Prince Elzan.” The King half-smiled when Elzan straightened at that familiar address and immediately obeyed. “You blamed me, when Lady Naya was murdered and Shazzur fled for his life. You said I had ignored the warnings from the priests and my own Seer, and blood was on my hands.” He spoke with tired tones that held no anger.

Elzan set down his goblet to keep from dropping it. “Majesty, I remember little about that time, but—”

“You spoke from youth and your certainty in what was true and right. I found no fault with you at that time, and the years have given weight to your convictions.” King Nebazz nodded and absently tore a piece of bread in two. “You hated me.”

“That is treason.”

“What does a boy’s wounded heart know of treason? I was proud then, and proud now of your loyalty, your devotion to the truth despite what others thought of you. Many of Shazzur’s so-called friends and supporters grew quiet when the winds of politics and popular opinion blew against him. No one cried out for justice for his murdered lady. As I recall, you even demanded that I provide you with soldiers so you could hunt Shazzur’s kidnapped son.”

“I was an impetuous, prideful boy.” Elzan offered a crooked smile. “And, I have to admit, I wanted the adventure just as much as I wanted to find Asha.”

“It says much for you, that you remember the boy’s name at all,” Lady Mayar murmured as she sat down to join them.

“Are you going to send me out now, Majesty?” Elzan ignored the throb of disappointment in his chest. Shazzur was returning to Bainevah, after fifteen years, and he would not be able to welcome his beloved tutor?

“Shazzur knows far more of the fate of his son than anyone,” the King said, shaking his head. “He is confident the boy is safe, and that is enough for me. No, I have a far more important duty for you to perform.”

“Shazzur’s return signals a pivotal moment in the history of Bainevah, and the crisis brought on us by the disappearance of the Three,” Lady Mayar said, glancing between the King and their son. “The Prophecy has been neglected because the loudest voices led Bainevah to believe other concerns were more weighty and dangerous. We find this is not true, now.”

“Your mother tells me you still study prophecy and history.” King Nebazz chuckled. “And still earn the worthless scorn of your brothers.”

“Sir?” Elzan could hardly think beyond the revelation that the King was pleased with him, granting him a place in his confidences.

“I hear that after Shazzur himself, you are the most versed in the Prophecy, in all of Bainevah. I give you a private charge to deepen your studies and tell me everything you know and learn and hear, no matter how unpleasant, no matter how foul a light it casts on me and my reign.”

“Majesty, your will is my joy.” He was grateful for Court phrasing that put words in his mouth when he couldn’t think of any response of his own.

“No—my will has not always been your joy, and there will be times in the future when it will not be a joy, but you will hold fast. That is why I treasure your service. You are loyal to Bainevah and the Mother first, then to your king, and that is proper. Never change that, even if you fear my displeasure.”

“Yes, sir.” Elzan pressed his ram’s head signet against his chest and bowed his head.

“It will not be pleasant dinner conversation,” Lady Mayar said with a smile, “but you had best start teaching us about the Prophecy beginning now, my hawk.”

“Yes, Mother.” He glanced up and was startled when the King winked at him. Warmth flooded Elzan. He would treasure this evening, strange as it tasted, because of the closeness of that simple gesture; a shared moment; more precious to him than the King’s words of praise and confidence.

Shazzur would be in Bainevah in four more days. Elzan knew he had a monumental task ahead of him, to acquaint the King with all his discoveries and theories, so no time would be wasted when the Seer and First Advisor returned to his proper place.

CHAPTER 5

A gray-haired, clean-shaven man in the dark green robes of a healer priest waited at the Merchant’s Gate when the traveling party arrived in Bainevah on the fourteenth night of the journey. Challen was too achy and dry-eyed to feel more than gratitude that someone had anticipated their arrival. They wouldn’t have to wait outside the gates until the commander of the gate’s Host left his bed to look them over and let them into the city.

The river through the center of the gate startled Challen. This was the Thread River, the largest of the two which ran through Bainevah, larger than the Loom River by the Memory Gate. She stared at the water, sparkling in the starlight and the crescent moon. Asqual had said the rivers were dangerously low, and it made Challen slightly queasy to imagine three times as much water rushing between those banks. She turned from the river to the open gate with light spilling out through it.

The priest stepped out to meet them and soldiers in the armor of the Host of the Ram followed, half of them carrying torches. Their regalia gleamed in the torchlight, spattering brilliance as they saluted Commander Asqual. The priest saluted Shazzur with a bow, the fingertips of both hands pressed to his forehead. Then he turned to Challen and spread his hands wide, palms up in the welcome of a peer.

“High Priestess Mayar, Lady of the Healers Temple, First Concubine of King Doni’Jazzan’Nebazz’Dayona bids a mother’s welcome to Kena’Shazzur’Challa’Naya. If the King’s Seer wishes, she will shelter Lady Kena’Shazzur within the temple.”

“The King’s Seer wishes it greatly and expresses his gratitude to Lady Mayar,” Shazzur rumbled after only the slightest pause.

It took Challen a moment to work through the Court phrasing. Studying it was one thing, but use was another. Lady Mayar offered quarters in the temple for Challen until Shazzur’s household was established. Simple enough, but underneath was a warning: to Shazzur, that he had enemies; to the enemies, that they should ignore Shazzur’s daughter.

Now Challen understood her father’s maxim that politeness was a deadlier weapon than a sword, with longer-lasting results.

“This is farewell for now, Sweetmeat,” Commander Asqual murmured as he helped her down from her horse. He squeezed her arm and tugged the hood of her desert robe forward, so it hung around her face in multiple folds. “In a few days, we’ll go for that long tour of the city.”

“I would like that very much, Uncle.” She met her father’s gaze as Shazzur dismounted and joined them. He nodded slightly and tugged on her desert robe to shake dust out of it. A warning to leave the past behind, to walk carefully, or some other warning she would have to interpret later? Or all three?

“Walking, not riding, eh?” Asqual winked at the green-robed priest as he and Shazzur walked with Challen to meet him.

“We will appreciate time on our own feet for a change,” Shazzur said. He gave a formal bow to the priest, from the hips, arms folded inside his sleeves; the greeting from one dedicated servant to another. The priest’s mouth flicked a smile at one corner and he returned the bow.

“My gratitude and blessings on Lady Mayar and the loyal servants of the Healers Temple,” he continued, raising his voice to be heard above the crackling of the torches and the warm wind that hissed around the base of the city walls. As if, Challen realized, he wanted unfriendly ears to hear. “My daughter, my heart’s delight shall be safe in her care. I bid my daughter devote herself to what she learns here, so the gifts inherited from her dear mother will blossom in Mother Matrika’s design.”

That was an admonition if Challen ever heard one, directed more to her than anyone. Illness cared little for rank or wealth and ravaged the noble as hungrily as the slave. She would see people stripped of their veneer of manners and fashion and learn how they truly were. Challen realized her father was right; if she was obedient, Mother Matrika would grant her desires and overflow her opportunities.

“May I be a dutiful daughter, my heart and mind open to all the Temple wishes to teach me,” Challen said, bowing and giving her hand to the priest.

“Welcome, Lady,” he murmured, and squeezed her hand.

His was warm and dry, sensitive and thin, the fingers streaked with tiny scars and burns. She guessed he was a healer who worked with herbs, healing with the gifts of the land rather than with powers granted by the Mother.

“Is it a long walk to the temple, Master?” She returned his welcoming smile. His gray eyes were friendly, like lamps shining from a clean room.

“Long enough for a pleasant talk, Lady. Welcome back to Bainevah, Lord Seer, Commander Asqual, soldiers of the Host of the Ram.” He bowed to Shazzur and Asqual, then shifted Challen’s hand to his elbow and turned, leading her from the gate. Four soldiers, their faces hidden in shadows and helmets, followed while the rest stayed with Shazzur and Asqual.

“My clothes,” Challen murmured, then bit her lip. Now was not the time to question. Even something as petty as wondering what she would wear to bed, or where she would sleep.

“The Lady waits and all is prepared.”

Challen nearly stopped short as she realized for the first time since childhood, she would not be within the range of her father’s voice when she went to sleep and when she woke. She could not imagine the world continuing if she could not bid him good dreaming and hear his morning blessing.

The soldiers were silent, two walking ahead with a torch to light their way, the other two behind. The faint hiss-click brushing of their armor, metal plates against leather, was almost a comforting sound.

Elzan gritted his teeth in frustration. He had put on a disguise and insinuated himself among the soldiers meeting Shazzur’s party specifically so he could get close to his old teacher, to greet him and exchange news without half the Court knowing. Then Vandan had chosen him along with three first-year officer trainees to act as escort for Shazzur’s daughter. Elzan couldn’t very well break his disguise to protest and demand his own way. That would defeat his purpose.

Well, he would simply have to rise early and hope Shazzur arrived at Court before everyone else, so they could talk.

To add to his frustration, he had been assigned to the back of the company. All he could see of young Kena’Shazzur were the voluminous folds of her dusty white desert robes. Not even a glimpse of hair. He couldn’t tell if she were slim or round. He hadn’t even been close enough to hear her speak to Vandan and her father. He bit his lip to muffle a groan and wished he had stayed in his bed instead of climbing onto the roof and risking being speared by a guard when he took the back ways out of the palace complex.

His mother had made him swear to protect Kena’Shazzur as his own sister, hadn’t she? Lady Mayar would be pleased he had escorted the girl safely to the Healers Temple, even if that hadn’t been his intention.

“May I ask your name, sir?” Challen ventured, when she had lost track of the turns their little company had taken, winding through the merchant section of the city.

In the darkness, with lamps lit only at the meeting of streets, it was hard to tell the character of the sleeping city. She knew the Healers Temple lay in the juncture between the merchant, artisan and noble class sections of the city. They passed through many streets of the market area now, all closed shops and empty booths and fountains bubbling quietly under the cloudless, vast night sky.

“Vandan, Lady.” His arm tensed under the weight of her hand. Through the thin summer robe, Challen felt lean cords of muscle. “I knew your mother. She was my teacher when I came to the temple as an orphan. For her sake, I asked to wait for you.”

Challen caught her breath, feeling tears pressing hot against her eyes. “You honor me, Master Vandan.”

“I loved her greatly.” He chuckled and she heard the weariness of several nights of waiting through the dark watches. “All the little boys loved her. She was that rare woman who was mother, playmate, and teacher, the one we vowed to die for from the moment she first smiled at us. We admired your father despite our jealousy, for we knew only a truly great and good man could win the heart of Priestess Naya.”

“Can you—is it permitted for you to tell me of her?”

“I will perhaps be able to show you my memories, Lady.” Vandan pressed two fingers briefly against Challen’s forehead. The tips vibrated against her skin and she felt a hum in the center of her skull. “My sole gift is the ability to find gifts and strengths in others. You carry your mother’s gifts. Perhaps you carry the talent of a mind scribe, like her, to reach into the thoughts of others and send your thoughts to their minds. The music of your spirit plays on many levels, so I know there is much potential waiting to be released.”

“That’s what Father says constantly.” Her face heated at the chagrin in her tone, which earned a chuckle from her guide.

“As one must listen many times to a musical piece before he can separate and identify the instruments played, much time and attention must be paid to your many gifts and strengths before they can be identified and appreciated each individually.”

“I have many, so that’s why it’s hard to develop one?”

“I believe so.”

That concept occupied her thoughts for the remainder of their walk, which took one more turn and then crossed a plaza filled with fountains. Because of the drought, even the deep water tables under Bainevah’s capital were affected. The fountains that should have jetted above the rooftops spattered a few handspans above the heads of their stags and rams and eagles. Still, here was more water in one place than Challen could recall in her entire life. She wanted to go to a fountain and splash in barefoot.

The plaza surrounded the Healers Temple on all sides. Octagonal, many streets fed into it. The temple was round, seven stories high, in tiers so each level had gardens planted in massive troughs of soil. The healers grew their many medicines in those gardens. Even in the starlight, Challen noted the garden terraces were vibrant green, compared to the yellow, withered look she had seen in the countryside the last five days. Was that health attributed to these fountains, or a special blessing, or the healing power of the priests?

The massive temple doors opened, spilling golden light down the white steps as the six approached. Ten priests in two lines emerged, carrying torches. A lady with long, dark hair and a pale face walked between them. Challen’s heart skipped a few beats in a curious mix of awe, apprehension, and a sense of homecoming. This was Lady Mayar, High Priestess of the healers, equal in power with High Priest Chizhedek. She was First Concubine, and according to Shazzur, should have long ago become queen when King Nebazz designated her son as his heir.

But the prince was not the heir yet. Why? The King could only marry the mother of his heir, and was permitted seven concubines. From those concubines came more sons to contend for the throne and trouble the future.

Challen wondered what was wrong with the King, that he waited so long to choose. Was there something wrong with all his sons? She couldn’t imagine every prince so perfect in mind and skill the King couldn’t choose the best from among them.

“Welcome, my child,” Lady Mayar said, cutting off Challen’s train of thought. She laughed when Challen dropped to her knees before her. “No, Kena’Naya, you must never bow to me. I would have made you my daughter if your father and the King had permitted, and you shall have that status now among us.”

“Lady—Highness—” Challen kept her head bowed as she responded to Lady Mayar’s hand on her arm, raising her to her feet. “I only know Court manners in theory, not in practice. Please forgive my clumsiness. I shall likely shame you many times until I become used to moving among strangers.”

“And that is why you are here.” She caught Challen’s chin with two fingers and gently tipped the young woman’s head up so their eyes met. “You have your father’s eyes and hair, but your mother’s face and her glowing spirit—ah, and her strength. I was right, was I not, Vandan?”

“Very right, Lady.” Vandan winked at Challen. He signaled to the soldiers escorting them. Three of the four left; the fourth moved up the stairs behind the waiting priests and went into the temple. Challen had no time to wonder why.

“You are home now. Naya brought you here only a moon after you were born and the living flame leaped nearly to the ceiling when you came before it.” Lady Mayar linked her arm through Challen’s and they started up the steps. “Your mother and I were delighted at that sign of many great and wonderful things awaiting you. Are you still called Challen, or has your father altered your familiar name?”

“Challen, Highness.”

“Ah, none of that. If you must, call me Mistress or Lady, for I shall be your teacher. I would rather you call me Aunt.” She chuckled when Challen flinched at the mere suggestion of such familiarity. “You won’t allow yourself that, will you?”

“I cannot, Lady. Everything is so new and I am unused to grand and formal ways.” She tried not to hesitate as they stepped through the open doors into the temple, but it was hard. Challen decided she preferred the open city to the enclosed vastness of buildings filled with unfamiliar colors and scents and shapes. “It is better to creep on my hands and knees in a world where I cannot see clearly.”

“There speaks your father. Shazzur is wise enough not to have created you in his image, but what other example have you had?” Lady Mayar gestured up the stairs along the right wall. “Come. We shall bathe you and feed you and give you a soft bed. When day comes, then there shall be more than enough time to decide the first steps in your new journey.”

Challen couldn’t sleep. She refused to sleep, with so many sights and sounds all around her, even in the dead quiet of the plaza surrounding the temple this late at night. The temptation of those fountains called to her. Even the luxury of a deep tub of cool, scented water to bathe in, and a soft bed and the weariness ground into her bones couldn’t dilute the allure of those fountains. There was no one about in the plaza at this time of the night. No one would see her. She wouldn’t detract from her father’s dignity, would she? Smiling, silently calling herself a silly child, she climbed out of bed.

Green acolyte robes had been provided for her, to begin her training in the morning. She took one and bound her hair in a matching green cloth, and crept down the many stairways. Her father had made her memorize maps of all the important buildings in Bainevah. Challen fancied she could navigate the Healers Temple with her eyes closed if she needed.

Barefoot, she scurried across the plaza to the nearest fountain. Perhaps it was childish, but if all she could do tonight was wade and glory in the feel of cold water up to her knees, she would do it.

Her mother had waded in the fountains outside the Healers Temple, according to Shazzur. She had splashed her friends and laughed and made flames dance on her fingertips, and no one had scolded her for acting below her dignity and station. All of Bainevah had loved Naya, heroine of the war with Dreva. Challen sighed, knowing she would never measure up to her mother’s beauty and popularity and strength. She didn’t much care about the popularity, because Naya’s murder had proven just how fragile a thing it was. The strength, however, Challen prayed for fervently. The greatest fear in her life was failing her father when he needed her most.

Movement at the corner of her eye stopped her, just as she sat on the wide, flat rim of the fountain. She paused, one leg raised to swing it over the edge. Challen huddled on the edge of the fountain as the fourth soldier emerged from the temple and started across the plaza. He didn’t seem to see her. She felt rather foolish, and held perfectly still until he had his back to her.

Then, holding her breath, moving slowly to prolong the delicious icy shock, she swung her leg over the side. A tiny gasp escaped her as her heel touched the surface. Ripples shimmered in the starlight and fractured the reflection of the crescent moon. Challen lowered her foot more until the instep submerged. She brought her other foot over, balanced precariously on her tailbone with both feet up.

The distinctive whisper-glide-scrape-clatter of a loom at work cut through the stillness.

Startled, Challen turned to glance over her shoulder. She yelped as she lost her balance and slid forward.

A knife slashed through the darkness, aiming for her back.

Elzan cursed as he dashed across the pavement toward the fountain. His mind held the image of a figure clad in acolyte green robes, sliding into the water as a black shape lunged forward. The girl’s cry echoed off the pavement as if magnified by the heavens.

What was the stupid child doing out alone at this time of night?

The dark shape turned to face him, knife flashing in the dim moonlight. Elzan didn’t even try to pull his sword—he leaped, flinging his arms around the figure’s waist. They went down, rolling across the uneven paving stones. The knife flew from his opponent’s hand on impact.

A fist connected with his temple. He rolled aside, bringing arms up to protect his head, knees up to protect his middle. The other man’s flesh was cold, drenched in sweat despite the dry warmth of the night. Elzan shuddered as a sense of something unclean brushed his heightened senses. He twisted, lashing out with his fists and kicking with both feet, hitting the other man in the gut. Elzan regained his feet before his opponent and slammed down with all his weight, keeping the man pinned. He caught him by his wet hair and slammed his head into the paving stones. The other man didn’t make a sound, either pain or anger, but bucked and kicked. Elzan held on, using his weight to keep the man down. His hand slid on the man’s damp clothes.

At the edge of his consciousness, he heard splashing. The girl had climbed from the fountain. Had this battle only taken a few breaths? Baring his teeth in a fierce grin, Elzan slammed down again on the other man, banging his head into the pavement hard enough he thought he heard his skull crack.

The man lay still. Elzan yanked free both their belts and bound the man’s hands and feet. It wouldn’t hold long, but long enough to run for help.

Elzan climbed back to his feet, feeling the effects of his battle. He wished he had disguised himself in armor with metal plates. It would have been torment to rough-and-tumble in, but the noise would have awakened the entire temple and roused any guards on patrol nearby. He turned, following the sound of running footsteps, and saw the drenched acolyte racing for the steps to the Healers Temple.

He caught up with her at the side entrance.

“What did you think you were doing, you little idiot?” he growled. He had to growl, or he would burst out laughing at the sight of her hair, some shade of dark blonde, plastered in seaweed tendrils all over her face, and her too-large robe outlining every curve.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Even in the moonlight, her gray eyes were enormous and bright and her face too pale. “I thought it would be too late for anyone to see me.”

“It was almost too late another way.” Elzan grabbed her shoulders and shook her, once. “You’re lucky I was visiting my mother.” Something about her voice; an odd cadence he hadn’t caught elsewhere. “You’re new to the city?” The girl nodded and bowed her head, wiping her wet face with an equally wet sleeve. “Be more careful, or you’ll need a healer yourself.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. He’s probably just a cutpurse, more ready to frighten with that knife than fight.” Elzan released her and backed away. “Be more careful next time, little one.”

She nodded, trying to smile. “Thank you.” She pressed into the recessed doorway, watching him.

Elzan nodded, wondering why she refused to move. Was she so much an innocent she was embarrassed? Had she torn her robe when she fell? Sighing, he turned and crossed the plaza to check on his prisoner. He would never get to bed at this rate.

From ten steps away, he saw the other man move. He made no sound. Surely a groan of pain was in order? Maybe the man was mute? Elzan bent and dragged the man out of the shadows of the pillars surrounding the fountain, into the thin moonlight. He dropped his prisoner and swore.

Rushtan lay on his back, gazing up at the sky, his face bruised and pale. His eyes were open, and they were solid black. No gray pupil, no white. Solid black, like pits reaching into the deepest canyon.

Elzan’s skin crawled, remembering the chill in his brother’s skin, the slick feel of his clothes as they fought. What would drive Rushtan to attack an acolyte? Elzan knew immediately it wasn’t the girl at all, but some evil or madness that had taken over his brother. He wasn’t healer enough to sense the sickness in his soul, but Elzan knew it wasn’t physical sickness. What had happened to his brother’s eyes?

Grimacing, he bent and slung Rushtan over his shoulder and headed back to the temple. Neither his mother nor Vandan nor any upper level priests were going to get any sleep this night.

Challen shivered as she skinned out of her wet clothes and reached for a cloth to rub her hair dry. The soldier’s big, dark eyes still blazed at her. She could almost hear his voice, ringing through the elegant vastness of her guest quarters.

He was magnificent when he was angry. Her shoulders still burned and tingled from his grip.

Her soldier. The soldier from her vision. The one who had fought the blackness that attacked his friend. Challen knew she would recognize him anywhere.

“Thank you, Mother Matrika,” she whispered, and wrapped her arms tight around herself. An uncharacteristic giggle escaped her lips and she felt her face heat. What had happened to her, that she would act this way?

Not that it was unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all.

CHAPTER 6

“See here?” Lady Mayar held out her hand, fingertips streaked with blood. Balanced on the tip of one finger lay a greenish-silver streak that glinted in the lamplight.

“What is it?” Elzan asked. He had leaned against the wall in the cutting room, watching while his mother and her most trusted assistants examined Rushtan. He hadn’t been surprised when they cut into his shoulder, where the arrow had pierced it during that strange attack in the desert.

“I would hazard this is what the arrow was to deliver, when it struck him.” Mayar wiped the sliver onto a silver plate. She gasped when it sparkled and vanished in a puff of smoke.

“Telling,” Vandan said. “That plate has held ingredients for blessing ointment and incense. That bit of metal was infused with evil, and reacted badly to the presence of holiness.”

“Indeed.” She nodded, staring at the empty plate for a moment, then turned to Elzan. “You said those arrows would have struck you, as well, if you hadn’t been running to Rushtan? My son, you could have been a mindless assassin tonight, also.”

“Thank the Mother I’m fast on my feet,” he murmured, and thought of the little acolyte he had rescued. Elzan wondered what her name was. He was sure he had seen her face before. A moment later, he pushed the thought aside; of course he had seen her. He visited his mother here several times each moon quarter and the girl had probably passed him in the hallways.

“Lady, he improves already,” a priest said, and beckoned for Mayar to return to Rushtan’s side.

An hour later, the mystery deepened. Rushtan wasn’t aware that anything had happened. He had gone to bed with a headache and didn’t know how he had come to the healers. Nor how he had left his quarters among the unmarried soldiers without anyone seeing him. A priest returned with the news that Rushtan had been missing two days. Where had he been hiding, and why hadn’t anyone notified the palace that a prince had vanished? Who had shot those arrows, and what greater mischief had been intended, with the bits of magic in the arrowheads?

Lady Mayar speculated that the poison hadn’t been strong enough to kill, merely to act as a diversion, so healers would not notice the speck of magic that insinuated itself into his body. Then, when everyone thought he was healing and turned their attention to other patients, the magic took over his mind. Since Elzan had been an intended victim in the first attack, perhaps Rushtan had hunted him, and the girl who fell into the fountain hadn’t been the target at all.

Elzan climbed into bed feeling worn and battered and wondered if he would be able to sleep. This entire day had been a disappointment, first missing a chance to speak with Shazzur privately, and then the mystery of Rushtan and whatever power had taken over his mind and body. No, he corrected himself as the first welcome drowsy edges of sleep slid over him. Not a total disappointment. He had rescued a pretty girl and he fully intended to meet her again, as soon as possible.

“Challen?” Lady Mayar knocked only once on the door before pushing it open and stepping into the room. “Ah. I see. You were in the plaza.” A wry smile tugged at her somber face.

“Yes, Lady.” Challen put down her brush. It was no use denying what had happened, with her hair still damp and her wet robes hanging on a chair by the window. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think there would be any harm.”

“Why did you go swimming in the fountain?” She settled down on the stool in front of the dressing table full of new clothes and cosmetics. A richness in her smooth, soft voice hinted that she might laugh.

“I only wanted to wade, but I … fell in. Did the soldier who fought the man come tell you what happened?” She bit her lip to keep from asking his name.

“He brought the man to us for healing.” Lady Mayar shook her head. “Dear child, I have reason to believe you are in danger. Either you, directly, or an attempt to harm your father through you.”

“How could that man know who I was? Hardly anyone could know we had arrived.” She shivered, despite the warmth of the evening.

“He did not know.” She glanced down at her interlocked fingers in her lap. “He was under a magical compulsion. Someone directed him to attack you, I am most certain.”

“Then what should I do? My father’s work is too important to distract him by worrying about me.” Challen thought of that attack back at the oasis, just before the avalanche of changes in her life began. “Lady, did the man have all-black eyes, no whites, no pupil?” She bit her lip against a nervous smile when Lady Mayar startled and sat up straight. Challen quickly told her what had happened.

“Ah, this is like a vast puzzle box coming together into a shape no one but the Mother can guess or even see,” the woman murmured. “Yes, you were right to ask what you can do. In order to free our dear Shazzur to work, you must be protected. Do you trust me to choose for you?”

“Yes, Lady.” Challen tried not to sigh in dismay. She knew she had brought this problem on herself by leaving the temple. Now, definitely, she didn’t dare ask the name of her soldier.

Elzan rose with dawn, none the worse for his little battle by the fountain. Despite all his new concerns, he had slept deeply and dreamed about his maiden with the hair of flame. He had awakened only once, hungry for the taste and feel and scent of her. Hungry to the point of pain. He had gripped his pillows and groaned into them and wondered if his visions were a promise of joy to come or a torment sent by his enemies. The last thing he needed, with the fall of the Three to worry about, Shazzur’s return and Rushtan’s strange behavior, was to be distracted by lust for a beautiful, nameless girl.

His servant woke before Elzan could tap the gong to summon the boy. He was dressed and painted and ready for Court before full daylight. He liked to reach the throne room before everyone, to enjoy the quiet before the courtiers entered with their noise and fawning habits. When he slipped through the wide doors, Elzan smiled at his small triumph and knew he acted like a vain little boy. Still, it was nice to be here first.

He looked around the empty, gilded room and breathed the faint perfume of sandalwood. When Court was full, the aroma of the precious wood in the walls was swallowed by hundreds of perfumes, the scents of sweat, fear, anger and the stink of the greasy cosmetics now in fashion.

Elzan told himself to be grateful summer Court fashion let him get away with a pectoral collar of silver links, turquoise and rubies, a tightly pleated kilt dyed to match the turquoise, and three inlaid bands on each arm. He refused to wear more than the kohl around his eyes. Let his brothers and their obsequious followers plaster their bodies with carmine and powdered turquoise or pearls. He would have none of it. His hair was kept short for comfort under his helmet when he rode with the Host; it gleamed because it was freshly washed, not because he greased it with nard or a dozen other oily perfumes.

With the disappearance of the Three and the Hidden City and the failure of the Sacred Marriage, it would be well if the nobles gave up all attention to fashion until the crisis had passed. Elzan thought it, and spoke it to those he trusted, but he knew better than to let those outside his circle hear it. The slightest criticism nowadays could be turned to a twisted tool against him and those he loved.

The long throne room was quiet. Elzan stayed far from the ten steps to the ivory throne with the two onyx rams for armrests. He despised those who crowded close to the throne, as if proximity would make them wise or regal. It certainly hadn’t helped his half-brothers. He knew the King approved his reserve and the simplicity of his dress and manners. A man who kept his appearance and possessions simple had time, energy, and attention to devote to important things.

Shazzur had taught him that.

Elzan frowned, glancing over his shoulder at the ceiling-tall doors of acacia wood inlaid with gold, onyx, and sapphires. Soon, Shazzur would come through those doors. How had fifteen years of exile in the desert changed his old friend and tutor? Would he be bent and bitter? Feeble? Thanks to the need for secrecy and those flowing desert robes, Elzan had seen few details of his old teacher last night. And then he had been ordered to escort Shazzur’s daughter to the Healers Temple. Soon, though, he would see the man who had been a father to him.

His sandals brushed softly over the snowy glazed tiles as Elzan strolled to one of the few benches in the room, reserved for the King’s sons and his remaining siblings. The benches sat between the pillars that ran from the main doorway to the throne. The bench he preferred sat halfway between the two. Close enough to the throne to be heard, and to reach the King in an emergency. Far enough away that fools dazzled by the glory of Court would never focus on him to curry his favor.

Sometimes Elzan wondered if the King had perhaps done him a great favor by leaving the status of his sons undecided. While Elzan was only heir-presumptive as the oldest, the respect people gave him came because he had earned it.

The doors swung open. Commander Asqual entered, dressed in the light trousers and tunic, breastplate, helmet, and short cape required of Court. The man accompanying him wore a simple cream-colored robe trimmed in crimson and black. The two guards outside bowed to both men and tugged the heavy doors closed.

Elzan forgot how to breathe. That tall, thin man with the white-streaked red hair—Shazzur?

“I thought you’d be here,” Commander Asqual boomed.

“Uncle.” Elzan nodded to Asqual as he moved to meet the two men. The commander was cousin to the King on his mother’s side. “Doni’Hobad’Shazzur’Conia,” he began, “welcome—”

“My boy.” Shazzur let out a choked groan that was part laughter and flung his arms around the tall, bronzed, black-haired young man who stood a head taller than him. “Oh, I knew you would be a fine young warrior when you were grown, but you surpassed even my faith in you.” Laughing, he stepped back and looked the prince up and down. “Asqual says you’re still a scholar—and still taunted by those others for it.”

Elzan grinned. “Those others” was the only designation Shazzur had for his half-brothers. It spoke the volumes of disdain Elzan hadn’t been able to summon in hours of name-calling when he had been a child.

“Searching for ways to bring you home in safety, Honored Teacher,” the prince said, bowing low from the hips and spreading his arms in a sweeping gesture of subservience.

“Now, now, none of that,” Shazzur scolded, grinning. “You honor me, my boy—if you’ll permit that address?—but anyone seeing it would have more weapons to use against us both.”

“Uncle has told you everything, hasn’t he?” Knots of tension in his gut began to loosen. This was like stepping through that locked door to Shazzur’s home and finding his beloved mentor had not lost a bit of his sharpness.

“I know you walk an oiled bridge of swords and your distaste for the foolishness of Court has given you enemies eager to push you.” The seer shook his head.

“I knew you would be here early,” Asqual said. “We don’t have much time before the Court pours in. How is the King?”

“Better spirits, but not by much. It is only wise to know what the common people believe and fear, but hearing all the market gossip doesn’t help. Before, he was simply worried about having failed the people and the Mother. Now, he’s worried about his manhood. Next they’ll say his mind is failing.”

“Prove it,” Shazzur said mildly.

“They don’t have to prove it,” Elzan said, trying not to snap. “All they need is for my—for the King to believe it.”

“Very good.” He nodded. “You have learned what we believe is often more powerful than what is. I am also pleased you think of him as your father often enough to slip in speaking. Your loyalty as his son is more valuable than anything else you could give him.”

“Will it be enough?”

The doors groaned open before Shazzur could answer. Elzan bowed to both men and led them to his bench. They said nothing as people flooded in. Soldier and seer stood behind the seated prince, somber expressions greeting the gossiping courtiers. A puddle of silence spread outward from the bench, and Elzan was glad of it.

A cluster of young men glittering with gold in their hair, in purple kilts that clashed with their rubies, sauntered in. The people bowed as the princes entered the room in a herd.

“What’s the group name for swine?” Elzan muttered. Choked laughter and a hand squeezing his shoulder showed both Shazzur and Asqual had heard.

Elzan stood to meet his half-brothers. The Court dropped to their knees and touched their foreheads to the tiled floor at the shrill of trumpets. King Doni’Jazzan’Nebazz’Dayona entered with First Concubine Lady Mayar at his side and the three remaining concubines behind him. Elzan hated that gap between his parents. If Lady Mayar were Queen, she would walk arm-in-arm with the King.

High Priest Chizhedek, robed in white and gold, raised his ancient voice in a chant, calling the assembly of the Court to order. He begged Mother Matrika to bless the King and give him power and wisdom to care for the people.

The King stood before the throne and spread his arms, but instead of gesturing for the people to rise from their knees, he extended his hands to where Shazzur knelt beside Elzan.

“Welcome First Advisor, Doni’Hobad’Shazzur’Conia. Restored to Bainevah in our hour of need. I grant you the right never to kneel to royal blood, you and your descendants.”

Elzan bit his lip against a grin. His half-brothers weren’t so quick to silence their gasps of astonishment.

Not only had the King restored Shazzur to his position of authority and honor, but he had effectively silenced all the nasty rumors that had circulated for years, trying to put the blame for Lady Naya’s death on his hands. Some still claimed Lady Naya had been killed in punishment for some treason of Shazzur’s, and other, worse tales. Giving Shazzur and his descendents freedom from the duty to kneel destroyed any doubts and shamed those who continued to speak poison.

“Prince Doni’Nebazz’Elzor’Mayar, bring my friend and seer to the throne,” the King continued.

Elzan caught his brothers’ scowls and dumfounded looks. The King never used his son’s pedigree names in Court unless he honored them; custom was to refer to them by their mothers’ names. To tell Elzan to bring Shazzur to him honored Shazzur and implied honor for Elzan.

Somebody is going to pay for this later, Elzan realized as he bowed and offered his arm to help the seer stand.

Shazzur winked at him, rested his wrinkled, callused hand on the prince’s hard biceps, and tilted his head back in the proper Court stance. The two matched their steps and approached the throne.

Somebody would pay for this new honor to Shazzur. Elzan felt cold despite the dry heat.

Challen woke early, unable to sleep in a strange place. She wandered through the gardens on the third tier of the Healers Temple—after asking permission and determining it was safe—enjoying the cooler air, taking tiny glimpses of the hundreds of buildings spread to the horizon.

Her thoughts churned around her vision-soldier. She was convinced that his presence had kept the Bull-man from entering her dreams last night. Challen wondered if Matrika had sent the dark-eyed soldier to guard and encourage her, and he did not exist in the daylight. Only at night, and in her dreams.

She smiled at her silly thoughts. Hadn’t he said he had been at the Healers Temple visiting his mother? If he had been only a product of her dreams, he wouldn’t have scolded her. He would have held her close and kissed her, and his mouth would have tasted of wine, like in those poems her father refused to read because their language was overblown.

No, the soldier who had rescued her was real. Solid. His hands hard and tight. Smelling of sweat and dust and leather. She was still lost in her daydream when Vandan came to fetch her, to visit the man being held prisoner in the underground rooms of the Healers Temple.

“According to Lord Shazzur, you are the only one who can see if a person’s shadow is missing,” the healer priest explained. “Lady Mayar cannot come here until after morning Court, but she asked that you look at…” He sighed and led her into an empty room, with a barred and chained door at the other end. “This is a strange, dangerous situation, Lady. You must keep this secret. The man who attacked you is Prince Doni’Coori. He was wounded, and taken over by magic. Until we can be sure the magic is destroyed, he must stay here.”

“And no one can know because of the danger to the throne,” Challen murmured. Her mind raced. If she remembered correctly, this prince had a sister, and other than Lady Mayar’s son, they were the only royal siblings with a Bainevan mother. All the other concubines were diplomatic gifts from other countries.

“Exactly.” Vandan took a set of keys from his belt and opened the three locks on the chain holding the door barred shut. At some silent signal, four temple soldiers came into the room. He opened the door, offered his hand to Challen, and led her into the room.

The prince sat propped up against pillows, his shoulder bandaged and stained with a few specks of blood, wearing nothing but soldier’s trousers. He looked flushed with fever, but offered them a smile when they came into the room.

“Good morning, Vandan,” he said in a pleasant, baritone voice. “I’m a lucky man, to have a pretty priestess tending me.” He swung his legs off the side of the bed and made to stand up.

In an instant, the gray of his eyes vanished, swallowed up in black—and the multiple shadows cast by the four lamps in the corners of his room disappeared as if someone had slammed shutters across a window.

“Vandan—” Challen clutched at the priest’s arm and took a step back.

The prince leaped at her, his hands stiffening into claws. The temple soldiers blocked him, the hard thuds of their bodies meeting reverberating dully. Vandan hooked an arm around Challen’s waist and dragged her from the room. He sat with her until the sounds of struggle stopped and the four temple guards came out and reported the prince was in his right mind again.

“What does it mean?” Challen whispered.

“We’re not sure,” Vandan admitted. “He attacked Lady Mayar when she visited him this morning, and she was not in healer green. He attacked you, but he has not attacked other healers.”

“The magic knows identities?” she guessed.

“Who can know? Come.” He held out his hand. “I will take you back to your room, and then I must report to our Lady.”

Challen had little time to wrap her thoughts around what had happened before the priestess Cyrula bustled into her room with a breakfast she had only heard of in stories; chilled cream and stewed apricots; fresh bread glistening with crystallized sugar and dripping with butter; tiny, fried fish; and fortified wine swimming with spices.

Cyrula had charge of Challen, to pamper and test her and introduce her to the temple routine until Lady Mayar returned. To Cyrula, that meant nearly drowning Challen in lovely new clothes, gifting her with makeup and ornaments and dressing her hair. Except for experimenting in the cold winter evenings, for amusement, Challen had worn her hair in three simple styles all her life. A long braid down her back; a coil on top of her head to keep the warm weight off her neck; or hanging loose around her face as insulation against the cold outdoors. Cyrula was incensed at such a gap in her education.

“No more than I expected of the Seer,” she said with a most unladylike snort.

It became a chuckle when Challen stared at the woman, who for all her bulk gave an impression of daintiness. Her silver curls bobbed and her cheeks turned brighter red than normal and she sat on the stool in front of the dressing table.

“Your father is a wonderful man, and glad I am he has returned to his proper place, but he really was rather short-sighted when it came to your lady mother.”

“He always said she was the most beautiful woman in Bainevah,” Challen protested.

“Exactly.” Cyrula stood, smoothed the tent of her green robes and picked up a brush. She gestured for Challen to turn on the low stool. “He thought Naya was beautiful whether she was covered with mud or with jewels. It didn’t matter to him. No matter how extravagant the hairstyle or how daring the dress, he barely noticed. He did notice when other men noticed her. Rather interesting, how unflappable Shazzur…” She frowned, struggling for the right word.

“Flapped loud and hard?” Challen guessed with a chuckle.

She remembered how her father had reacted the first time a soldier at the oasis garrison approached her with romantic intent. Shazzur’s face went stony, his eyes held flames, and his shoulders jerked as he clenched his fists. Challen had hurried to verbally slap the presumptuous soldier back into his place, to keep her father from doing worse things. It took years before her father trusted her not to fall for pretty words—and to let her drive away her unwanted suitors. Challen sometimes wondered if Mackal would have survived as her father’s apprentice if he hadn’t been so totally inept in courting her.

On the journey to Bainevah, Challen had wanted her father to frighten some respect into Asqual’s soldiers. To her utter frustration, Shazzur was content to let her handle her unwanted suitors. Challen suspected fear of the King’s Seer would have stopped the importunate young men sooner than her words or fire gift. None of them feared the Seer’s daughter even if she set their clothes on fire. What would she have to do to get people to respect her?

“You, my dear, are going to be the wonder of the Court for an entire moon. Everyone will expect you to be innocent and ignorant. And you, with your father’s wit and your mother’s humor, will turn them all into fools and weave their beards into your loom.” Cyrula chuckled as she brushed Challen’s hair.

“Father taught me about the rules and undercurrents of Court. I know how to use them, but I think they’re silly.”

“Exactly. Such lovely hair. You have the fire talent to match, I see.” She grinned wider when Challen twisted around to look at her, startled. “Ah, did no one tell you? I discern talents. I also hate wasting time, so we shall make you a lovely distraction during your first lessons.”

“This is so strange,” Challen murmured, as she began to relax under the comforting rhythm of the brush through her hair. “Father and I grew up talking of gifts and talents and legends of the Powers as if they were everyday things. Yet I never realized other people possess them also. Every person I have met since coming through the gates is gifted.”

“Be careful in such assumptions, child of Naya.” The plump woman gave her hair a gentle tug of admonition. “In the Temple are many gifts. We are a world unto ourselves, because our gifts are given to serve Mother Matrika and Bainevah. Only one of one thousand people in the rest of the city is gifted. Maybe fewer. Now, we shall see what we shall do with your hair.”

In the next hour, Challen learned how to create stiff curls around her face using ointments and rods heated on coals; how to paint her eyes, elongating them with kohl lines and making her lids sparkle like a rainbow; how to drape her lovely new dresses to show off her figure without being suggestive or indecent. She and Cyrula laughed together over her father’s possible reactions to such drastic changes in her appearance.

Challen learned she had many sleeping talents, just as her father and Vandan both said. Water talent, deeply buried; mind scribe talent and fire talent, like her mother; healing talent that could gather energy from the ground itself.

“You could perhaps be one like me, child,” Cyrula said, after a long silence. “There is a brilliance to your eyes, which to my sight means you are made to see things others cannot.”

“Like when people don’t have shadows?” slipped from Challen’s lips before she thought to stop herself.

“When people don’t have shadows?” She held very still, then a shudder rippled over the woman’s massive frame.

It struck Challen that despite her bulk, Cyrula was not flabby but solidly built, tightly woven together, in full control of her body, mind and talents.

“Is something wrong? Do you know what such a thing means?”

“No. Except that such an idea frightens me.” She squeezed the girl’s shoulder. “Be careful that you do not tell the wrong person what you see.”

A thud on the door startled them. Cyrula stood still for several heartbeats before she smoothed the frown off her face and went to answer the door. The novice who peered through the doorway at Challen was a wide-eyed girl with ebony skin. She could barely open her mouth to whisper to Cyrula, who glanced once over her shoulder at Challen, then nodded to the child.

“You are required,” was all she would say as she tugged Challen’s new, pale blue dress straight and tweaked her braids into place. Then Cyrula tutted and wiped away two-thirds of the blue, green, and silver makeup around her eyes.

Someone important, then, waited to see her. Someone who might not be amused with their innocent fun before the mirror.

As she followed Cyrula—who moved with amazing speed and grace—down the stairs to the main floor of the temple and to the altar, Challen felt something inside her chest tighten with apprehension. Who could be so important they called her before the altar? Who could command with such authority in the High Priestess’s absence?

When she reached the circular central room and entered alone, somehow Challen was not surprised to see the tall, skeletal, elderly man. He stood with his back to the door, his shaved head bowed before the inner altar of the Healers Temple. He wore white trimmed in gold threads, proclaiming his authority by the simplicity of his clothes.

Chizhedek, High Priest to Mother Matrika.

“Holy son of Mother Matrika,” she said in the required greeting, and knelt the moment he turned to look at her.

“I had hoped to see more of your mother,” he said, his voice creaky and dusty but not at all cold or unpleasant.

“Sir?” Challen nearly raised her head; this was not what she expected from him at all.

“Come, child.” Chizhedek stepped over to one of the benches lining the wall. He groaned a little as he sank down onto the closest one, and beckoned for her to sit next to him. A tired smile changed his mask of cold authority and power to the face of a weary, old man. “I’m here as your grandfather, not as the High Priest.”

Challen moved slowly, scrambling for memories of her grandfather. She knew Shazzur respected the man for his wisdom and sense of honor and years of experience serving the Mother. Other than that, he had spoken little of Chizhedek during their years of exile. Challen knew the High Priest hadn’t approved of his daughter’s choice to marry the King’s Seer, but she couldn’t honestly remember any enmity between the two men.

She remembered sitting on the roof of Matrika’s Temple while her grandfather called birds to sit on her head and arms. She remembered sweets and feast days and sitting on his lap while he told her stories. She remembered her grandfather kneeling next to her, an arm around her while her parents stood before the altar to dedicate her newborn brother, Asha.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked, his voice quiet, a gleam of some strong emotion in his eyes.

“A child’s memories. I’ve lived in an entirely different world, it seems. I don’t know the rules, and I don’t think I’m going to like them very much.” She tugged self-consciously on one of her decorated braids.

Chizhedek snorted, the sound turning to soft, dry laughter. “I think I see Cyrula’s handiwork on you already, yes?” His smile turned wider when Challen nodded and grinned. “She was forever trying to turn your mother into a doll, painting her face and weighing her down with fancy clothes and playing with her hair until Naya thought it would fall out. No, your mother loved simple things and to move lightly and swiftly. It nearly suffocated her, to agree to spend the required two years in the Sanctum. But she obeyed the Mother’s leading, and all Bainevah was blessed. Remember that, child, when your land and your king ask hard things of you.”

“Yes, Grandfather.” Challen’s heart squeezed when her simple address brought warmth to the old man’s eyes. It had never occurred to her until that moment that the High Priest could be lonely. Under all his power and influence, he was simply a tired old man, whose only child had been murdered when he was too far away to help her.

“Your mother saw many things, spoke of many visions. In that, she was well matched with your father. She foresaw the danger to your brother, and provided for his safekeeping.”

“Do you know where my brother is?” She nearly stood, shocked at the implied revelation. All the years of grieving, wondering, hoping—wasted?

“I know he is safe, protected, being prepared to serve the Mother. Other than that, only your mother and the Mother know where. I suspect that finding your brother could be instrumental in the recovery of the Three.” Chizhedek sighed. “Just as you will be instrumental in protecting Bainevah until that time. You know that any danger to you will hinder your father’s service to the King, yes?”

“Yes, Grandfather.” A heaviness settled in her chest. This wasn’t simply a family reunion, an old man’s hunger to see his long-vanished grandchild. This was kingdom work.

“Are you willing to do whatever we deem necessary to protect you?” He waited until she nodded. “Perhaps it is well that you look so little like your dear mother. It is wise not to remind our enemies that though they had a few small victories, they have little hope of winning the war.” He stood and held out a hand to her. Challen put her hand into his dry, strong grip. “The outward wrappings matter little, if the inner portion is true and fulfills its purpose. Kena’Shazzur’Challa’Naya, hear me. Remember who is the root of the tree from which you spring, and stay true. Those who carry vast potential often forget it can be twisted to evil as well as good. That is often their downfall. Do you understand me?”

“No, Holy Sir,” she whispered. “Not entirely.” Her voice cracked. She fought tears of apprehension as she realized this closeness had turned into some private dedication ceremony. Yet at the same time, her heart leaped. She would be permitted to serve, to protect Bainevah, to work alongside her father in some capacity more important than simply assisting his research.

“Think on it, Kena’Shazzur. Here, you are your mother’s daughter. To the rest of the world you are your father’s daughter. Blessing and curse. Honor both your parents; walk in wisdom and silence, and spread your wings to ride the storm winds.” He touched her head, and through her hair she felt the thinness of his fingers. “Lady Mayar is to meet us at the palace. If we are to protect you and to outwit our enemies—who have already struck once at you—we must move swiftly. Come.”

Challen rose, head bowed, and followed him out into the main body of the temple. Cyrula waited there and went to her knees, head bowed when Chizhedek gestured her to silence. Challen bit her lip against a smile. It was amusing how the big, competent woman paled before the High Priest. Challen wondered suddenly if she would ever return here, or if she would be sent away. Perhaps to coordinate a search for the Three and the Hidden City? Perhaps to seek for her brother? Something important and grand, she knew, or why would the First Concubine and the High Priest be involved?

She followed Chizhedek out the double doors and down the steps, to a matched pair of sedan chairs carried by eight manacled, muscular, whip-scarred men. She barely had a chance to look at them and decide from their white-blond hair and sunburned skin that they were Drevan war prisoners. Chizhedek pointed to one sedan chair and climbed into the other.

Walk in wisdom and silence? Challen followed the priest’s example, bowing her head and turning sideways as she slid through the door. She had never ridden in a sedan chair and wasn’t quite sure if she was to give commands or even how to mount one, but she vowed not to let her lack of experience show. She made a silent promise to her father and herself to watch carefully, keep her silence, and learn by example so she would not shame either of them. Shazzur had often quoted the proverb “Better to keep silent and let others assume your wisdom, rather than speak and prove you are a fool.” Challen vowed to make others think her very wise.

CHAPTER 7

The ride to the palace complex was short, but she couldn’t adjust herself to the sway of the chair and Challen felt her generous breakfast trying to return the way it had come. She took deep breaths to clear her head. She couldn’t lean forward to look out the narrow door because it threw the chair bearers off their stride, which only made things worse. Watching the world slide past in narrow strips did not help matters.

Challen almost climbed out the first time the chair touched the ground, but she heard the rattle and thud of gates opening and the shuffle of booted feet on paving stones and then a barked order to stand fast. A man’s shadow spread itself across the side of her chair and she waited for a soldier to stick his head or hand into her chair, but Chizhedek spoke and the shadow moved away. The bearers picked up her chair and moved on.

Three times the chair stopped, someone asked questions, and the High Priest responded. Challen finally got her rebellious stomach under control. Then the chair moved into shade, a door slammed shut behind her, and the bearers set the chair down.

“Come, Kena’Shazzur’Challa’Naya,” Chizhedek said.

Challen hesitated only a moment. She refused to appear timid even though her bones felt ready to rattle. She tugged her new dress straight and climbed out of the sedan chair, nearly banging her head on the top of the opening. The High Priest waited for her before an open door. The bearers knelt, foreheads touching the paving tiles, and a soldier finished locking the gate behind them.

Challen straightened her shoulders and moved to join Chizhedek. Her grandfather nodded and led her through the doorway. He said nothing during the long walk down painted hallways, up stairways, and through galleries bright with scorching sunshine where nearly naked slave children waved fans larger than they were to keep the air moving and cool.

Finally they passed through three anterooms lined with people, all standing. From their formal clothing, rich with gold and jewels and the ornate paint on their faces, Challen guessed these were courtiers. She felt her face heat as she realized she should have recalled the palace maps her father had made her memorize, to discern where she was, where she had entered, and where she might be going.

A good guess would be the King’s Council chambers, she mused, and returned the curious stare of a copper-skinned man only a few years her senior. He blushed and looked away, but not before she caught laughter in his curiously tilted eyes. The matronly woman next to him winked at Challen; the prune-faced, over-dressed woman next to her huffed and wrinkled up her nose and turned away. Challen heard her whispering in a nasal voice, complaining about the “arrogance of the priesthood” as she followed Chizhedek into another room that held only one man.

“Abendago, this is Kena’Shazzur’Challa’Naya,” High Priest Chizhedek said. “My granddaughter,” he added after a slight pause, and his voice sounded rich with pride.

Abendago was a balding, narrow-faced, clean-shaven man in a brown-striped robe. He carried three scrolls and two wax tablets clutched against his chest and nearly dropped them as he looked at Challen and then hurried to look away.

The man put down his load and hurried to open the double doors at the other end of the room. He bowed from the hips and spread his arms wide to the people inside.

“Majesty. Lords of the Gates. High Priest of Mother Matrika, Chizhedek and Lady Kena’Shazzur’Challa’Naya.” Then he stepped quickly backwards and beckoned for them to enter the room; still avoiding looking directly at Challen.

A chill ran up her spine. What did he know about her that she didn’t? For that matter, why hadn’t her grandfather told her what had been decided about her future and safety?

It was a long room, well lit by scented oil lanterns and a series of screened slits in the ceiling. The white-painted walls were lined with shelves higher than Challen’s head, all filled with wax tablets and scrolls. In the center of the room was a squared horseshoe of tables, the open end facing the door. All but two of the richly-dressed men in the room stood. Shazzur was seated, and he did not look at his daughter but at the other seated man.

King Doni’Jazzan’Nebazz’Dayona wore the strain of the last moon in the furrows around his mouth and nose, the streaks of silver in his jet hair and braided beard. He dispensed with most of the gilding and ornamentation of the Court, but his heavily embroidered robes alone indicated his position. For the first time, Challen wondered if the regimentation of royal living was more a burden than pleasure.

The King watched her as she entered the room. Challen watched Chizhedek, and stepped into the center of the square when he beckoned. She went to her knees before the King and touched her forehead to the cool tiles.

There was some advantage to prostrating herself so, she realized with a tiny smile. She did not have to face the frowning, quizzical, or sneering faces of the Council to either side of the King and her father.

“Rise, Lady Kena’Shazzur,” a deep, warm voice said. That had to be the King. No one else would dare speak before he did, without adding “the King bids” or “in the King’s name.”

She stood and kept her head bowed. Abendago stepped up next to her and handed her a long streamer of silvery white cloth. Then he left the horseshoe of tables and sat on a low stool on the King’s left. That identified the man; only the King’s scribe dared to sit in his presence without being invited to do so.

Why was her father seated when everyone else stood? Challen hoped some great honor had been granted her father and she was here to celebrate with him. But what did the fine cloth the scribe handed her have to do with it?

A vague memory flitted through her mind. Her mother had once shown her a cloth just like this, when she was very small and had been digging through her mother’s clothes chests without permission. Naya had hugged her and told her that someday, she would wear such a veil.

Challen knew of only two types of women who wore veils and her mind shied away from either choice. She schooled her face to show no apprehension, and not to react if her fear came true.

“Bainevah welcomes you back to the city of your birth, Lady Kena’Shazzur,” the King continued. “In acknowledgement of the years of loyalty and service to Bainevah and the Mother, your father and all his bloodline are granted permission to sit before the king and his descendants. Great things will be demanded of your father’s bloodline in the future, and great sacrifices. You are here to serve the Mother. Are you willing?”

“Whatever you command, Majesty, I will strive to obey,” she murmured with a suddenly dry mouth. Challen raised her head to look at her father. Shazzur sat serene and relaxed next to the King. He smiled and linked his hands together on the table before him, in their silent signal for trust.

“Yes, you will, for your father has assured me you are his most diligent pupil. Kena’Shazzur, you hold in your hand the veil of a Sanctum Bride.”

“Father?” Challen didn’t care that she had interrupted the King.

“Majesty, the Seer has no right to give his daughter to the Sanctum and the Sacred Marriage,” Lord Reynod of the North Gate said. He flinched as Shazzur turned to look at him. The white-haired advisor, brother to Lady Concubine Coori, glanced at the King for confirmation of what he had said.

“True. Yet there is precedent. Her mother was a Sanctum Bride,” the King said, still looking at Challen.

“Great blessing came to the land. The rains fell when the cloth of proof touched the flames,” Shazzur said, nodding. “Majesty, this is a great sacrifice. I beg you to be aware of this. My daughter is my joy. I have trained her so her mind and talents will bless the land. She is my assistant and my pupil.”

Challen smiled, knowing an instant of cool assurance that her father would save her from this dreadful mistake.

“However, I must agree with the decision of High Priest Chizhedek, her mother’s father. To protect my precious daughter, I gladly place her within the protection of the Sanctum and I pray Mother Matrika finds her an obedient and useful servant. Do you understand me, my dear?” His voice softened on the question, and Challen thought she saw regrets in his eyes.

But she also saw fear—for her—in Shazzur’s eyes. That helped her cast aside her shock and dismay.

“I live to serve you, my Father,” Challen said, trying to keep her voice calm and strong. She remembered her grandfather’s words earlier. Had he advised her to help her through this moment? Why hadn’t he warned her what they had planned? Did he think she would rebel outright and try to run away? Where would she go, when she knew no one in and nothing about the entire vast city of Bainevah?

After two years of isolation within the walls of the Sanctum, she would still know nothing about Bainevah.

“Well said, Lady Kena’Shazzur.” The King held out a hand to her and she had no choice but to approach the table. He took her hand; his was dry, lean and strong, a hand she could trust. “You serve Bainevah. I give my word you will be gifted and pampered as if you were a royal cousin. When your service ends, you will have a dowry to match my own daughters and the man you marry will rise five steps in rank.”

“Will you give her freedom to pursue her studies?” Shazzur asked.

“Studies?”

“She is my right hand, Majesty, and has been deprived of the training that is her right, being gifted with her mother’s talents. Today, she was to begin studies at the Healers Temple. I beg you, assign her a guard with great integrity, and give her the freedom to travel to and fro for studies.”

“Her studies.” The King smiled and nodded. “Yes, I should have known she would be your reflection. She will have protection and access to the Healers Temple and the Scribes Hall. Will that take the sting from her sacrifice?” He looked to Challen as he spoke, and she realized the King was reluctant to do this to her.

That put a completely different face on things, didn’t it? Challen thought a moment, then looked to her father and bowed to both him and to the King.

“Completely, my gracious lord and master.” Shazzur rose from his chair and bowed three times to the King. Then he stepped around the table. Before the Council, he took the veil from Challen’s limp hand, kissed her forehead, and put the veil over her head.

“Two years, Father,” Challen whispered.

“Trust in the Mother, my dear.”

Challen’s mind broke free of the dizzy circles of denial when she was nearly within the shadowed courtyard of the Sanctum. She could hardly breathe, smothered under the silvery veil, trapped inside the heavily curtained sedan chair required for all Brides. The curtains that kept people from seeing her also kept the air from moving. She sat stiff and straight among the thick cushions, struggling not to melt, forcing herself to breathe slowly, grasping for something coherent in her brain.

This was no nightmare because nightmares always ended before she needed to scream. Her visions of the shadowy Bull-man with the cold, claw hands were almost welcome, compared to this. This was reality, the worst type, and she had learned a disquieting facet of herself.

Despite all her years of training to react with her head instead of her heart, Challen felt like a terrified child the moment she was separated from her father. Last night had been hard, but bearable because she knew she would soon rejoin her father and make her new life safe in his shadow.

Now, with the prospect of two years among strangers and only occasional visits with her father, Challen thought she would be ill. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t see, and not only because of the stifling sedan chair and veil.

Lady Mayar was somewhere in the brightness beyond the curtains, in another chair. She waited in the anteroom when Challen appeared with Chizhedek and an escort of four soldiers of the Host of the Ram. Challen had hoped the woman could wrest her from their clutches. Her hopes were dashed when Lady Mayar bowed to Chizhedek, and her grandfather entrusted Challen’s entrance into the Sanctum to the Healer High Priestess.

“Mother, how did you feel on your day?” Challen whispered.

Shazzur had never discussed Naya’s feelings about her time as a Sanctum Bride. Challen wondered why. She would ask Lady Mayar when she went to study at the Healers Temple.

“With an escort at all times,” Challen muttered. She flinched at the sound of her voice. She had never talked to herself in all the years of quiet in the tower. Why now? Had the strain of this drastic change in her life destroyed her sanity?

No, she decided. It was not her sanity at risk. She faced a different kind of fear now, one she had never considered. The fear that someone would find the distant oasis and penetrate their disguises and kill them had always been in her mind. The fear had always placed such events far in the future, however. Those fears vanished, replaced by far more insidious ones.

The fear of being unable to meet the challenge. The fear of embarrassing her father. The fear of mockery and scorn. The fear she would not know how to make friends among her peers.

She had daydreamed of returning to the city of her birth and having friends, visiting the markets and riding the canopied barges that traveled the rivers through the city. It was a safe daydream, because Challen never let herself long for that life.

Perhaps if she had prayed to the Mother for a specific life, she would not be afraid now.

“Too late, I suppose,” she whispered into the muffling curtain of her veil and the stifling air of the chair. “Mother Matrika, guard me. I am your servant, given to your care at my birth. My mother died in your service. My father has suffered much to preserve your truth. I beg of you, guide me in this new world about to swallow me whole.”

As if in answer, the sedan chair jolted as the bearers lowered it. Challen braced herself for the drop, but the four sweating, nearly naked, scarred slaves who carried it continued into blessed shadows. She could almost taste the change in the air. Somewhere, a fountain tinkled. Flowers spilled sweet perfume into the air, making it seem cooler.

They had reached the Sanctum. Her home for the next two years. The only place she would not have to wear her veil because there would be no men to see her face.

We’ll see about that, Challen decided. She doubted Lady Mayar would permit such foolishness in the Healers Temple. The Scribes Hall would likely yield supporters who would scorn such restrictions also. Until she found her place and her safe shadows, Challen counseled herself to play along.

“Come.” Lady Mayar tugged aside the curtains. She sighed and tried to smile, straightened Challen’s veil and offered her a hand to help her from the chair.

The bearers knelt on the rough tiles of the Sanctum courtyard, foreheads pressed to the ground and hands over their heads, as if they feared a beating or even death for simply seeing a Bride’s ankles. Challen nearly laughed at this, but the sound choked her.

Two men stepped from the shadows of a doorway so wide, the panels so ponderous, Challen doubted the doors ever closed until winter storms hit. Not men, she corrected herself. Only eunuchs entered that door. Both were huge, but the one with the neck chain and gold key on it had the bloated look of a boy castrated before his voice changed. His bald head didn’t glisten with sweat in the murderous heat. His robes of office hung straight and neat but the white and purple did not gleam; they were dull as if shadows clung to them. Challen shuddered, glad for her veil to hide her reaction. If this man ruled the Sanctum, he had power over her. She would be a fool to make an enemy of him from the beginning, even if only by showing distaste. If her life became unbearable here, only the keeper of the Sanctum could help her alleviate it. If she made an enemy of him, her only recourse would be to get word to her father or Lady Mayar and hope they could bring pressure to bear from outside. But how could she do that? True, she was supposedly free to travel for her studies, but what if he revoked that freedom?

Face the problems when they come. Do not take on more burdens than you can handle today, her father often counseled.

“Welcome to the Sanctum, Kena’Naya. I am Agrat, chief warder.” He gestured to the eunuch beside him. “This is O’klan. He will be your personal warder. He will attend to your needs. He will be your voice before me. He will guard your purity when you leave the Sanctum.” Agrat sniffed, his watery brown eyes sparking with indignation mixed with fear.

Challen could almost hear him whine and whimper that permitting her to leave the Sanctum was against all propriety. If she were hurt, he knew he would be blamed. She almost felt sorry for him, but she had always hated whiny, irritating voices and whiny, irritating, self-important people.

“Welcome, Lady. All I am is yours to command,” O’klan rumbled in a deep, musical voice that spoke strength, laughter and many years of vibrant male life before he faced the knife.

Challen wondered what had happened. Was he a war prisoner? A slave from another land? She had encountered so many odd pronunciations and lilts during her years at the oasis, she had no idea what was a foreign accent and what was merely a dialect from a far-flung region of the kingdom.

O’klan was a massive, ebony wall of a man dressed in a sky blue kilt and one light drape across one shoulder, held in place with a silver chain belt. He wore a silver band on each arm and ankle, decorated by the Sanctum key rendered in blue stones. His hair was clipped short and he had no beard. His hands were massive, nearly large enough to hold both her feet in one palm; long-fingered and neat. Challen thought she saw humor in the eunuch’s night dark eyes.

“I give Lady Kena’Shazzur’Challa’Naya into your custody,” Lady Mayar said, her voice chill and regal, pitched to carry across the courtyard without strain or shrillness. “As the daughter of a Bride, a healer, whom I counted my sister, a mind scribe who risked her life for our kingdom, I will know and be distraught if she suffers the least harm within these walls.”

“The Sanctum will never fail your trust, Lady,” Agrat’s thin voice cracked as it tried to sound grand and dignified.

Challen bit her lip and held her breath against a chuckle. There were some advantages to wearing a veil.

“O’klan,” she continued. “I have heard only good about you. I entrust the daughter of my heart to your care.”

“In your service, Lady,” O’klan rumbled.

Challen could have sworn she saw the big man wink as he bowed his head to Lady Mayar. Something loosened the inner tightness that threatened to crush her. O’klan, she sensed, would be a friend; a window to the outside world.

Then Lady Mayar made her farewells.

“Two years shall pass quickly, my child,” she whispered as she clasped Challen’s shoulders and pressed her apple-scented cheek to the girl’s through her veil. “When you are free, we shall dazzle the Court and break the heart of every arrogant young man who sees you.”

“Yes, Lady.” Challen stifled a groan. Even Lady Mayar seemed to think she had to get married.

Then Agrat beckoned and scowled and scurried through the shadowed doorway into the Sanctum. O’klan bowed and gestured for Challen to precede him. Her new life had begun.

Agrat yanked off her veil when she reached his office and discussed her physical attributes as if they were defects to overcome. Challen was grateful for her father’s discipline, which helped her hold her tongue against questions and denial of every word from Agrat’s simpering, whining mouth.

Her hair was too red; it would have to be lightened.

Her skin was too dark from the sun; no more time outdoors.

She stalked like a man; she required dancing lessons so she would sway like a willow tree. Challen nearly choked at that bit of poetry. She doubted Agrat even knew the names of the popular poets. She did, thanks to chests full of scrolls and copies of all the popular songs and stories, sent to Shazzur courtesy of Commander Asqual every spring and fall.

Her hands were rough from work; creams to soften and whiten them. Her fingers were dented from stylus and pen; no more scribing. Challen bit her tongue to keep from reminding Agrat that the King had permitted her to leave the Sanctum to study. Let the odious man be reminded by someone he feared.

Every time Challen thought she would lose control and open her mouth, she felt the gentle touch of O’klan’s hand on her shoulder. The big man stood directly behind her. She felt his support, his sympathy. She even thought she heard a few snorts of disgust.

Her possessions had already been transferred to the Sanctum. Challen seethed as Agrat examined every piece of clothing, relegating her daily clothes to the rag bin. The lovely new dresses from Cyrula were barely acceptable.

“No.” Challen broke her silence when Agrat lifted a pale blue dress to hand to one assistant for disposal. “That was my mother’s. I keep it in her memory.”

She had snatched it up during those strange, terrifying hours between her mother’s death and her father’s decision to flee Bainevah. Challen had huddled in her mother’s dressing room, clutching Naya’s favorite dress, refusing to cry, refusing to believe that her pretty, laughing, adoring mother was dead. Shazzur had let her sleep with it and clutch it like a lifeline all during the long journey to the oasis. Challen had always been amazed that the delicate fabric had survived the rigors of the journey. She refused to let a simpering ninny like Agrat take it from her now, simply because it was out of fashion.

“You will make a fool of yourself, Kena’Naya,” Agrat said, his voice turning flat and nasal with distaste.

“For memory,” she repeated. “It is too precious to be worn.”

“Lady, perhaps it would be best to send to your father for safekeeping?” O’klan suggested. A massive black hand and arm stretched past her to take the bundle from Agrat’s hand.

“Yes, please.” She turned enough to meet the big man’s gaze and smiled her thanks.

Why did Agrat have to be so critical of her? The Sanctum Brides came to this place of seclusion to study and prepare themselves spiritually if they should be chosen for the Sacred Marriage. The seclusion was to ensure their physical purity and their safety. What did it matter to anyone, least of all the King, if she wasn’t a vision of loveliness when she sacrificed her virginity for the sake of Bainevah?

Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself. Agrat is a sour old persimmon that never ripened. He thinks his reputation depends on making the Sanctum Brides useless, brainless decorations. I won’t let him do that to me. Never. I have more important things to do.

“When you go outside the walls of the Sanctum,” Agrat said, after he assaulted her with dozens of rules, “you will wear your veil at all times. It will cost the life of any man who sees your face. It will cost fifty lashes each to your bearers and your warder.”

Finally, Agrat released her to go to her rooms. Challen would have run to her rooms, but she didn’t know the way and O’klan seemed to always move at the same long-legged, confident, leisurely pace. She walked with him, silent, fearing unfriendly ears around every corner. She noted the turns and decorations on the walls as they made their way through the massive building, so she would never have to ask directions in the future.

All Challen wanted was to surround herself with quiet and solitude while she organized her thoughts. The trip to her suite took three times longer than necessary because every Bride found some excuse to be in the halls, to see her and to be introduced.

All the Sanctum Brides were birds, she decided when she reached her room. Birds in bright, expensive, perfumed feathers, who fed on jewels and who spoke with whispery voices and painted themselves unnatural colors. How could they stand to wear their hair twisted and bound with heavy combs and pins and burned into unnatural curls; piled so high on their heads they couldn’t move faster than a crawl for fear of unbalancing it? She had always worn her hair simply, for convenience or comfort. Dressing her hair in the Court styles her father remembered had been an amusement for winter days; she couldn’t imagine spending hours every day to arrange her hair and then leaving it that way even when her head ached from the weight. For what reason?

“This place shall be the undoing of my mind,” she muttered when O’klan finally opened the door to her suite.

“Be encouraged, Lady,” he rumbled, laughter in his near-whisper. “You shall escape soon enough to your studies.”

“The next hour won’t be soon enough. What shall I do with my mind while I wait?” Challen sank down on the nearest couch as the door closed with a heavy clunk that meant it was thick enough to resist noise. That meant freedom to speak, and that lifted half the headache that had crept up on her.

“Perhaps you may consider painting yourself as a scribe’s puzzle,” the big man offered after consideration. He stood with his back against the door. “Consider learning fashion and the intricacies of dance as preparation for war.”

“My father taught me various exercises so I could defend myself, and said some were akin to dance.” She nodded, catching on to what he meant. “But how can I learn to flutter and twitter like those useless, fancy birds I just met?”

O’klan laughed. His shoulders shook and his eyes crinkled closed and his mouth opened, but little sound emerged. Challen felt a rumble in the air, like a quake far away. She supposed he had learned that as a defensive move; Agrat didn’t strike her as someone who welcomed hearty, booming, healthy laughter.

“Oh, Lady, you are a thunder crash from the Mother,” the big eunuch said when he regained his breath. He sank down on a stool next to the door. “I am here as your friend. It is only by the Mother’s grace Agrat chose me to assist you. If he had known I wanted to be your warder, he would have chosen another.”

“He’s punishing you for something?”

“He thinks I am a bad influence on the maidens. He would make them useless bits of fluff, happy to make grand marriages and be nothing but decoration for their husbands’ homes. Then, these men who have peace in their homes would be grateful to him and he could retire in luxury. Peace at the cost of life and growth and wisdom. You, Lady, will be a partner and confidant and hidden strength to the man you marry. I vow my life to protect your spirit and mind, and not let you be poisoned by silly fripperies and cosmetics and your brain deadened by gossip.” He pressed his hands together and touched his forehead with his fingertips as he bowed, making his half-joking words into a solemn vow.

Challen laughed. She was delighted she had read him so accurately, and she had found a friend to shelter her from Agrat’s brain-numbing influence. Then O’klan’s smile dimmed.

“And, I also must confess to you, Lady, I am here for other reasons. I was asked to come and watch for evil slipping into the Sanctum. It is believed that poor little Shersia…” He sighed and closed his eyes. “The Sacred Marriage failed at summer solstice because the Mother did not inhabit the Bride. There are those who say Shersia was not in command of her soul and mind, when she went into the Chamber of the Suns. The Mother did not inhabit her because Shersia allowed evil, enemy magic to control her soul. She was not a willing servant and vessel.”

“And you’re here to make sure no other Bride is influenced and captured for evil, because another failed Sacred Marriage would spell disaster for Bainevah.” Challen nodded. She understood that very clearly.

A snort escaped her. For all she knew, her father had sent her here to prevent such a disaster rather than protect her from assassins with black eyes and no shadows. This made far more sense. Knowing she would be useful took away a little of the sting of being made a prisoner for two years. A little, but certainly not all of it.

“I knew your parents,” O’klan continued. “Our gracious Lady Mayar knew I was here already, investigating on behalf of High Priest Chizhedek. She begged me to find a way to stand with you. The Mother is kind, yes? She guides and guards us.”

“I could do with a little less guarding and a little more guiding and freedom.” Challen gestured at her dress, which had been fine when she was playing games of dressing up and dabbling with cosmetics. She missed her loose-woven trousers and sleeveless sheath—and being barefoot on cool tile floors.

“Consider, Lady, that perhaps this is the best course. You are so newly come to Bainevah, how shall you make your way? You may learn slowly here, hidden. When you emerge, the Court will see you as you wish. Like a sword forged in secret, or a warrior trained in secret. The enemy cannot repel the unknown.”

“What if the enemy finds a way to use my separation from my Father and make it a weapon against him?”

“Then use this hidden time against his enemies. Consider, Lady … you are among bright birds. Learn to look and sound like them, and the hunters will not see you as a bird of prey.”

Challen nodded, knowing his words were wise. She said a silent prayer of thanks that she had been given such an ally. It truly was as her father said—the words of the Mother never failed. Shazzur maintained he and his family were woven into the Prophecy, and while they were willing servants, Mother Matrika would provide for them.

“Warfare,” she murmured. “Very well, then, I must learn my enemy’s territory and strategies. I know little about the Sanctum and the tradition of the Sacred Marriage. Logic says there must be scrolls of history stored here. May I study them?”

“I will bring you the first scrolls at the noon meal, Lady.” His ebony face twisted into a regretful mask, but couldn’t hide a sparkle of humor. “Soon, you must go to the seamstress and be fitted for new clothes and then the baths for your first treatments after meeting the dancing master.”

Challen sighed. When—if—she finally escaped to the Scribes Hall, she suspected the rigorous course of study awaiting her would seem like a day of indolence and luxury.

CHAPTER 8

“I don’t understand why he agreed to such a thing,” Elzan muttered as he and Asqual crossed the plaza between Shazzur’s quarters and the main body of the palace complex.

They had escorted Shazzur there after the Council adjourned for the day, formally returning him to his former status for all to see. Elzan left Shazzur surrounded by servants busy furnishing his restored home to make it worthy of his status.

“Shazzur, or the King?” the commander said with a chuckle.

“Oh—I don’t know! After what happened at the Sacred Marriage, the rumors about the Bride, how could Shazzur have given his daughter to the Sanctum? Who knows what could happen to her there? Shersia certainly proved the Brides aren’t protected. For all we know, she was no longer a virgin, and that’s why the Mother didn’t inhabit her.”

Elzan knew he spoke mostly to hold back other words, and fears, and anger. He had vague memories of Shazzur’s daughter as a bright, quick child who laughed and squirmed up onto her father’s lap to read aloud from the scrolls he used to teach Elzan from, during their tutoring lessons. Elzan hadn’t been irritated at the child, so different from his fat, whiny half-sisters. She was like a bright bird, full of songs, so innocent and pure. He shuddered to think of her being turned into a useless flower to decorate some self-aggrandized noble’s house. He felt sick, thinking about the danger to her mind and soul, if the same evil that polluted Shersia and made her unfit for the Sacred Marriage attacked Shazzur’s daughter.

What did the girl feel, coming to the huge, bustling city after living in the relative solitude of the oasis? Taking her from the studious atmosphere of the tower where she had grown up and putting her into the cloistered Sanctum was tantamount to taking a pet goldfish from its tiny pond and tossing it into a tank inhabited by eels.

“Obviously, he thinks she’ll be better off in the Sanctum than his home.” Asqual chuckled. “Think of the young men eagerly waiting two years for her to appear in public without a veil! My men are already telling stories about her fiery beauty and a temper and wit to match. Every woman in Court will tremble at the thought of her appearing among them!” He laughed so hard he had to lean against a convenient wall to keep upright.

“It’s no joke. Kena’Shazzur has been made a prisoner when she’s committed no crime.” He spat, but he couldn’t lose the taste of bile.

“Her mother’s participation in the Sacred Marriage blessed Bainevah miraculously. Some have convinced the King the daughter of such a Sanctum Bride will revive his manhood,” a sneering voice said from the shadowed doorway ahead of them.

Prince Shadrash, son of the concubine from Chadrasheer stepped into the sunlight. His younger, full-blood brother Mynoch followed him. What nastiness Shadrash hadn’t devised in childhood, their mother had. She had died several years ago—poisoned by another concubine, rumor said.

“She requires training and purification, first,” Asqual said in a bored, cool tone. “There are always twelve Brides waiting. Little chance the lots will choose her.”

“Unless the choice is rigged,” Elzan muttered. He glared at his half-brothers and continued through to the gate into the palace gardens.

Their laughter followed him and Asqual, making the late morning sunlight hotter and brighter than ever.

Shazzur had been no help at all. Elzan had raged in the privacy of the Seer’s quarters, trying to understand why the girl should be separated from her father. Shazzur was particularly closed-mouthed about the decision. Elzan suspected something odd had happened during the journey across the desert, but when he started to ask, his former teacher cut him off with discussions of their renewed studies and what Elzan had learned on his own. When the prince protested, the Seer grew stern.

“The words of Mother Matrika never fail,” Shazzur had said. “I trust the Mother and the Prophecy to protect my daughter, and to restore the health and vigor of the land. Yes, we are reacting to the first testing attacks of the enemy, and my eyes have been opened to new possibilities and answers because of this. Nothing the enemy does can harm us, only make us stronger. This inconvenience will be of benefit to us all. You, my boy, should go back to the scrolls and study them again. Don’t rage against providence.”

Elzan had made his farewells soon after. He would have gone to give his friendship and support to young Kena’Shazzur if he could, but she was already inside the Sanctum. No man ever entered the Sanctum courtyard to speak with a Bride unless he was a blood relative or her intended husband.

What was she like? He should have tried to speak to her last night. All he could remember were apricot curls, piercing gray eyes and tiny hands and feet. Last night she had been a vague woman shape draped in dirty white robes. She was Shazzur’s daughter, trained to think like him. She had the wit to make her service bearable, at the very least.

Still, Elzan was angry when he went to his bed that night, and his dreams were blurred images of fire and warfare and fighting his way through his half-brothers to rescue an unseen girl who split the air with her terrified screams.

I’m going to set Agrat’s feather fan on fire next time he flicks it at me and tells me I have no sense of color. I swear I will.

Challen sank down onto the marble ledge of the fountain in the center of the Sanctum garden. The water kept the marble nicely cool despite the heat and she welcomed the contrast with the scorched air.

All the other Brides were indoors at this time of the morning, but Challen needed to be outdoors. She needed solitude and to clear her lungs of perfumes and cosmetics that thickened the air. The harsh, late-morning sun wasn’t good for her skin, but she didn’t care. The lessons and treatments were there to correct her defects, weren’t they? She might as well make the eunuchs and servants work for their goal—it certainly wasn’t her goal. Treatments to make her skin soft and creamy ivory gold. Lessons to teach her to walk with the grace of a swaying lily. To ingrain her with a knowledge of color and style. To teach her to talk sweetly and with poetic phrases, instead of bluntly and ready to argue over fine points of historical interpretation.

The other girls preferred fables and poetry over history and prophecy and sacred writings. Their idea of exercise was to wander the garden in the early morning dew and the silver cool of dusk. Their idea of food was to nibble on flowers and delicate sweets and drink watered wine. Challen would waste away if she didn’t get hearty bread, plain meat, and greens.

What was she doing in this place?

She knew the answer to one aspect of that question—sparing her father the distraction of worrying over her safety, and helping O’klan root out the source of the evil that had threatened the Sacred Marriage and Bainevah’s welfare. But the other aspect—what was she doing here to better herself? Challen just didn’t know. In ten days of trying to follow O’klan’s advice and fit in for protection, she was ready to give up. If not give up, then scream and batter her feet and fists against a wall until she broke it down. Even the promised escape of going to the Healers Temple and the Scribes Hall for her studies couldn’t help her endure.

First it had been the moon dark ceremonies that delayed her escape. Then the ambassador from Chadrasheer wanted a bride for his king. Agrat wouldn’t let Challen leave the Sanctum because the Chadrasheer barbarians considered the Brides more royal than the King’s daughters. Several barbarians supposedly watched the Sanctum now, ready to kidnap a girl and spirit her away for the public rape the Chadrasheeri called a royal marriage ceremony.

Challen wouldn’t believe that excuse. Thinking about it gave her something to chuckle over. What if some of her new companions were abducted? She certainly wouldn’t help rescue blonde and icily correct Vashina.

Now, near the end of the second descent moon, nearly two moon quarters since she had entered Bainevah, Challen still hadn’t made her first trip to the Healers Temple or the Scribes Hall. She would have threatened a hunger strike, but she suspected Agrat would only sneer and tell her she was too plump and needed to lose weight.

“You’re going to be scolded,” O’klan said with a chuckle when he found her. “Come inside before you start to burn.”

“Just a little longer?”

Challen liked the big man. He had relieved her boredom and disgust by showing her sleight of hand tricks to make flowers, veils, and jewelry vanish, to the consternation of several Brides and the amusement of their warder eunuchs.

“You must wash and dress more appropriately.” O’klan clapped his hands twice, urging her to move.

“But—”

“Your escort to the Scribes Hall comes for you before noon.” He grinned whitely and his huge body rippled with silent laughter when Challen gaped at him for five long seconds.

“You are wonderful!”

She barely restrained herself from throwing her arms around him. It had taken her only one day to learn that while hugs and holding hands were permitted between her father and herself, physical contact was a social crime in public. Challen pressed her hand to her heart in a gesture of thanks. She had realized quickly that few of the Brides used the gesture for the servant girls and their eunuchs. O’klan beamed and bowed.

“Inside, Lady.”

Challen laughed and scurried ahead of O’klan down the path of white-gold sand edged with gilded sea shells. For once, she was glad to retreat into the Sanctum’s thick air and shadows.

Her trips to the Scribes Hall required a time when she could visit the archives without compromising her position as a Bride. Loosely translated, when she could move about the hallways without too many people seeing her and realizing what her shimmery white veil signified. The best time to visit was when most scribes left for the midday meal or to pursue other interests in the afternoon. Challen wondered which scribe had volunteered to stay and be her guide.

“Probably someone very old and useless. Deaf. Probably someone who wants a little extra money for his old age,” she speculated later in the stifling security of her chair.

O’klan, walking beside her, chuckled. He reached through the beaded curtain and lightly tapped her arm.

“The man says he is honored to serve the daughter of Doni’Hobad’Shazzur’Conia. He knew your grandfather, Scholar Hobad.”

“Ancient. Just like I said,” Challen said with a chuckle. She squeezed O’klan’s hand before he withdrew it. “How can I ever thank you? You’re the only friend I have here.”

“You are new. You are different. Give them time to realize you are a maiden like them. Those with open hearts and quick minds will come to you in time. Ah—we are here.” He tapped the frame to warn her before the front bearers lowered the chair. Challen braced her feet against sliding until the rear bearers lowered their half.

O’klan was right, she knew. She had already been openly hurt when the other girls didn’t accept her stumbling overtures of friendship or mocked her “pretensions of being a scribe.” Her father had counseled her to be careful and slow in all actions, words, and judgments when they returned to Bainevah. She could translate texts from ancient, foreign lands, written in dead languages no one but scribes used. She could do this.

When the curtains parted to reveal the sprawling, amber stone complex of the Scribes Hall, Challen forgot all else. She now had access to the accumulated knowledge of thousands of seers, scribes, and priests over centuries of civilization. She could ask questions and read and study to her heart’s content. O’klan offered her his hand to help her step from the chair, then paused and waved his forefinger to scold. Challen grinned, unrepentant, and tugged her veil back into place. She vowed she would remove it as soon as they were indoors. Surely the few scribes she met would not report her “lack of modesty” to anyone? They were sensible people, these seekers after knowledge—like her father.

No servants came to greet her, too busy serving the noon meal. Challen was grateful, because then she wouldn’t have to display her newly learned and despised bows.

She had toyed with Cyrula’s idea of dazzling the Court, stunning everyone and making them her toys by playing games with their minds. The challenges that presented had entertained her for several days and many evenings of sitting alone in the gardens, listening to the other Brides laugh and chatter elsewhere. She had imagined arrogant nobles and courtiers, suspiciously similar to the other Brides, falling victim to her wit and grace, humiliating themselves in an effort to be named her friends. Then the exercise grew threadbare and boring. Until she established herself as her father’s right hand, she would have no standing beyond the status of her future husband—which, despite her father’s assurances, was inevitable. She would have to trust her father to find her a husband who wouldn’t demand she be a brainless ornament and bed-warmer.

She wanted someone like the soldier who had rescued her when she fell into the fountain, even if he had called her a little idiot. Well, her father sometimes called her a foolish child when he was especially worried about her. Could she persuade her dark-eyed soldier, her gift from Mother Matrika, that she was intelligent? Perhaps he had a sense of humor? Would it be too much to hope he could tell jokes and explain the world, like Commander Asqual?

Maybe she would meet a young scribe in these halls. Someone she could talk to and study with; who would appreciate the intellect Shazzur had honed.

No, he wouldn’t really have to be that young, she decided as she followed O’klan down shadowed hallways. Young enough not to need a nurse, but old enough to think about something besides tumbling me into bed. She pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle a chuckle. She had listened too long to her new companions discussing lovemaking and possible husbands and Court gossip. The conversations were affecting her mind.

Then O’klan gestured her through a doorway. The enclosed courtyard before her held a triangular pool, blue with water and blue lilies, ringed with white stones. Tall trees stretched above the roofline, casting sweet shade across the grass and flat white paving stones. Two men sat at a long, scroll-covered table under an elm at the far side of the oval courtyard. One wore the white and navy robes of a scribe, his head shaved. Challen envied him his comfort in this heat. The other wore pale blue edged in dark green. His red and silver hair was immaculately set in the ringlets currently in fashion for appearances in the royal Court, and his beard was braided.

“Father?” Challen cast aside her veil and rules of conduct and flew across the courtyard.

O’klan sighed loudly behind her, but he chuckled as he picked up her veil.

The scribe chuckled and looked away as Challen flung her arms around her father. She was grateful, even as she wished the stranger far away.

“Are you all right? Are you sleeping well? Did they find you decent servants? Do they know to cook your vegetables enough to heat them, but not mushy? Do—” She let out a squeak of indignation as Shazzur pressed two fingers over her lips.

“My dear, I am supposed ask those questions of you.” Shazzur laughed and hugged her and then released her. “You see, Cho’Mat? Didn’t I tell you she would be this way, no matter what useless rules they tried to drill into her head?”

“She is your daughter, my friend.” Chief Scribe Cho’Mat bowed to Challen and gestured at the third of four seats at their table. “Come, sit and eat with us, Kena’Shazzur. Be welcome.”

“Please forgive my—” she began. Challen hated blushing.

“Scribes have no use for formalities,” he said and exchanged grins with her father. “I believe our task will be partly your studies, and partly keeping your head free of the foolishness they will try to teach you in the Sanctum. Welcome, O’klan,” he continued, turning to the eunuch. “I look forward to hearing you participate today and in the future.”

“I am honored, Chief Scribe,” O’klan said, bowing deeply. He draped the discarded veil around Challen’s shoulders and his mouth drooped in a frown of displeasure. “Lady, always wear your veil in public. Fortunately, Warder Agrat never stated how the veil should be worn. The letter of the law, Lady, and ignore the spirit when it is foolish.” He took the fourth seat at their table and his frown faded a little. “Did I mention I have written several works on the third dynasty and how we have absorbed five cultures which tried to displace our nation?”

“No, you did not.” Challen picked up the bowl of slightly withered peaches by her elbow and passed them to her father. “I will forgive your silence if you discuss them with me later.”

O’klan burst out laughing, dropping his offended pose. The other three joined him. Challen knew that with such outings granted her every third day and the company of O’klan within the Sanctum, she would not only survive, she would thrive.

Challen was only permitted two hours at the Scribes Hall and the time sped by too quickly for her taste. When she complained about having to wear a veil in such heat, and asked if she had to even within the Scribes Hall, Shazzur laughed. Challen was glad they were alone in Cho’Mat’s courtyard.

“For propriety’s sake, you must hide your face,” he said. “We shall tell no one who you are—”

“They will know. That silly veil is like a brand across my forehead!”

“Not if you use that blurring exercise you were so fond of when you were ten or so. Remember that?”

“Oh.”

The exercise had been a favorite toy for a few seasons when she was younger, because of the tingling sensation in her skin. Shazzur had taught her the little exercise to prepare her for stronger mental disciplines later. It enabled Challen to create an invisible barrier around herself. Anyone she spoke with would have only a vague impression of her features. She could move freely through the Scribes Hall without the discomfort of the veil; no one would see her face; no one would recognize her later if they saw her in the street.

“Yes. Oh.” He tsked and shook his head, managing to hold onto a disappointed mask for all of ten seconds. Then Shazzur smiled and sighed and wrapped his arms around her. “I miss you dreadfully, arrogant child. I need you to nag me about picking up my scrolls and pens. I need you to remind me about eating properly. Few of our original servants remain, so there’s no one to bully me.”

“Would the King release me if you asked him?” she asked, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “If I promised to never go anywhere without an escort and took lessons from Commander Asqual in using a sword?”

Challen dug her fingers into her father’s robes and clung to the safety of his arms. All too soon, she would have to return to a world that reeked of cosmetics, perfumes, and singed hair, where the very air was sickening sweet with false friendship and poisonous glances.

“You are better off, hidden away. Trust Mother Matrika, Challen, my treasure.” Shazzur grasped her shoulders and held her out at arm’s length. “There are important lessons you need to learn, and quickly. Like fruit forced out of season, you must mature quickly in that hothouse of the Sanctum. You will understand when the time comes. Now, Cho’Mat and I have a gift for you. Come.” He shook her once and guided her to the doorway back into the main building.

They paused inside the shadowed doorway until Challen could establish the blurring. She wondered if it worked well enough against her father so he couldn’t see her blush. How could she have forgotten such a simple tool?

Maybe she could teach some of the nicer girls to use it? There were Tamisra and Amilia and several others who didn’t hide knives in every word they spoke.

No, Challen decided as she walked down a cool, green-tiled hallway with her father. Even if the girls could learn what was a simple exercise to her, Agrat would never permit it. If he found out she used it in the Scribes Hall, he would publicly scold her and then have O’klan and her bearers beaten. As if they could have stopped her from doing such a thing.

“Ah, here we are. Hajbaz?” Shazzur asked, leading Challen down steps into a long room that, to her delight, was lined with scroll racks from floor to ceiling.

“In here, old friend,” a silvery male voice called. A moment later, two scribes stepped from a gap between scroll racks; a small office nook, Challen assumed.

The man would have been tall, but for the twisting of his back that made him seem to walk sideways. He wore loose white trousers and a sleeveless, open tunic that hung past his knees. The bushy white brows over his pale blue eyes were the only indication of his age because his shaven head and face were without wrinkles.

The girl who trailed behind him wore trousers and tunic, with a stylus tucked conveniently into the knot of her rich brown hair at the back of her head. She carried two scrolls under one arm and a little basket with sealed ink pots, pens, and parchment rolls hung from a leather strap around her neck. She was barefoot and utterly free of makeup. Challen envied her.

“Challen, this is Archivist Scribe Hajbaz.” Shazzur smiled at the girl and she smiled shyly and ducked her head. “And this is his granddaughter, Haneen. She has agreed to be your assistant and guide. It seems the Prophecy is a favorite riddle of hers. Perhaps the two of you could—”

“Be friends?” Challen blurted. She stepped out from the shelter of her father’s arm and held out a hand to the girl, who was perhaps fifteen at the most. “Could we?” She banished the blurring with a flicker of her thought.

“Gladly. If you’ll teach me that trick, Lady,” Haneen added, a dimple appearing in one cheek.

“My granddaughter has enough sweethearts to be a nuisance,” Hajbaz remarked, his tone dry. He shuffled down the corridor between the scroll racks as he spoke. “I think she became a scribe simply to have a convenient place to hide from them.”

“Even one suitor is too many!” Haneen called to his retreating, twisted back. She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “What is wrong with people, that they think all a girl wants is to hide in dark corners and kiss?”

“Exactly.” Challen clasped her new friend’s hands. “The blurring is really rather simple. All you need to do—”

“Later, my dear. You are expected back at the Sanctum. Do not give the Chief Warder any reason to protest your next visit.” Shazzur caught hold of Challen’s arm and gently tugged her away, chuckling as he went.

“Next time, Lady,” Haneen said.

“You must call me Challen. Please?” Challen hurried to add. She felt a flicker of horror that she had already picked up the nasty habit of giving orders.

“Until next time, Challen,” her new friend called.

“Hmm, and O’klan said you found it difficult to make friends,” Shazzur muttered as they reached the hall. “I can’t imagine what you were doing wrong.”

“Not the technique, Father, but the material I worked with.” Challen tugged her arm free to hug him. “Thank you.”

CHAPTER 9

Third Descent Moon

Three nights after the moon fullness festivities ended, Elzan escorted Princess Cayeen to a room in the lower levels of the Healers Temple to visit her full-blood brother, Rushtan. Though Rushtan’s body had healed, his mind still wandered, under attack from whatever magical influence had moved him to attack the girl in the fountain plaza. He had hours when he was lucid, fully in control of his mind and body, and then in the blink of an eye he would be a raging beast, struggling to break free of his comfortable prison. The most chilling part of the episodes, which Elzan had witnessed several times, was the utter blackness that filled his half-brother’s eyes.

Ordinarily, Cayeen could have visited her brother with just her eunuch guard for escort during the day, and two members of the Host of the Ram in the evening. However, the ambassador from Chadrasheer was in the city, seeking a bride for his king. All three princesses had been dismissed as unacceptable, but the barbarians might still try to snatch one and carry her off. A woman stolen had more value to them than a woman won through negotiations.

Cayeen wore a slave’s robes and bound her silvery blonde hair under a turban of rags. She slipped alone out of the palace’s kitchen entrance to meet Elzan. The prince laughed at her disguise, and then regaled her with tales of how he escaped his guards when he was a boy. Four of the Host of the East Gate, disguised as laborers, escorted them through the warm evening shadows to the Healers Temple.

A woman sat with Vandan in the front room of Rushtan’s quarters, when the guard at the door let the royal siblings enter. Dark of skin and eye, her hair fell to her ankles in a midnight river, twined with golden threads. Her robes held a dozen colors and she played a harp. Rushtan lay on a pile of cushions, eyes closed, listening to the woman play, and looking more relaxed than Elzan had seen him since the black arrow struck him. The prisoner opened one eye when the music stopped. He grinned and sat up and held out his arms to his sister.

“Prince Doni’Mayar, this is Song Weaver Veerian,” Vandan said, while brother and sister embraced and caught up on news.

“Ah, yes. Mother mentioned she would ask if you could help. Your talents reach into the mind.” Elzan bowed to the woman.

It amazed him, how much power resided in such a small package. He prayed the woman’s gifts to reach into the mind and bring healing would save his brother. How long could Rushtan live as a prisoner before he truly went mad without magical influence?

“Forgive my impatience, but have you seen success yet?”

“We have just begun, Highness,” Veerian said, bowing in her turn. Her voice was low, sweet, with a sighing undertone like the desert winds.

“She’s been too busy slaughtering me with her totally unorthodox strategy,” Rushtan said. He gestured at the table, where a Draktan board waited, set up for four to play.

“Can’t handle the challenge?” Elzan asked, pretending disinterest in the game.

“I’m good enough to challenge you. That means everyone else bores me. Until Veerian.” He settled into a chair at the table and spread his hands. “What are you waiting for?”

“Women against men?” Cayeen said as she sat down next to her brother.

Veerian laughed and sat down opposite the princess, leaving Elzan the last place, opposite Rushtan. Vandan bade them a good night and wished Veerian luck.

“You must be improving, if he leaves you alone for the evening,” Elzan observed. He stepped over to a long table set up against the far wall, where pitchers of wine, a bowl of fruit, small loaves of bread, and other dishes provided refreshment.

Rushtan grunted and snatched up a Draktan marker carved from onyx. His knuckles turned white as he squeezed the game piece.

“Rush?” Cayeen gasped and leaped to her feet. “Elzan!”

Elzan turned at the same time his brother jumped from his chair, kicking it out of his way. Rushtan’s eyes were as black as the Draktan piece. Veerian ran for the door, shouting for the guards and Vandan. Elzan stepped forward to push Cayeen out of the way, sure that Rushtan would go after the most vulnerable person in the room.

But Rushtan attacked him, ignoring Veerian and Cayeen, and the guards who burst through the door. Elzan ducked and went to his knees, rolling out of Rushtan’s reach. He snatched up the fallen chair and swung it hard, aiming for Rushtan’s head.

Veerian reached Rushtan first, thumping him hard with a long rod as thick as her arm. Rushtan crumpled. The Song Weaver pulled a small flask from inside her sash, yanked the plug free, and poured the contents down his throat.

“You knew this was going to happen,” Elzan said. That was the only explanation for how quickly the guards had rushed in, Vandan’s speedy return and the drug Veerian used on Rushtan.

“We needed to test our theory,” Vandan said. He knelt beside Rushtan and helped Veerian sit him upright, so they could pour more of the potion down his throat.

“What theory?” Cayeen demanded.

“You think you know who the target is,” Elzan guessed.

Vandan led them from the room while Veerian and two of the guards tended to Rushtan. The three ended up in Lady Mayar’s office, where the High Priestess waited. Elzan and Cayeen took seats and listened while Vandan related what had happened.

“Our enemy is strong and clever, but not infallible,” Lady Mayar said, nodding. “The magic controlling Rushtan awakens whenever certain people come near him. Or when he thinks they are coming to visit.”

“The magic also grows more … selective, as time goes on. At first, Rushtan attacked anyone wearing healer green. Now, he only loses control when Lady Mayar enters his cell,” Vandan said. “At first, he attacked anyone wearing the Ram insignia. His friends in the Host had to come without their armor and weapons. Now, the change only comes when we tell him a member of the royal family is in the room.”

“Or when our dear Shazzur comes to examine and question him,” Lady Mayar added. “I fear Kena’Shazzur is also a target.”

“That’s why she’s in the Sanctum,” Elzan guessed. “To protect her, not for the Sacred Marriage.”

“That poor girl,” Cayeen muttered. “It’s hard enough being a princess, but to be the daughter of the Seer and know people will try to hurt you to hurt your father. And then to be locked up in the Sanctum … Does she have any friends?”

“Yes. The ones who matter,” Lady Mayar said with that small, secretive smile that had always irritated Elzan. He hated feeling like a little boy left out of many wonderful secrets. Experience had taught him not to pester his mother for answers, because she wouldn’t speak until the time was ready.

“Will the Song Weaver be able to help him?” Cayeen asked.

“The potion she gave him immediately after the attack works to counter the magic while it is still active,” Vandan said. “In time, we hope Prince Rushtan will be free of its control.”

“In time. You hope.” Elzan suddenly felt as weary as if he had spent six days on the march. “Until then, it really won’t be safe to visit him, will it? No one of our family, not Shazzur or our friends in the Host.”

“We may need you to help us trigger more attacks, to test how the treatment is working,” Vandan said. “But no, ordinary visits will not be wise. I am sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for us,” Cayeen said. “We can move about freely without fear of harming the ones we love.”

When they left a short time later, Elzan wondered briefly about the acolyte who had been the target of Rushtan’s first attack. He wondered where she was, if she lived in fear, if her superiors had punished her for being so foolish. In a way, it was fortuitous she had slipped out to wade in the fountain. They might never have discovered the magic waiting to control Rushtan and destroy the royal family, if she hadn’t innocently wandered into his path.

Elzan wondered now if Rushtan had come looking for him, and had been distracted by the girl. Or if Rushtan’s first target had been Lady Mayar, and the girl’s green robes had drawn the attack instead. By this time, he supposed such questions were meaningless. He hoped the girl slept well tonight, wherever she was, whatever her duties were.

He knew he wouldn’t sleep well tonight. Not with all these new questions and discoveries running through his mind. Thinking back to the arrow attack that had first brought this trouble on Rushtan brought another memory to Elzan—the maiden with hair like flames. Hunger for her struck him at the oddest times. He didn’t want to just touch her, taste her kisses, hear her voice. He wanted to look into her eyes and know her heart and thoughts. Deep inside, where certainties were written without words, he sensed that she was key to so many concerns and problems. Not just in his life, but in Bainevah.

When he was younger, a visit to the concubine’s hall had been an easy answer to sleepless nights. Nowadays, with his commission from the King resting on his shoulders, Elzan tried to make use of his restlessness and inability to sleep. He studied until he was bleary-eyed with exhaustion. Besides, lately, he found all the girls unappealing. None matched the maiden from his vision. He suspected if he did try to sate his needs with a concubine, he would be incapable; the flame-haired girl was the only one who could awaken any kind of interest or hunger in him.

Most of his half-brothers never seemed to have that problem. They didn’t care if they used a different concubine each night, or that the half-brother they hated the most had been in her bed two hours before. Only the King’s concubines were inviolate; no prince dared try to keep a girl for his sole use. Showing favoritism for a particular girl could make her a target for abuse, or a prize in the constant petty battles among the King’s sons.

Elzan wished the Chadrasheeri were as indiscriminate as his half-brothers, and would take their woman-centered difficulties from Bainevah and the Court and the King’s Council. He wished the ambassador would take the first lusty, plump, nobleman’s daughter who offered herself, and hurry back to his master. No one was good enough; no one fit the requirements of the barbarians, and that made no sense. The problem frustrated the entire palace, and Elzan wasn’t surprised when Cayeen brought up the problem again, just before he left her at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the princesses’ quarters.

“He wants a priestess and a princess combined,” Cayeen said, her voice growing sharp. “I overheard him complaining that Lady Mayar hadn’t given the King any healer daughters.”

“Thank the Mother she didn’t.” Elzan shuddered. “My dear Mother would skin the ambassador alive if he touched a daughter of her blood.” He shivered as an image slid into his mind.

“What is it?”

“Kena’Shazzur is the daughter of a priestess, and the King promised to dower her as if she were his own daughter. Equal to a princess. Her status as Shazzur’s daughter makes her nearly royal, anyway. She fits the ambassador’s requirements.”

“Chizhedek and the King both refused the ambassador’s demands for a Sanctum Bride. She’s safe.”

“We should hope so.” Elzan shook his head. The Chadrasheeri had been too polite lately. Too quiet. Perhaps they planned something and didn’t want anyone to notice them? The barbarians showed just how foolish they were, because changing their habits and manners only attracted more attention.

Elzan made his farewells to Cayeen and waited until she was safely inside the guarded doorway of the princesses’ quarters. Then, with his worries growing stronger in his mind, and a plan forming to counter them, he hurried to meet with his closest friends in the Host of the Ram, the East and Water gates. The City Guards would have help tonight, and every night until the Chadrasheeri went home. If the Mother blessed them, no one but the weary volunteers would ever know the help had been given.

Challen sighed and rolled up the scroll she had been trying to read for the last two hours in the Brides’ common room. What was the use of coming to this cool room full of shade and quiet if it wouldn’t stay quiet? She might as well stay in her warm, stuffy suite of rooms. The arguing voices in the outer courtyard under the window weren’t actually loud enough to make out words, but loud enough to break her concentration. She wanted to finish the scroll before she returned to the Scribes Hall. She had spent all yesterday with Lady Mayar and hadn’t been able to read a single column. This was a particularly dry historical commentary, as Haneen had warned, and hard enough to study without the distraction of heat and angry male voices.

Correction … one male voice and one whining eunuch voice. She could identify Agrat’s anywhere. It irritated her like the time she had fallen into the sand head-first and had no water to spare to wash it out. She slept with sandy hair and found sand in her clothes for the next three days.

“Who’s out there?” Amilia raised her gaze from the decorative netting she made for her hair.

“Agrat is fighting with one of the princes,” Challen said. She sat up in the window seat couch and bound the scroll.

“A prince?”

The blonde girl’s lethargy vanished. Gathering pale pink robes around herself, she scurried across the dimly lit room, tripped when she lost a slipper, and clambered up into the window seat with Challen. Her full lips pouted when she could barely see anything through the thick vines and leaves blocking the view.

“How do you know it’s a prince?”

“Who else would talk to Agrat with such an arrogant tone?” Challen slid the scroll into its embroidered leather sleeve.

“Which one?”

“I can’t see anything but his hands, thanks to these vines. And I can’t tell the color of his ring stone, the way his hands flash. It’s like he talks with his hands more than his mouth. From the nasal whine, I wish he would talk with his hands.” Challen grinned when her words prompted giggles from her friend.

That thought stopped her short. Amilia was a friend, wasn’t she? After nearly four moon quarters in the Sanctum, she actually had found people she could talk to, whom she could learn from. Amilia, Challen discovered, wasn’t stupid—just limited in her experience. She was willing to learn, eager to improve her life, but not at the expense of others. When she teased, it was good-natured, not vicious like Vashina.

Yes, Amilia was her friend. Perhaps not as close and reliable as Haneen or O’klan, but a friend she liked to have around and was willing to help.

Challen turned in her seat so she had her back to the pink marble. The nice thing about marble was that shade kept it cool. It was also dust-free; not like the stone of the tower where she had grown up.

“I wish I could see his face,” her friend said with a sigh.

“What difference does it make? All the princes look like the King, to some degree or another.”

“I know, but some look like the priestess dropped them on their faces when she delivered them and some look like they were raised among the demi-gods.”

“Nine princes,” Challen mused. “And three princesses. Where will he find enough royal-blooded wives and husbands for them?”

“Kings marry Sanctum Brides.”

“Only if the girl is willing to be a concubine for years, and if she produces the heir. He’s not allowed to marry anyone but the mother of the Crown Prince. My father told me stories of concubines murdering babies or poisoning each other, simply to ensure they ended up as Queen Mother. It’s ridiculous.” Challen sighed. “All politics are ridiculous, but that doesn’t stop people from scheming and fighting, does it?”

“It’s almost worth the chance,” her friend whispered.

“Amilia!”

“I said almost.” She sat up and turned her back to the window. The two men continued arguing. “They sound furious.”

“I think they must be friends.”

“What?”

“Even Agrat isn’t powerful enough to argue with a prince unless he knows the prince won’t punish him.”

“Oh. I didn’t think of that. Do you think of those things because your father is a seer?” Respect tinged the younger girl’s voice.

“Father trained me to think of reasons behind everything. Or rather, he tried to train me.” Challen sighed again, this time in self-pity instead of frustration.

At her last visit to the Scribes Hall she found both Cho’Mat and her father busy elsewhere. She had enjoyed her time with Haneen, examining the master list of the archives and choosing what to bring back to her rooms to study. Still, she missed the long hours of conversation with her father. She couldn’t just go to him anymore to ask a question or discuss a half-baked theory that had popped into her mind. Shazzur was either busy with the King or examining reports brought in by messengers from across the vast kingdom of Bainevah or attending to the thousands of tiny details that were part of managing the land. And even if he were free, Challen always had to wait hours for Agrat’s permission before she could leave the Sanctum.

“You know what I think?” Amilia asked after a short gap of silence. The conversation outside died, followed by the sound of sandals slapping on stones, fading rapidly into the distance.

“Hmm?”

“I think it isn’t a good thing for a prince to be friends with the Chief Warder. Especially when Agrat’s so eager to rise in social status. Especially with the moon dark ceremonies only days away. What if the prince wanted to … to come in and use one of us? Who would stop a prince? All sorts of evil happens during the moon dark.”

“You’re not the daughter of a merchant anymore, Amilia,” Challen said, grasping her friend’s hands and squeezing gently. “You are protected here. If anyone tried to force you, there are armed eunuchs in every hallway to respond to your call. Your virginity is the property of Mother Matrika now and she will guard you because of it.”

Amilia’s fear of Agrat turning the Sanctum into a brothel was closer to the truth than she could guess. Shersia had brought evil magic into the Chamber of the Suns and blocked the Sacred Marriage from taking place. What if she had been just as much an unwitting tool as the prince who was now kept prisoner in the Healers Temple? What if all it took was an illicit visit, disguised as a lover’s tryst, ending with another girl infected with evil magic to use against Bainevah? O’klan had even told her there were rumors the lots had been manipulated when Shersia was chosen for the Sacred Marriage.

A chorus of giggles broke into the silence. Amilia sighed and glanced toward the door. Challen tied the leather sleeve a little tighter around her scroll and slid from the window seat.

“I knew it was too good to last,” Amilia whispered. She went back to her couch and picked up her work. The blue glass beads glinted like the water in the pool of an oasis, and Challen suddenly found herself homesick.

Vashina and her followers streamed into the room, chattering and giggling, moving in a cloud of perfumes and gowns like gossamer wings. Challen stayed perfectly still, knowing predators only saw what moved. She disliked all five girls intensely, both because they were graceful and did everything right, and because they mocked her scholarly pursuits. Challen knew it was foolish to want to be praised by the very people who mocked what she valued, but that didn’t change the aching of her heart.

Finally, all the girls had their backs to her, busy settling their dainty selves onto couches and arranging baskets of fruit and sweets, sewing and flutes to their satisfaction. Their eunuch warders stayed in the hallway beyond the cool shadowed room, resting on benches. O’klan was within calling reach, busy with his own share of Challen’s research.

Challen slid through the shadows along the wall toward the door. She didn’t care if the girls realized she didn’t want to be with them, she simply hated to be accused of running away.

“What horrid clothes!” Vashina cooed. “Only slave girls wear trousers. And what unflattering colors. No jewelry. No makeup. However in the world does she expect to find a husband?”

A wave of laughter followed Challen out the door. She felt no guilt abandoning Amilia to their presence. Amilia actually enjoyed the other girls’ gossip.

“I wear these clothes because they are comfortable in this heat,” Challen murmured as she hurried down the hall to her suite. “And I do not want a husband.”

Still, there was that young, broad-shouldered historian who had walked in on her and Haneen in the archives. Challen had nearly forgotten to maintain her blurring when she looked at him. His eyes were very blue, with thick lashes and he had a hearty laugh that vibrated in her chest. He had joined their ongoing discussion with ease and listened attentively to the points Challen had made.

Would it be so bad, married to a scribe like him? Scribes weren’t eunuchs and their shaved heads garnered them instant respect in the marketplace. Only a man with a death wish attacked scribes or their families. Scribes were as sacrosanct as priests, and soldiers always watched out for them. Many scribes became poets, and a poem could flay someone’s reputation more quickly, with longer-lasting results, than a whip.

Elzan glanced up at the half moon directly overhead. He played with the notion that it shone down specifically to make guard duty a little easier for the Host of the Water Gate on their third night of guard duty. He knew better. The brightening of the moon heading toward fullness and equinox had a double-edged blessing. In two days, the Chadrasheeri would leave Bainevah, going empty-handed to their king and blood priests. One more day to guard the Sanctum, temples, and princesses.

He smiled, remembering the scene in Court when the ambassador grew frustrated enough on the subject of Kena’Shazzur to call King Nebazz a liar.

Someone, intending trouble, told the Chadrasheeri Kena’Shazzur was an adopted daughter of the King, a trained healer, and a holy priestess. The ambassador blustered and raged before the entire Court and demanded the girl be given to him. Elzan had been there and heard the man claim Shazzur’s daughter was a fulfillment of prophecy. He couldn’t decide whether to be sick or to laugh when the barbarian pretended injured innocence and claimed Bainevah had no right to deny Chadrasheer’s needs and polite requests. The King denied the “requests” as he had done when the subject of the Sanctum Brides had first arisen.

Elzan had been relieved when he learned the Chadrasheeri priesthood had set a deadline. They required a royal marriage and virgin blood on the descent equinox for one of their filthy dark ceremonies. If Bainevah stalled them long enough, they would go home and find a noble maiden from among their own people. He would have spared pity for the poor girl, but knowing the Chadrasheeri, the bridal victim would consider it an honor to be publicly raped to appease the dark spirits.

It was Andorn who had come up with a disturbing theory, during their long night watches guarding the Sanctum and the Brides within—especially Kena’Shazzur.

“Perhaps the Chadrasheeri never would have come here for a bride unless someone gave them the idea?” Andorn had said, when they met after a long night of patrol. “They’re too noisy, too brutal to think of such subtlety. They always go for the obvious. I think someone else did the thinking for them and now they refuse to let go, like a dog with one bone.”

Elzan had agreed. He wondered about the enemies who had been too quiet lately. Maybe one of them had instigated the Chadrasheeri problem, and now quietly waited, watching, preparing to take advantage of whatever trouble erupted. Among the enemies of Bainevah, he was sure the danger came from either Dreva or Moragraen. But which one?

Still, the Chadrasheeri ambassador tried to embarrass Bainevah’s king before all the other royal ambassadors. What did they need one Sanctum Bride for, when they had an entire house full of them? Why deny poor, tiny, starving Chadrasheer a royal bride who would bless the tribes?

The tactic had earned a reprimand strong enough to banish him for the remainder of his stay in Bainevah. Then, like the sweet course at the end of a royal feast, witnesses came to attest to Kena’Shazzur’s need for training in the Healers Temple. The testimony made her sound like a child barely out of swaddling, who might never realize the full potential of her talents if she left the Healers Temple.

All Elzan cared about was that the barbarians were leaving. Cayeen would be safe. The temple virgins could move freely outside their precincts again, and he could stop worrying about Shazzur’s daughter.

Elzan felt a stab of guilt and anger on her behalf. He wished there was something he could do to make her time of service more bearable.

A chill raced down his back. Elzan felt the hairs on his neck stand up despite the sweat under his helmet.

Something tapped; light and soft, like the strings of prism beads in his mother’s windows when he was a child.

Elzan shifted his grip on his spear and stepped from the dark corner where he watched the back wall of the Sanctum garden. It was the most vulnerable spot, in his estimation.

A brushing sound, like wood across cloth, interrupted the tapping. It sounded almost like a massive wall loom being used, but that made no sense. The sound grew louder. Then faded away. The chill wrapped around Elzan’s middle. He froze, only one step from his dark hiding spot.

Shadows moved at the base of the Sanctum wall. He heard hooves on packed dirt. A visitor at this time of night? Elzan drew his horn to sound the alarm.

Two hooded and cloaked men emerged from the shadows at the corner of the wall to toss a weighted rope around the pole where banners hung on moon full and moon dark days. Two more men appeared from the darkness at the other end of the wall, where a street met it to form a little courtyard before joining with a larger, main street. They led five horses.

Four men, four horses, and one horse for a stolen Bride.

Elzan gripped his spear in his right hand and waited until the rope whirred through the air, the weight wrapping around the pole five times before thudding softly against the painted stones. Two men started to climb and the other two watched them—but not the shadows.

They had no sense of precautions or danger. Elzan sent a silent prayer of thanks that they were such arrogant fools. Then he waited until the first man was on top of the wall and the second man was halfway up.

With his left hand he raised his horn to his lips and blew four hard, staccato blasts. Each man on duty had his own code so the others would know where the breach had appeared.

Elzan arched back and flung his spear with all his might. Aided by his anger, the spear seemed to sprout wings of fire.

The Chadrasheeri on the wall shrieked, but not the eerie, desert raider ululation of the barbarians. This was the desperate, pitiful cry of a man facing death. Elzan exulted in the sound and leaped forward, drawing his sword even before his spear hit its mark and the target tumbled down to the street.

The two on the ground leaped onto their horses and galloped to the courtyard and open street. Elzan ignored them, knowing Andorn would meet them. He braced himself as the man halfway up the wall jumped down, dark robes flying.

Long desert knife met sword blade with a shower of sparks.

The tapping, sliding sound grew louder, like music played behind a good Song Weaver’s performance.

The sparks from their blades gave off a sour smell and Elzan felt the chill deepen in his gut. Magic worked here. Barbarian Chadrasheeri blood magic, based in death and pain.

The two combatants turned, moonlight glinting off their blades. Elzan saw darkness writhe along the flat of the knife as the blade twisted and nicked his gloved wrist. He pivoted on one leg, jerking his other leg up to give momentum and dug it into his opponent’s gut under his guard. The Chadrasheeri grunted and stumbled backwards. Elzan heard the echoes of battle elsewhere.

Chattering like an enraged rat, the Chadrasheeri lunged forward. A second blade appeared in his other hand. Ice filled the prince’s sweat as he twisted aside, too mindful of that tainted blade.

He tripped as he stepped backwards. Sprawling, he had one moment to realize the obstacle was a dead body. The barbarian leaped on him, kicking the sword from his grip, metal-toed boot connecting with enough force to break finger bones.

Gagging on a roar of mixed anger and shock, Elzan flung his legs up, twisting aside and kicking at his attacker. His good hand banged against the spear still lodged in the dead man.

“Mother Matrika,” he whispered and yanked it free, twisting around on his knees and leaping to his feet in a move he knew he could never repeat. Elzan barely felt the flicker of fire along his arm as one tainted blade sliced through his thin leather cuff. He continued turning, bringing all his weight to bear, plunging the spear into the side of his opponent.

They both went down in a heap, blood gushing as the spear traveled through the Chadrasheeri. Elzan saw sparks fly as the magic blades clattered against the Sanctum wall. They snapped, proving the shields against evil magic still held.

Elzan heard the tapping, sliding sound grow louder and an icy fist wrapped around his arm. He rolled free of the man in his death throes and struggled to his feet.

CHAPTER 10

Challen moaned in her sleep. She knew she dreamed. Her heart told her to stay asleep, or disaster would strike.

Her soldier, her dark-eyed gift from the Mother, fought black serpents that tried to writhe into his veins. Challen called out to him. Light shot through the air with her voice and bathed him in brilliance.

He looked at her, dark eyes bright, and smiled, baring his teeth with a fierceness that made her hunger to wrap her arms around him. He dug his hands into the light, his knuckles white from the effort, and the black serpents retreated with agonizing slowness.

“Hold tight!” she cried, and the light flowing from her grew brighter, thicker, more solid.

The serpents retreated a little more.

The shadowy Bull-man stood behind her soldier and glared at him with burning eyes. Challen fought the knee-weakening urge to flee. To wake and hide. If she stayed in the dream, if she gave all she had to her soldier, would the Bull-man catch her?

“Well done, Prince,” a rich, amused voice whispered from the shadows at the foot of the wall. “Such a pity you won’t survive the poison. I could use a valiant fighter.”

“Who—are you?” Elzan forced the words out through the sudden chattering of his teeth. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman who spoke. Did the poison affect his mind?

Darkness wrapped around him thicker than a blanket, colder than the blizzard that killed hundreds last winter.

“That really doesn’t matter, does it?”

Voices shouted his name, but muffled and distant. Elzan strained his eyes at the darkness. Was that a robed, hooded figure he saw?

“I could save you. For a price.” The speaker laughed, a rumbling, rich chuckle.

“Price?”

Elzan thought he heard a voice calling, sweet as wine, smooth and soothing as oil. A faint spot of illumination at the edge of the darkness grew stronger. Gold and crimson flickered like dancing flames. A warm breath of sweetness like lemons on the tree in summer came to him through the cold.

She was there in that faint light. His flame-haired vision. He had to resist, or he might never find her.

“Serve me. I will save your life and give you the throne. That is what you want? I agree, you are the best choice. I’m willing to let you have it, if you serve me.”

“Who?” Elzan strained to see the girl.

“Choose!” The voice snapped like a whip, reverberating along Elzan’s nerves, jagged teeth that dug into his flesh. “Your mother can’t save you. There’s no time. Only I can save you. Vow to me and I will save you.”

“Mother.” Elzan filled his lungs, and it seemed to take an eternity. The air burned inside him, as if he had never breathed before. “Mother Matrika!”

“Too late, Prince!” the voice hissed, and blackness wrapped around Elzan, choking him.

“Mother,” he whispered, feeling the air pressed from his body by a sudden, inconceivable weight.

“I am here, my hawk,” Lady Mayar whispered. “Feel my hand. Open your eyes. See the healing light, Elzan, my hawk.” Her voice shook, and that wasn’t right. She was the Lady of the Healers Temple. She wasn’t permitted to cry.

“Don’t cry, Mother.” He forced his eyes open against the heavy blackness.

“Then do not leave me.” She leaned over him so the tears dropped from her lashes onto his cheeks.

“You lost that toss,” a whining voice whispered, laughing, inside Elzan’s head. The prince barely heard through his weariness.

“It does not matter,” the rich voice responded. “The game is nearly over, and no matter what they do, no matter how their pieces increase rank, they cannot win.”

Challen struggled free of the dream as she sensed a healing presence enter the battle. Shivering, drenched in sweat, she forced herself awake. Her untrained help was no longer needed.

The air in her room was thick, with a faint rotten stench as if something had died inside the walls and the corruption tried to leak through. Gagging, she crawled out of bed and to her door. Her legs wobbled as she crossed her sitting room. She wrapped a blanket around herself and grew steadier, as if the chill inside her had stolen her balance and strength.

O’klan found her huddled against the garden wall as dawn filled the city with pale gold and rose light. She still shivered but the whiteness had left her skin and her night robe had begun to dry, no longer plastered to her body with terror sweat.

Challen only nodded when he scolded her. She barely heard when he told her the Chadrasheeri had tried to break into the Sanctum during the night. Her soldier was all right. That was all that mattered.

“Interesting,” Shazzur murmured. He gazed off into the distance. From the fifth level garden of the Healers Temple, he could see nearly to the leading edges of the desert to the west.

Elzan sighed and exchanged amused, exasperated glances with his mother. He had recovered quickly from the Chadrasheeri poison. Lady Mayar had fought the magic that enhanced it while Cyrula fought the poison. Veerian, who had learned much in her battle to free Rushtan, confirmed that no taint of magic lingered in him. It was late afternoon of the day after the attack. His mother insisted Elzan tell Shazzur about his dream before she let him leave the Healers Temple.

He left out the details of the flame-haired girl, reticent to let anyone know she existed. She was his to find. He didn’t want anyone curious about her, afraid that the attention of others might drive her away. How was he to know she wasn’t a denizen of the spirit world, taking tiny, hesitant steps into the physical world?

The Chadrasheeri were completely gone from Bainevah, having fled in the night. The King had decreed they would never be permitted within the borders while he lived. The two remaining kidnappers managed to hang themselves only a few hours after being thrown into prison.

“You say you don’t know what that sound was?” Shazzur sat back in the embrace of his chair of woven wood, and reached for a cup of the iced, watered wine Lady Mayar had brought for them.

“I should. I only know I heard it long ago.” Elzan shrugged. The movement aggravated his healing wound.

“You realize, there is significance to your sudden sensitivity to powers and magic. To all intents and purposes, Mother Matrika has gifted you to eavesdrop on the plots of demi-gods.” The Seer chuckled when Elzan shuddered at his words. “Don’t be alarmed. My daughter had a nightmare last night. Her warder was concerned enough to report it to me.”

“If the barbarians used magic to fuddle her mind, to make her easier to kidnap, that would explain it,” Lady Mayar said slowly. “I will test her for residue right now, if you like.”

“Please.” He stood, bowed to the priestess, and stayed standing until she had gone inside.

“What did Lady Kena’Shazzur dream?” Elzan had to ask.

“She refused to call it a dream. Stubborn child.” Shazzur chuckled, evidently proud of his daughter. “She told me … it was too vivid, as if she had stepped from the known reality into a stronger reality. If she hadn’t broken free and awakened, she likely would have heard a voice as you did.”

“Offering her whatever she wanted most,” Elzan murmured. “I worry when someone is so desperate they offer great riches and rewards if I will ally with them.”

“There is reason to believe the Chadrasheeri were only a distraction while some more insidious plot unfolds around us.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking!”

“Then we shall tell your story to the King.” Shazzur smiled. “I know he’d prefer to hear from you directly that you’re all right.” He nodded toward the doorway Lady Mayar had used. “So, tell me, how are your studies into the Prophecy coming along?”

Elzan laughed quietly at himself after he walked past the knot of scribes conversing in the hallway and realized he noticed nothing about them. Maybe the effects of the poison weren’t completely erased, despite everything his mother and Cyrula had done yesterday. Still, that was no excuse for being so lax. He glanced over his shoulder to examine the group, so intent on their discussion no one noticed him. He was dressed simply, with only his ram’s head ring to mark him as royal blood. Anyone walking the hallways would take him for a scribe’s son who, by lack of his shaven head, hadn’t completed his training. That assumption was exactly what Elzan wanted. He liked the freedom anonymity gave him. He liked being friends with the scribes and scholars and teased little Haneen, the archivist’s granddaughter, as if she were a sister.

There were three men, all wrinkled and stooped and dressed in long-sleeved robes despite the warmth of the day. Their stubbly heads showed white and silver and gray.

A girl sat in a niche in the wall, kicking her heels and talking animatedly with them. Elzan nearly laughed aloud when he heard something about third dynasty taxation records. Boring stuff. Why would a girl waste her time and her wine-rich voice discussing that dry-as-dust topic?

Elzan stopped short three steps down the hall when he realized no one had interrupted the girl. He couldn’t recall a single time he had spoken with a scribe without being interrupted at least once every other sentence. Scribes were always ready to correct others and add to their knowledge, no matter how rudely they did it. Who was this girl who held their respect and attention?

Why couldn’t he recall anything of her except that she swung her feet and had an enticing voice? Elzan knew he had looked straight at her. Why couldn’t he recall her appearance? Something was definitely wrong with him, to miss such details. A soldier had to notice everything if he wanted to survive. Elzan made a mental note to visit his mother for another exam, and continued on his way to the archives.

Hajbaz, as usual, had anticipated Elzan’s need and had scrolls waiting when he stepped into the first room of the archives. The two old friends chatted a few moments, then Elzan excused himself and returned the way he had come.

The scribes and the girl had left; probably continuing their conversation elsewhere. If there was one thing Elzan knew, there was no end of taxation and the records required.

Raucous male laughter made Elzan flinch. He frowned and turned down another hallway to follow the sound. No one made noise like that in the Scribes Hall. Apprentices who wouldn’t learn decorum never got beyond the doors of their school room.

“Let me past,” a female voice demanded in a strong tone. Confident, but for the tiny waver Elzan heard at the end.

He had already picked up his pace before he recognized the voice of the girl who had been discussing taxation records. Elzan doubted the elderly scribes had just laughed.

He rounded a corner and found three shaggy-haired young men in dun-colored workmen’s trousers and sandals, strategically placed so the girl, backed into a corner, couldn’t get past without touching them. The one in the middle took a step closer and chuckled—then stopped, finally alerted by the scraping of Elzan’s sandals on the stone floor.

“Are you all right?” Elzan demanded.

“She’s no concern of yours,” the one in the middle snapped. “My sister is here against orders.”

“I’m no sister—” The girl yelped as the one on the left reached for her. She ducked and rolled and nearly succeeded in darting out between their legs on her hands and knees.

The biggest one caught her, hooking meaty fingers in the silvery white sash at her waist. She twisted, turning as he yanked her upright, and dug her knee into his groin. He roared and flung her toward the wall before he went to his knees.

Elzan leaped, catching her just before she hit. She stumbled as he yanked her out of the reach of the three, who then converged on him. Elzan backhanded one across the nose and caught the other under the chin, slamming up hard enough to make his teeth snap together.

The three took to their heels and ran, accompanied by a faint smell of burning. Elzan turned to the girl and found her sagging against the wall. He caught her by her arm and guided her over to a bench around the corner.

“Thank you,” she said, a tremble of laughter in her voice. She leaned against him, her fingers clutching hard on his arm; fortunately not the wounded one.

Elzan stared as they sank down onto the bench. The moment the girl touched him, her features seemed to leap at him.

As if she had been hiding behind a veil.

Elzan drank in her features, storing them against a gloomy day. Red hair touched with gold, scented with lemons, braided with pale blue ribbons. A sculptured, young face; golden and rose with health; unmarred by the heavy cosmetics fashionable at Court. Sparkling gray eyes reminded Elzan of someone. A strong, lithe, gently curved figure draped in a simple sleeveless sheath and loose trousers of pale blue that matched the ribbons.

How could he not have noticed anything but her voice before? Elzan tightened his arm around her while his mind reeled at the realization of what had just happened.

He had found the flame-haired girl from his visions. She was real, solid, with a voice to make him melt for hunger and enough spirit to defend herself.

Elzan opened his mouth, half-intending to ask her if she recognized him. He stopped himself in time. How could he tell her that he had seen her in visions? She would think him insane.

“They weren’t my brothers,” she said.

“No. Of course not.”

She stiffened and looked at him, and Elzan released her when he realized he stared. Her features started to fade, as if a fog came between them.

A blurring! He nearly laughed at the obvious answer and recalled the little mental exercise Shazzur had taught him to counter such things. In a heartbeat, her features cleared.

Sandals scraped in the hallway, running feet approaching, and Elzan stood to fight off those three bullies again. Then he grinned when he realized it was only one set of feet.

Haneen hurtled around the corner. She skidded to a halt when she saw Elzan and his companion. “Grandfather heard you shout. Are you all right?” She neatly inserted herself into Elzan’s spot on the bench and wrapped an arm around the other girl, likely only a few years older than her.

“Fine. This—” She blushed and shook her head. “I don’t know your name, I’m sorry.”

“Elzan,” he supplied.

“Elzan chased away some hulking brutes who belong in the stone quarries.”

“Come on. We’re going to Grandfather. We can lock the door of the archives.” Haneen yanked her friend to her feet.

“Do you need help?” Elzan asked.

“I’m fine now, thank you. I think you dropped your scroll.” She pointed down the hall, at the corner where Elzan had flung the precious scroll when he leaped to help her.

He felt sick in his gut as he hurried to retrieve it. Hajbaz had just cautioned him to take care because the parchment was growing fragile. Elzan spread the scroll out on the bench and examined it with a pounding heart. Too late, he realized the girls were gone and he still didn’t know the vision girl’s name.

She had to be a scribe’s daughter, because of her friendship with Haneen and how she had dominated that conversation he had overheard. There would be plenty of opportunities to meet her again. She was the girl from his visions, and he wouldn’t rest until he knew all about her.

And yet, what good would it do him? The King’s heir could only marry the mother of his own heir. He could offer his vision-maiden nothing but exposure to the perils of Court life and his many vicious enemies.

He wanted her, though. Elzan had to believe Mother Matrika had granted him first his visions and then the girl herself, for a reason. Matrika was not so cruel she would tease and torment him with hunger, and then withhold the one lovely thing that might possibly become his only reason for living.

Challen stood before the racks of scrolls, eyes closed, fingers pressed against her temples as she went through her calming ritual again. She had defended herself well enough. Even if that young scribe hadn’t leaped to help she would have freed herself before those three brutes could have hurt her. As it was, she had sent them all running with smoldering trousers.

And yet … she shivered and all too clearly envisioned herself kidnapped or badly injured. What had they wanted?

Why had they chosen her? The blurring she maintained inside the Scribes Hall should have kept her beyond anyone’s notice.

Unless they could see through her blurring? Had enemies of her father found out about the ruse, and specifically sent these men, telling them what to look for? Or were they in the pay of the Chadrasheeri? Shazzur had told her about the aborted kidnapping attempt. Challen hadn’t told her father about her vision-soldier, now turned into warm flesh and blood.

Her arms tingled where he had touched her. She could still smell the warm, clean, simple scent of him.

Her vision-soldier had come again to her assistance, and he was a scholar as well as a soldier. Did she dare hope he would appear again? Could she let herself believe he had been born to be the other half of her soul, as her parents had been part of each other? Challen longed for the oneness of spirit that her parents had known, even seeing the evidence of the pain Shazzur still carried. She could well imagine entwining her soul with her dark-haired soldier. Gladly giving herself to him.

The image of the fury in his rugged, clean-shaven face lingered with her. Strangely, his anger on her behalf calmed her and sent a new trembling through her in alternating waves.

“Concentrate,” she whispered, loudly enough to hear her voice echo off the stone walls. She only had another half hour before O’klan came to escort her back to the Sanctum.

Challen listened to her slowing heart, envisioning the room behind her closed lids. She listened to the whispering rustle of her blood in her veins and thought through the archives list to decide what scrolls to take back to the Sanctum with her.

The whispering of her blood turned into voices. Chilled, she lowered her hands from her temples and opened her eyes.

There was no one in the archives with her.

Was it whispering? It sounded like the shuffling of sheets of parchment, interspersed with the dull, muted thuds of scroll handles rattling against the racks.

Challen wrapped her arms tight around herself, fighting the deepening chill. Had she hit her head in the struggle? The scrolls couldn’t actually talk to her, could they?

“Be sensible,” she muttered, and stalked down to the end of the nearest row. One scroll she wanted was there.

Challen reached for the handle, painted in rings of color to designate topic and dynasty—and the handle twitched, leaping up to touch her fingertips. Jerking back as if burned, Challen clenched her fists and held her breath and waited.

The whispering grew louder and took on a rhythm.

Not a rhythm. More like all the whisperers had joined together into one voice.

She listened, trying to still her heart so it would not interfere. A moment later, she sat down hard on the cold tiled floor because her knees wanted to knock.

“Draktan,” she whispered, picking that word out from the whispering. “High ranking … piece. On the Draktan … board.”

Will you rule or serve? Protect or destroy? leaped into her mind, as if written there with a strong, bold hand.

Challen knew she was supposed to stay in the archives until O’klan came for her. The brutes who cornered her could still lurk somewhere, but she would welcome another battle, rather than stay here in the archives and listen to the whispering.

Why was she a piece on the Draktan board?

“Interesting,” was all Shazzur would say, when Challen described her experience.

Lady Mayar and Challen exchanged frustrated glances, which prompted a chuckle from her father. It was bad enough Challen had been forced to keep silent about her experience until she could meet with her father at the Healers Temple. This reaction was both expected and frustrating.

“I think Mother Matrika is slowly preparing me to step down as Seer. You shall soon be able to take my place.”

“No, Father, I could never…” She sighed, partly in relief, when a huge smile split her father’s face.

“Don’t worry, child,” Lady Mayar said. “The powers are always unstable at equinox and you have been under strain.”

“This is just a residue of that dream from the other night?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps more of your gifts awaken.” Shazzur held out a hand to her. She gladly gave her hand into his clasp, slid onto her knees in front of him, and kept her eyes open so he could gaze into them. For many long moments, she held herself perfectly still and relaxed into the familiar mental contact. He sighed and caressed her cheek. “Your mother sometimes said that when she was pressed for time and needed information quickly, the scrolls spoke to her.”

“But why Draktan?”

“Draktan is the game of kings and powers,” Lady Mayar said slowly. “A game of changing circumstances, when a slave piece can rise to enough power to rule the game.”

“A gift from Mother Matrika, perhaps,” Shazzur said, nodding and stroking his beard. “A warning, to us or you in particular, my dear. Or a promise.”

“Of what, Father?” she whispered.

“A promise that everything can still be changed, and nothing is set and bound in stone. Not yet.”

CHAPTER 11

When he entered the archives three days later, Elzan was surprised and pleased to see his red-haired vision maiden alone among the racks and bins.

Today her trousers and tunic were pale green shading into creamy white. That silvery white sash hung loosely around her narrow hips. No face paint marred the clear, healthy flush of her cheeks. She wore no extra color on her lips, which she bit in an engaging way as she studied the scroll bins and racks. Her ember-colored hair was pulled back in a single braid hanging glossy and thick past her waist. The lack of adornment let the glossy beauty shine through. Elzan thought if he touched it, he would find her hair just as silken soft as it looked.

What was she doing in the archives without Hajbaz or Haneen? No one was allowed here unsupervised until they had proven they understood the intricate filing system of the scribes. It had taken Elzan three tries before he had shown he understood the coding of slashes and dots painted on the racks and the color coding of the scroll handles and the sashes holding each scroll closed.

Half without thinking, Elzan checked his own appearance as he walked down the narrow aisle toward the girl. She had pulled out a scroll and deftly slid it out of its leather casing and silk sleeve to unroll it. He checked his plain brown kilt and the single copper armband set with four emeralds. Elzan always dressed simply to hide his royal status before the King charged him to study the Prophecy. Now, he took the extra step of turning his ring so the stone was to his palm, showing only an engraved band to the world.

She’s a scribe’s daughter, Elzan silently scolded himself, when he realized what he did. She has too much sense to be impressed or flustered when a young man smiles at her.

“Hello,” he said, when he was still two racks away.

“Oh.” She flinched and stood up straight and nearly lost her hold on the scroll she read. She blushed, a lovely pink under the healthy golden tan. It made her gray eyes gleam like bright crystals. That blurring started to creep over her features and Elzan bit his lip against a grin as he called up the exercise to dispel it. “Hello. I hoped I would see you again. To thank you.”

“I’m glad I could help.”

“Is there something I can help you with?” she asked after a few heartbeats of silence.

“I’m looking for…” He felt his face warm as his mind drew a blank. Elzan mentally kicked himself for staring like a besotted fool. “I can get it. Don’t trouble yourself.” He bowed to her and walked down the aisle. He found the rack he wanted and began lifting scrolls to examine the color-coded handles.

“Those are quite good,” she offered. “I’ve read through most of them.”

“Is the scroll with Vai’hustan’s commentary on the settling of the Hidden City in here?” With his luck, the one he wanted would be the last of the ten he examined.

“No.” Her sandals brushed on the tiled floor. “I just finished reading it and I haven’t put it back yet.”

“What?” Elzan glanced up and found himself within arm’s reach of her. She smelled of apple blossoms. Her perfume clung to the short scroll in a brittle leather sack she held out to him. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Are you studying the Three also?”

“The entire Scribes Hall and the Court should study them.”

He slid the unwanted scrolls back into their racks and took the proffered one from her with a nod. His hand shook a little when the tips of his fingers brushed against her thumb, and he was glad when she smiled at him and returned to the rack she had been searching. He watched the soft sway of her form, enjoyed the play of filtered daylight on her hair, making it dark red in places and soft gold in others.

Get hold of yourself, he silently scolded. She’s a scribe’s daughter, not some brainless courtier just begging for you to seduce her.

“It seems like at least a quarter of them are,” she offered as she bent to reach across the bin. “They’re studying all the legends of the Three, to see if any of Mother Matrika’s warnings and blessings have any bearing on what happened. Someone attacked them, the general consensus says.”

“But who?” He tucked the scroll under his arm and tried to look nonchalant as he joined her. He made sure he put a bin between them, to hide the reactions in his body.

No woman had ever affected him like this before; emptiness in his stomach, weakness in his knees and an ache in his arms. Elzan knew if he touched her golden skin it would be soft and her mouth would taste as sweet as her scent. It was ridiculous to carry on a scholarly conversation with a woman while his body begged to enjoy her.

“There are some references to former servants of the Mother who became her enemies when she chose Bainevah as her province and people, and others who swore to hamper her steps when she called the Three to service. I’ve been trying to find those names.” She lifted out a small scroll no wider than her hand.

“If I tell you what I find, will you tell me what you have found?” Elzan asked. He swore he felt the heat of her body through the cool, dry air of the archives room.

“Of course.” She paused, staring into his eyes, one hand raised to brush an errant strand of hair back behind her ear. Then a blush rose to her cheeks and she looked away.

“I am Elzan,” he said, and held out his hand, palm up.

“Challen.” She swallowed hard and held out her hand—then laughed and wiped her dust-smeared hand on her trousers before pressing it palm down against his. Elzan squeezed a moment longer than necessary before turning their hands so his was on top, sealing the bargain.

“When will you be here again?”

“I am allowed every three days, at midday.”

“Allowed?” He didn’t like the sound of it.

“I have … other duties. Chief Scribe Cho’Mat has given me free reign if I study while no one is here to be interrupted.”

“Ah. Forgive me. I thought you were a scribe.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. “My father is, and he taught me. Perhaps in the future I will be able to study on a regular basis. However…” She shrugged and clutched her new scrolls to her chest.

Elzan wished she would hold him so tightly. It was a struggle to raise his gaze back up to meet her eyes.

“In three days then, at midday, we’ll meet to compare notes on our progress.” He bowed to her.

She bowed back, then picked up a long basket and slid her scrolls into it. Challen scurried down the aisle and up the steps to the door.

Elzan considered her clothes, expensive and well made, and the fancy dressing of her hair last time he had seen her. Then he understood the blurring exercise.

“Poor girl. She probably has a society-climbing mother or grandmother who won’t let her pursue her studies,” Elzan muttered. “She has to blur her face so she won’t attract any scribes for suitors.”

The scroll room felt noticeably cooler now that Challen had left. He laughed at himself and went back to work.

Challen’s smile and bright eyes and her sweet scent infrequently intruded into his thoughts as he searched. Elzan promised himself he would talk more intelligently next time.

Fourth Descent Moon

“Lady, I have learned something odd about the Sanctum and the traditions of the Brides and I don’t know who to speak to without…” Challen shrugged and settled down onto the couch in Lady Mayar’s workroom, where most of her lessons took place.

Because of the heavy traffic through the Healers Temple, she did not have the freedom to move about without her veils as in the Scribes Hall. The blurring exercise was meant for only a few people at a time, not the dozens at a time she would face in the temple. She helped other healers with minor healings, when her veils wouldn’t become a hindrance.

Today, she was alone with Lady Mayar. The problem had pressed on her mind all morning, inhibiting her usually quick responses until the woman laughingly asked her what was wrong.

“My, how formal. I see that noxious Agrat is having some influence on you after all.” Lady Mayar chuckled and settled down next to her. “There is much that is odd about the Sanctum. It is a world within another world, and both false.”

“No, Lady. Beyond that.” She managed a smile for the woman who often guessed the inexpressible questions and feelings Challen experienced for the first time in her life.

More precious than her friendship, Lady Mayar opened up worlds of memories of her mother, Naya; things Shazzur had never been able to tell his daughter—because they could only be shared by women.

“O’klan tells me you have read nearly two-thirds of the Sanctum’s archives. Something you found there?” she guessed.

“I believe there should be ten times as many scrolls there. Did you know, Lady, that long ago the King joined with the High Priestess of the Mother at every solstice? He could take any wife he chose, but only the son of the High Priestess could be king. I cannot learn when the practice of bringing in a virgin for each solstice began. Or when they decided the King could only marry the mother of his heir.”

“So you have decided scrolls are missing. Yes, that is logical.” She nodded. “Perhaps you should ask the Mother’s priests if they have such things in their archives.”

“I’m afraid to go as the High Priest’s granddaughter. Why is it, the more power you supposedly carry because of your rank, the less you are allowed to accomplish and do? If I were the daughter of a potter or a tanner, I could go anywhere, do anything. Because I’m the daughter of the Seer, granddaughter of the High Priest, and a Sanctum Bride, nothing is ‘proper.’” She made her tone nasal, in perfect imitation of Agrat at his most pompous. “I’ve asked already, and all I get are vague answers and no promises. I don’t want to irritate anyone by going through my Grandfather.”

“You wish me to ask, as Lady of the Healers?”

“Please?”

“Don’t you already have enough on your plate? You are a scribe and an apprentice healer and then when you take a moment to breathe, you must stand against Agrat’s effort to make you a painted doll with an empty head.”

“I enjoy frustrating Agrat. It’s recreation for me.”

Lady Mayar sat still for several long moments, her mouth falling open in astonishment at the girl’s lighthearted retort. Then she started to laugh. She wrapped her arms around Challen and the two clung to each other and laughed until they cried.

“One moment,” Shazzur said. He frowned, glancing over Elzan’s shoulder as they walked the palace gardens, discussing the next step in Elzan’s studies.

“A problem?” Elzan turned and glimpsed a green healer robe, an earnest face just touched with a fuzzy beard, and blue eyes that widened when the young healer realized the prince looked at him. He grinned and nodded and stepped away. But not far enough he couldn’t hear the exchange. The young healer was just nervous enough he spoke louder than necessary. Elzan pitied him, but only for a few moments.

“First Advisor Doni’Hobad’Shazzur’Conia,” the young healer said, bowing as he approached. “May I ask the kindness of your time? It is a matter of great importance.”

“Spare me Court formality,” Shazzur said with a smile. He stepped over to a stone bench and sat, gesturing for the blond, blushing healer to join him. “Jeconiah, am I right?”

“Yes, Lord Shazzur. Thank you for remembering my name.” He bowed, nearly tipping off the bench.

“What matter of great importance?”

“Your daughter, sir. Lady Kena’Naya—Kena’Shazzur,” he hurried to correct himself.

“Among the healers, her mother’s heritage is preeminent, and I am glad it is so. What about my daughter?”

“She is a kind spirit, sir. Talented. Wise. Charming. Sensible.” He paused, visibly floundering for more adjectives.

“And lovely?” He chuckled when the young man blushed darker. “Her veil slipped. I won’t tell.”

“Sir, I wish to be a suitor.”

“I see. Have you spoken with Lady Kena’Naya about this?” Shazzur stroked his beard as he spoke. From the angle where he stood, Elzan saw his old teacher did it to hide his grin.

“No, sir!” Jeconiah jerked to his feet. “She doesn’t even know my name. We have spoken, but only about medicines and her patients. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“It would be more improper if I gave my daughter to a man who wasn’t her friend. I will never give her to anyone unless she first tells me she wishes him as her husband. Go and become her friend, and then speak of marriage to her, not to me.” Shazzur made a shooing motion. The young healer scurried away as if scalded.

“Marriage?” Elzan blurted, hurrying back to join Shazzur. “She’s not old enough!”

“You still see her as a toddler. She’s nearly twenty-one. If she’s old enough to be a Sanctum Bride, she’s old enough to break hearts.” Shazzur’s merriment faded. “I think I shall speak with her instead of joining you in the archives. Brand me for an old fool, my boy. There is a long overdue speech I must give my child, and I admit I dread it.”

“Jeconiah?” Challen sat down hard on the couch in Lady Mayar’s workroom. “We’ve barely spoken enough to know names—and he thinks that’s good enough for marriage?”

“Exactly what I told him.” Shazzur sighed, smiling. “He should be flattered. He said you didn’t know his name.”

“Jeconiah is a sweet boy. He cares so for the children. I see him sneak toys and sweets to them.”

“Ah. I see.”

“What?” She stood and stalked over to his chair, fists jammed into her hips. “What schemes are you up to now?”

“No schemes. You like him. You think he’s sweet.”

“Not enough to marry him!”

“You refer to him as a boy. He’s seven years your senior.” He sighed. “I wouldn’t be disappointed if you chose him. On the ladder of possible worthy husbands, he is near the top.”

“Not disappointed isn’t the same as pleased.” She slid to her knees next to his chair and took his hand. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s more of a shock than I expected, realizing that you truly are grown. Grown enough to attract suitors.”

“I don’t want to marry.”

“Hmm. You don’t sound as adamant as you did several moons ago.”

Challen stopped with her protest unborn, startled at how true her father’s words rang. She swallowed hard, as if taking back the denial that suddenly tasted wrong.

“Has someone come along who can smile at you and make your heart reach to the clouds?”

“Well…” She blushed as Elzan’s sparkling black eyes and crooked smile leaped to mind. The few times they had met and talked, she had been as delighted with his humor and wit as his depth of understanding of the Prophecy and his insight. Yet when she recalled their conversations, his face, his laughter, and the sound of his voice were more vivid than their studies.

“A healer, or a scribe?” Shazzur demanded, punctuating his words with a gentle tug on her braid.

“A scribe and a soldier. He’s studying the Three and the Prophecy, too. Oh, but it’s silly. We both have too much important work, to waste time on courting foolishness.”

“Yes. Of course,” her father drawled. “What is this wise man’s name? I believe I would like to meet him.”

“Father, if you dare breathe one word…” She stared into her father’s smiling face, terrified—of what, she didn’t quite know. Then Challen realized how silly she acted and laughed as she pushed the fear away. “His name is Elzan, that’s all I know. He knows nothing about me except I study the Three. I keep the blurring strong from the moment I leave the Sanctum until the moment I return, I swear it.”

“Elzan, hmm? A soldier and scribe, studying the Three.” He nodded. “You can trust my silence. Now, as to your sweetheart, Jeconiah—” He chuckled when his words prompted a groan.

“May I borrow these when you are through, Mother?” Elzan asked, as Lady Mayar returned to her workroom. He stepped away from the side table where the fragile, dusty, slightly sour-smelling scrolls lay.

“Borrow—oh, those scrolls.” Lady Mayar paused and frowned at the scrolls, then shook her head. “No, I am sorry. They are not to leave this room until they go back to Chizhedek.”

“Ah, so that’s where you got them.” He nodded and watched his mother settle at her worktable and make a notation on a wax tablet. “Why are you reading them?”

“Why did you look at them?” she returned without looking at him.

“I read every scroll I can touch. I can’t stop. Besides, those scrolls are so old I couldn’t help being curious. They’re probably as old as the Hidden City.” He sat on the couch where he could see her at work.

“Nearly two centuries younger, but they are copies of far older ones. I doubt they will help you.” She raised her head and narrowed her dark eyes as she studied her son for a moment. “Why does it interest you?”

He stood, needing movement to fight the restlessness that came from thinking of Shazzur’s daughter. Two moons had come and gone since the child had entered the Sanctum and he had been so busy he not only forgot his vow to find a way to let her be free and safe, he had forgotten her.

He had come to visit Lady Mayar and escape the worst of the day’s heat, found her gone from her workroom, and noticed the scrolls on the side table. Their ancient condition had aroused hope. He had been disappointed to find only a passage on the Sanctum and the treatment of the Brides. Then guilt stabbed him.

Kena’Shazzur was in the Sanctum and he had forgotten his vows to be her friend and champion. Maybe he could use something in these old scrolls on her behalf.

“Shazzur’s daughter,” he began.

“Is far safer in the Sanctum than any other place in Bainevah,” Lady Mayar interrupted with enough force to startle him. “She is ineligible for the ritual until her preparation ends. Then, she is only eligible twice a year. Two chances among thirteen girls. Most girls leave as virgins, with large dowries to attract worthy husbands.”

“There is more to life than finding a husband or a wife.” Even as he spoke, Elzan thought of Challen. Her laughter, the intensity of her eyes when they found something that might apply to the problem of the Three. The sweet, unadorned freshness of her beauty. The jolt that passed through him when they walked down a deserted hall together and his arm accidentally brushed against her.

The delicious secret of knowing he was immune to her blurring, so no one but he ever saw her true face.

“She is safe from enemies who would harm her to harm her father. Think in mercenary terms. The King cannot afford to have Shazzur distracted. Fending off dozens of suitors for his lovely daughter would be a distraction, even for our wise Shazzur.”

“How lovely, Mother?”

“Do you remember Naya?” She shook her head before he could reply. “A boy’s memories. Elzan, I only worried once when your father went to the Sacred Marriage, and that was with Naya. I was First Concubine and I knew he loved me, but what if he asked Naya to become a concubine? I knew she would not make herself my rival, but Naya had no intended husband waiting for her. A woman not anchored in love sometimes will take the first offer she receives because she thinks there will be no other.”

“Why did you become a concubine, Mother?” Elzan dropped to his knees by her chair and took her hand. “I know Commander Asqual loved you, and you had many suitors. I think life would be simpler if Asqual were my father.” He tried to smile.

“You would not be, my hawk, if I had accepted Asqual. I gave myself to your father because he held my heart since we were children, as I held his.”

“I would not treat a woman I loved as he treats you.” He began to stand, but she would not release his hand.

“What your father and I share in private bridges the chasm that Court and appearances put between us. You will be king, and Bainevah will demand much of you and the one you love. When that happens, you will not consider the sacrifice too great.”

“Forgive me,” he whispered, when he saw the hint of tears in his mother’s eyes. Elzan kissed her forehead in apology.

His mind knew she was right. His heart ached for the years of what he had seen as neglect and silence between his parents.

He thought of Challen, and wished his mother had married a healer priest, a scribe, Commander Asqual, because that would leave him free to follow his heart. What good was it to be the king when the only woman he truly wanted was beyond his reach?

As the sparse rains of fall finally came to soothe Bainevah’s needs, Elzan managed to meet with Challen for a short time every third day. He was grateful his body listened to his brain—and yet, perversely disappointed. He liked the warmth and trembling her presence created. Her sparkling gray eyes captivated him and he could still make her blush if he looked long enough into them. Elzan liked to make her laugh. He didn’t realize how much until he caught himself seeking odd bits of history to tell her, incidents that would entertain her.

He found she had a sharp mind and instinct that led to consistent discoveries. In the third moon quarter after the equinox festivities, many small pieces of research hinted at a picture Elzan and Challen hoped would eventually explain all.

The Three were originally a mortal woman, her widowed son, and his young daughter; weaver folk working in Matrika’s temple. A terrible storm had threatened the temple, driving away the priestesses and guards. The family stayed to take down the sacred tapestries and protect them. Then, they realized the temple was under attack and they stayed to protect the inner sanctuary.

Maquaos Shadowmaker came in the heart of the storm to shatter the walls of Matrika’s sanctuary. When the stone blocks began to topple, the tapestries that the family had woven held firm, imbued with magical power. The three called out to Matrika and she granted them powers. Thread Woman tangled his hands with the product of her spindle. Color Man brightened the dark storm, turning it into sunrise. Weaver Girl caught the edges of Maquaos’ beard and wove them into her loom so he became part of Mother Matrika’s plan.

For their reward, they were made immortal, charged to guide and protect human destiny and integrate all the disparate threads into the Holy Pattern. They produced tapestries holding messages from Mother Matrika; prophecies, warnings, and instructions so all who worshipped her could learn simply by studying them.

“Maquaos Shadowmaker.” Elzan nodded when Challen told him of her find. “I’ve read his name, but I thought he was a storm deity of a conquered nation in the second dynasty.”

“Doubly conquered.” Challen made room on the bench where she sat so he could join her and study the scroll she held.

Elzan held his breath, forcing his body into stillness before he accepted her invitation.

Today her simply braided hair smelled of lemons. Elzan fought to concentrate on the scroll she read aloud, one long, delicate finger highlighting the words.

“You read this language?” He stared at the writing, which looked like nothing more than oddly tipped half and quarter circles arranged in long columns up and down the parchment.

“Not very well. O’klan had to tutor me half a moon before I caught on.” Challen rolled her eyes in smiling frustration.

Elzan had the distinct impression she had expected to conquer the language problem in only a few days.

“Who is O’klan?” The name was familiar. He had heard it just recently.

“Oh, he’s a eunuch in the Sanctum who assists the scribes. This is his native language. Now, listen, Elzan.”

“Yes, Lady,” he quipped, as he had to his first tutor.

“According to their legends, Maquaos conquered their demi-gods a century before Bainevah conquered them. Maquaos came from another land, do you see? Exiled by Mother Matrika for disobedience, or a runaway. Worship gives power to the demi-gods. He took worshippers, gathered power, and then attacked. It wasn’t enough to defeat the Mother even at the moon dark when her powers ebbed.”

“But what does this have to do with the fall of the Three?”

“Other than Cowanloh, who tried to seduce Weaver Girl, Maquaos is the only minor power who hates the Three.”

“Ah. Makes sense.”

“Lady?” A huge, black-skinned man approached. “Your father is searching for you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Challen jumped up and scrambled to gather her scrolls. “I only planned to spend a few minutes here.”

“Let me, Lady.” He bowed to her and Challen scurried away.

“In three days, Elzan!” she called before she vanished.

“Highness.” The big man watched Elzan while his hands worked to roll up the scrolls and neatly stow everything away.

“You’re O’klan?” Now Elzan remembered. He had heard several noblemen with daughters in the Sanctum tried to have simpering, whining Agrat replaced with O’klan. Elzan had thought at the time it was one of those struggles for prestige more than any concern for their daughters’ safety. By taking Agrat from his authority over the Sanctum, those fathers could strike the nobles who supported Agrat. They had lost their argument because O’klan came from a foreign land and had only recently become part of the Sanctum staff.

“Yes, Highness.” The man bowed to him. “The Lady—”

“Thinks I’m only a scribe. We seek knowledge about the Three.” Elzan stood and held out his hand, palm up in friendship to the eunuch. “I hear you are a historian also.”

“Yes, Highness. A scribe, like you and the Lady.” O’klan grinned, eyes sparkling. “So you are her other friend, who finds such fascinating information. Between the three of us, I think we learn more than all the scribes dedicated to the search.”

“Mother bless us all!” Elzan feigned horror. He and O’klan laughed together.

CHAPTER 12

Meeting O’klan returned young Kena’Shazzur to Elzan’s thoughts, and what he had recently learned about the Sanctum and the changes in the ritual of the Sacred Marriage.

His mother had let him read the scrolls she borrowed from the Mother’s temple and what he had learned confused him. The Sacred Marriage began in a time when only women served the Mother. At that time, the High Priestess ruled jointly with the king and only her son could be the next king. Elzan wished it were that way now. The problem of nasty half-brothers and concubines conniving to become Queen Mother would never exist.

He thought the information fascinating enough to distract the King from more pressing concerns, and he planned to bring it up in conversation when he joined Shazzur and the King for the noon meal. Elzan knew Shazzur would probably laugh and accuse him yet again of trying to free his daughter from her protective prison. He laughed at himself as he walked the passageway to the private entrance to the King’s Council chamber.

When he reached the doorway, Elzan paused to straighten his kilt. He looked around and grew concerned. The entryway was deserted. No brothers or cousins lounging about, waiting for a quick audience with the King. Or, in the case of some nastier relatives, waiting to discourage those who had legitimate business or pry information from them. Why wasn’t anyone here? Elzan shook his head and decided to be grateful for the reprieve as he lifted his hand to knock and ask admittance.

Something thumped against the other side of the thick wooden panel inlaid with ivory and mahogany diamonds. Elzan slapped his hand on the latch to open the door.

The latch didn’t move. Another thump sounded on the other side. With his hand on the wood panel, he felt the vibration.

What could make the thick door vibrate like that?

He slammed his joined fists down on the heavy iron latch and rammed his shoulder against the door. Something cracked and gave way on the other side. Elzan stumbled as the door flew open under his weight.

Shazzur leaped at a man in the uniform of the Host of the Ram. He caught up a heavy bronze lamp stand, tall as a man, and swung it so the pomegranates in the base connected squarely with the soldier’s face.

The King knelt in a corner, protecting himself with a bronze fruit bowl like an inverted shield, using the base as a handle. Another soldier stabbed at the King with a wicked looking, double-tipped knife.

Elzan leaped onto the man attacking the King, knocking him to the floor. Shazzur and his opponent fell, taken down by the momentum of the lamp stand.

Holding his man between his knees, Elzan pounded the soldier’s face with both fists. The man stabbed blindly at this new adversary. Elzan slammed down his elbow, catching the man’s wrist. He heard bones snap and the knife clattered to the tiles. The sound was lost in the howl of pain.

The tense body beneath him went limp. Elzan hit him twice more. Gasping, he turned, still holding his adversary flat, to look for Shazzur. The Seer knelt on his man, tying his hands with the gilded sash from his robe.

“My son?” King Nebazz whispered. He choked and dropped the bowl.

Elzan scrambled on his hands and knees to his father. Blood smeared the tiles and turned the King’s green robes black in a spreading stain. He snatched at the mallet just beyond the King’s reach and threw it at the silver gong. The reverberations threatened to deafen them. Someone had to hear it and come to help. He put an arm around the King and held him upright. He looked to Shazzur, words clogging in his throat.

“The King wanted some time alone before we ate. I arrived early. I suspect these two planned to kill him and then make it appear I had killed him.” Shazzur slid off his outer robe and began ripping it into strips. Elzan handed him his belt knife.

“These two shouldn’t be here,” Elzan said between clenched teeth. “Moltek and Jabez were to be on duty. Only death could keep them away.” He opened the King’s robes, revealing four deep stab wounds.

The door swung open and Abendago entered. The narrow-faced scribe stopped short, his cheery smile freezing.

“Healers,” Elzan said with a cracking voice.

“Guards!” Abendago shouted as he spun on his heel and ran back down the public hallway.

“The Mother sent you,” Shazzur said. “While I finished that one, your man would have killed your father.”

“Did—well,” the King whispered.

“Please, sir, don’t talk,” Elzan begged. He reached with a bloodstained hand for a bandage.

“Best of—of all—of my sons.”

“He is indeed, Majesty,” Shazzur soothed. He sat back on his heels and nodded. “Help comes.”

Lady Mayar led the stream of courtiers and guards and healers. She paled only a moment when she saw the King on the floor, his bloody chest and the ragged bandages. Lips pressed tightly together, she gestured for her son to move aside and knelt next to the King.

“Nebazz, do you hear me?” she said, her tone brisk, demanding an answer. The King nodded. “Listen to my voice. Follow me into the healing lands, Nebazz.”

Elzan scooted backwards to lean against the wall. Eyes half-closed, he listened to his mother describe the meadow ringed by balsam trees where the sunlight streamed down in a healing river from Mother Matrika’s eyes. A faint golden haze sprang from Lady Mayar’s skin, bleeding through her clothes. It concentrated in her hands pressed against the bloody bandages.

Other healers stood around her, their hands on her shoulders and head. Golden light streamed from them to feed her. Soon, but not soon enough for Elzan, the light spilled over to enfold the King. When Lady Mayar removed her hands, the blood had dried and the haze enfolded the wounded king.

“Now you may move him,” she whispered. She glanced over her shoulder at Elzan, managing a faint smile. He leaped to his feet and clasped his mother’s shoulders, supporting her as she stood.

“Elzan,” the King whispered, startling all of them.

The new guards, Abendago, the healers and courtiers paused, amazed. No one wrapped in the healing light could move until the healers released him. Yet the King spoke.

“Sir?” Elzan gingerly touched the King’s hand.

“My voice. You and Shazzur. Trust you. Take my ring.”

“Sir.” He swallowed a moan and slid the massive onyx ram’s head ring from the King’s thumb onto his own hand. He raised his fist in salute to the wounded king.

King Nebazz smiled faintly as the healers carried him away. Lady Mayar held his hand.

“Lady Mother?” Elzan blurted, just before she vanished through the door.

“Only a few days. You are regent for his illness. He will not die,” she assured him, black eyes bright with tears, wine-colored lips trembling as she tried to smile.

Then suddenly, he and Shazzur were alone. The assailants were gone, hauled out by the guards. Elzan sank into the only chair still upright. He raised his clenched fist to his face, until the ring almost touched his nose.

“I didn’t want this,” he muttered, even as something inside him exulted.

The King had called him by name before witnesses. The King had given him his ring and made him his voice before witnesses. The King had called him “my son,” and said he was the best of them all.

“That is doubly good for the land,” Shazzur said in a remarkably steady, dry voice. “You will not take advantage of your father’s temporary weakness.”

Elzan didn’t know whether to laugh or empty his stomach. He reached for the wineskin on the floor. A chair leg rested squarely in the middle of it, but the skin hadn’t punctured.

The man Shazzur took down died of his broken skull, bleeding inside his brain. The man who stabbed the King woke and startled his jailers by gibbering like a madman. His eyes were pure black, no pupil or white. Before Vandan could come from the Healers Temple to examine the man and break through the magic to learn who had taken him over, the prisoner hung himself with a rope made from his own clothes.

“Senyet,” Challen muttered. “Mother curse him and shrivel his—” She stopped with a muffled giggle. She couldn’t exactly wish the mincing little eunuch’s privates shriveled when they had already been removed. “Bloat his nose,” she amended, and scurried to find a hiding place.

Senyet was exceedingly vain and she had caught him dabbing powder on his nose to keep it from shining.

This late at night, all the Brides should have been asleep. Challen had a particularly vivid dream that stayed with her on waking. She dreamed she ran through the Sanctum’s gardens in the cool rain that had misted the city all day. The ground began to shake and the walls trembled and brutish, hairy men in iron armor leaped into the Sanctum. Challen woke shuddering.

Not from the shock of the dream, she decided, but because the men had no shadows.

That, she decided, was a dream of ill omen if she would ever dream one. Challen knew better than to sound the alarm without checking the garden first. She had put on her darkest clothes and covered her hair with a black cloth and crept out into the damp garden, glistening under the near-full moon.

Now, that irritating, whining little Senyet wandered through the gardens, talking with someone. Loudly.

Arguing. Challen relaxed, knowing the arguing voices masked the slapping of her bare feet on the drenched garden paths. She ducked down behind a hedge sculpted as swans with their wings spread, and wrapped the cloth more securely around her face.

Was that why she had the dream? To prompt her to come into the garden to witness this?

“Don’t press me,” Senyet snarled. “I told you the timing was inauspicious.”

“Inauspicious,” the other man snapped. He sounded young. His voice had a foreigner’s twang. “No time is auspicious. The King was supposed to die yesterday and Doni’Mayar shamed for supporting the Seer, who should be in a traitor’s grave, blamed for the King’s death. Is he? No. They’re both co-regents while the King recovers from a few pitiful stab wounds.”

“I told you the men were not ready and the plan was doomed. The magic is gradual and needs time to grow roots before we can fully control our puppets.”

“What about the girls here in the Sanctum? We should take them all under our control.”

“A few at a time is the only wise course of action,” Senyet snarled. It sounded odd, with his high-pitched voice. “Until we have total control, as we did with Shersia, we can’t take more.”

“Then Shazzur’s daughter must be next.”

Challen nearly fell backwards into more wet bushes.

“She won’t be eligible for the ritual for a year. It would be a waste of time and energy.”

“Not a waste of time. We don’t need her to sabotage the ritual.” The other man laughed, and the sound sent chills up Challen’s back. “If she is caught acting the whore, Shazzur will be disgraced. It’s not as good as killing him and half the princes, but I’ll settle for anything now.”

Whore? Challen felt her face burn. Just see if she ever went anywhere without O’klan now.

Maybe she should curtail her visits to the Scribes Hall. Would they try to get to her in the Healers Temple? What about her stolen moments with Elzan? Would they accuse her of violating the Sanctum’s restrictions? Despite what her father and Lady Mayar said, would the blurring exercise be deemed inadequate to her modesty?

If Senyet and his co-conspirator caught her here, they wouldn’t need to infect her with magic to destroy her. They could claim they caught her meeting a lover. It would be easy to say the man escaped. Helping a man enter the Sanctum was punishable by death. Challen was virgin and could prove them wrong about the lover part of the story—but she had the sudden, nauseating certainty it wouldn’t take much to remove that little obstacle. Then where would she be, with her maidenhead torn, likely by the very person who was supposed to examine her and prove her guilt or innocence?

Holding her breath, she listened to them bounce plans back and forth. She waited until they finally wandered out of earshot, counted to fifty and listened for the slightest scuffling of sand, the faintest plopping of raindrops, the most minute rustling of branches. When all was silent so even the wind seemed to hold its breath, she slipped out between the bushes and back down the path to the door inside and her rooms.

She tried not to think of her danger. She had warning, so she could prepare. What mattered was that someone had tried to kill Shazzur and the King, and blame the King’s death on her father. Someone had indeed managed to send evil magic with Shersia into the Sacred Marriage. Someone planned to do the same, and worse, with the other maidens living in the Sanctum. She had to do something. But what?

O’klan knocked on her door at dawn to wake her so they could finish copying two passages from the scrolls before returning them. He found Challen awake and dressed, pale and red-eyed from lack of sleep. When she announced quietly that she needed to see her father, immediately, the eunuch obeyed.

The guard at the door of Shazzur’s house didn’t believe the lady in the sedan chair was the Seer’s daughter. Challen listened to him argue with O’klan for nearly five minutes before she acted. She didn’t want to give the palace servants matter for gossip. She had hoped to go to her father quietly, apprise him of the danger quietly, and return to the Sanctum quietly.

“I am Kena’Shazzur’Challa’Naya,” she said, stepping from the chair. Her voice was a blade of ice, cutting the argument between armored guard and muscled eunuch. She began to raise her veil. “Look at my hair, my eyes, and you will see my Father.”

“No, Lady!” the guard and O’klan blurted together, aghast.

“Forgive me, Lady.” The guard shuddered. “It is worth my life to see your face. Forgive me, but—”

“Challen?” Shazzur stood in the open doorway, blinking sleepily. “What a pleasant surprise. I dreamed you needed me, and when I woke I heard your voice.” He wrapped his arm around her and led her into the house.

She managed to retain her dignity until they were alone in her father’s study room. Then Challen burst into tears. Once again, despite the nuisance of the ridiculous thing, she was glad she wore a veil. It soaked up her tears admirably.

“If only you had the other man’s name, or you had seen him,” Shazzur said, after Challen finished her tale. He sat back in his chair of carved oak and gripped the ram horns armrests. “Without that, we dare not move against Senyet.”

“But—” The protest died as understanding came. Challen nodded. “Better to leave him there and watch him, than to remove half the problem and not know who will appear to replace him.”

“Indeed. I’m glad to see you think clearly despite lack of sleep.” He reached across the space between their chairs and patted her hand. “I am most proud of you.”

“I wish I could return the compliment, Father.” She swallowed another sob and rubbed at her burning, bleary eyes.

“I?” He affected shock.

“Why did I have to hear from Senyet that you were nearly killed?” She stood and glared down at him, her fists jammed into her hips. Challen wanted to pound her father and work out her frustration, thumping his chest as she had done when she was a child, terrified of the howling desert winds, unable to understand why her mother had vanished and she couldn’t go back to her nurse and dogs and pretty home.

“I meant to tell you today, when we met with Cho’Mat. By then, the worst of it would be over and I knew you would handle it calmly.” Shazzur eyed her, frowning. Usually that expression of surprised distaste could make her laugh. It was so unlike him, she always found it ridiculous. Not today.

“What are we going to do, Father? I can’t go back to the Sanctum, thinking you could be attacked again.”

“No concern for yourself?” He tugged her down into the chair with him. There was plenty of room, even if she was too big to perch on his lap. Challen leaned into the comforting warm embrace. She wished she were small enough to hide on his lap, where the entire world was safe and warm.

“I’ll tell O’klan what I overheard. He loathes Senyet, to begin with. I can trust him to tell the sensible eunuchs so they can protect all of us, without worrying Agrat. He’ll react as if we had gone whoring, rather than be worried for our sakes. Anything that goes wrong is always our fault, deliberately done to shame him before the nobles.” Challen grinned when her father chuckled at her complaint. “I promise, I will never go anywhere alone, and I will lock myself into my rooms at night. I’m worried about you.”

“No, my dear, they will try other means to dispose of me. I suppose I should feel flattered, knowing I am a threat in their eyes. However, when my enemies focus on you to hurt me…” Shazzur drew her back against him and kissed the top of her head. “I shall tell the Prince and Asqual. We shall confide in the men we trust and watch for the next attempt.”

“Prince Doni’Mayar,” Challen sighed. “The man said something about killing half the princes. He might be the next target. We have to assume half the princes are either already in his control, or they’re his partners.” She shuddered at the thought of Bainevah falling through treachery, destroyed from within instead of attacked by enemies from without.

“Then I will be sure to warn him. But first, we must have breakfast.” He nudged her off the chair and stood.

I wish we were back at the tower, protected by the desert, Challen decided as they linked arms and went to the kitchen.

From the reaction of the cook and her daughter, Shazzur often made his own breakfast. Challen was glad to listen to her father gossip with them, getting their views on events in the city while they cut and toasted bread, peeled oranges and skimmed cream off the new milk to put on their hot apples. She and her father went to the courtyard garden to eat and enjoy the chill morning and the dark clouds scudding across the horizon, promising more rain. The chill and damp in the air was a new experience, and Challen could not quite grasp the tales of snow and bitter winds that would soon bury the city.

“Where is your faithful O’klan?” Shazzur asked, as they put their tray of breakfast onto the garden table.

“Waiting outside with the bearers. Don’t worry, I saw him bring a sack of fruit and bread and a skin of new wine as we left the Sanctum. He takes good care of his people.” Challen settled on the edge of the fountain and reached for the oranges. She had never tasted oranges until she returned to Bainevah and she could not get enough of them.

“Do you trust him with your life?” He waited until she thought, then nodded. “Fetch him.”

O’klan was surprised when Challen called him inside, but that faded quickly as father and daughter told him both sides of the story and the events of the last few days.

“I had heard rumors,” O’klan said quietly. “If Senyet, who is Agrat’s right hand, is involved with the attempted murder and this evil magic then Agrat is even more ineffective than we feared. Your testimony will help greatly, Lady, when we do arrest him. Be sure, I will protect you. Many in the Sanctum will double their alertness to protect you.”

“Thank you, O’klan,” Shazzur said. He stood and pressed his palms together and bowed to the eunuch. “When this is over, the King will know of your loyalty and your actions in this matter.”

Shazzur had one more piece of advice for Challen when she left. He walked her to the sedan chair, helped her step up into it and leaned close to adjust her veil.

“Strive to make yourself forgettable, my dear. Lose the interest of all around you. Blend into the designs on the walls and the flowers in the gardens.”

“I don’t know how to be anything than what I am,” Challen whispered back. She was glad her veil hid the tears that threatened again. “I suppose I must forego my lessons for a while, and spend more time on my clothes and hair?”

“There is always room for improvement somewhere.” Shazzur kissed her forehead through the veil and stepped back to yank the curtains closed.

Fifth Descent Moon

Challen endured ten days of waiting before returning to the Scribes Hall. She couldn’t tell Haneen the real reason, but her friend believed her excuse that the Sanctum demanded more of her time. When the other Brides asked about her changed schedule, Challen complained of aches in her eyes and frustration with her studies. Then she cultivated the friendship of the girls with the most elaborate makeup and hair, claiming a desire to have the same for herself.

When she returned to the Scribes Hall, Challen felt mortally embarrassed to be seen with her eyes painted nearly to her temples and her hair in an intricate waterfall of braids and beads. The blurring could only cover so much, after all.

Elzan passed her with only a bow and a passing glance. He took four steps, then stopped short. Challen continued walking. She heard him hurry to catch up, but she didn’t dare look at him.

“Challen? What happened to you?”

“Do you mean, why haven’t I come to study lately?”

“Er—yes—exactly.” He offered her his arm and gestured at a convenient bench in an alcove.

“I’ve been busy.” She glanced over Elzan’s shoulder and saw O’klan settle on another bench twenty paces down the hallway. Far enough for privacy, close enough to guard her. She tugged on the silvery veil tucked into her belt and wished she had worn it, so her friend wouldn’t recognize her. “It has been impressed on me that I must take greater pains with my appearance.”

“I wondered how long you could avoid the marriage market.” He visibly fought not to grin. “Your mother must be very determined, painting you to catch some useless noble’s eye.”

“My—mother?” she choked.

“I guessed your father is a scribe but your mother is part of the Court and wants you to marry higher. It’s a pity she won’t let you become a scribe.”

Challen determined then and there, she wouldn’t tell Elzan the truth.

“It’s a crime,” he continued, “that someone so perceptive and intelligent has to become an ornament in some fool’s home.” Elzan gritted his teeth. “It’s a pity the higher ranks have so much less freedom than the common people.”

“Exactly!” She wished she could kiss him for giving her the words for a complaint which had eluded her for nearly two moons. “I hope when I do marry, I’ll find a sensible man, who values my friendship more than my connections.”

“Your father is a scribe. Surely he can find one rich and powerful enough to please your mother.”

“My father wants me to be happy. If a friend asked…” Challen prayed her makeup was thick enough to hide her blush. Had she actually begun to hint for Elzan to ask for her?

“Unfortunately, everyone is bound by restrictions,” Elzan said. He stood, startling Challen. “My time here is limited today. I have duties at … when will I see you again?”

“I can only come every eight days now, instead of every three.” She cringed at the somberness she saw in Elzan’s face. Had she frightened him?

Challen watched Elzan stride down the hall. She felt O’klan approach, but stayed seated. Suddenly, her errand to retrieve an armload of scrolls had no urgency.

Just my horrid luck, she mused. I finally meet someone I could willingly marry and he isn’t any more free than I am. She nodded to O’klan’s questioning glance, assuring him she was all right. Mother Matrika, I serve you, I obey my father, I work to protect our kingdom. Please, can’t I have something for myself?

King Nebazz returned to his full duties after the moon dark ceremonies. Shazzur assured Elzan that acting as regent was harder than being king in his own right because every decision could be changed or negated by the King on his return. How could he be sure of the obedience of the Council or Court, when they knew his decisions were not set in stone?

Elzan hoped Shazzur was right, or he would be miserable if he ever did take the throne. He told his mother so when he visited her two days later at the Healers Temple.

“That alone shows your wisdom, my hawk.” Lady Mayar chuckled at his sour look. “Consider … if you only saw power and pleasure and the freedom to do as you wished, even after serving in your father’s place, I would doubt your wits. You see the burdens you will bear someday as king, and you do not flee. Bainevah will be blessed when you wear the crown.”

“How can you be so sure I will be named Crown Prince?” Elzan dropped onto the long couch opposite her worktable and lay back, rubbing his aching temples with his knuckles. “Sometimes I wish I could just walk away from Bainevah.”

“But you cannot, because you love the land and you know, deep inside, you are the only one fit to care for our people once your father is gone.”

“If that came from my mouth, it would sound supremely arrogant.” He chuckled and gazed up at the vine leaves painted on the pale gold ceiling.

“What would you do if you could abandon the throne without a worry?”

“Do?” He frowned at the ceiling. “I don’t really know. I’ve thought about it sometimes, but … I wouldn’t stay in the Host, like Rushtan. Though I envy him. He knows where he belongs.”

“So do you, but there are too many who try to deny you the place you were born to fill.”

“If that were the only reason!” Elzan sat up and rested his elbows on his knees, his chin on his fists. “I would like to be free to study as much as I wished. If the Hidden City is destroyed, I’d like to rebuild it. And I would go there for a year to do nothing but study. Maybe two or three years.”

“How exciting. Live in a room full of scrolls. Wouldn’t you get bored?” his mother asked, with just the slightest teasing richness in her voice.

“Not with the right … company.”

Challen’s face filled his mind, her eyes bright, her face lit from within, as it had been when they discussed several passages they had discovered separately, which merged like two halves of a puzzle block. That had been a pleasant, invigorating half hour stolen from their restricted lives, and Elzan wished it could have been hours. He still dreamed of taking Challen into his arms and learning her body was sweet and soft and as fascinating as her wit and wisdom. Their many meetings had helped him learn enough self-control he could talk rationally with her now without fearing she would look into his eyes and read his desires.

“Company?” she prompted, when he had been quiet too long.

“I’m sorry, Mother.” He tried to bring his thoughts back to the present. “There’s—I met a scribe’s daughter. She doesn’t know who I am, and I want to keep it that way. I’m simply Elzan, another scribe. If I could be free, I would beg her to marry me. But I can’t marry the girl I want, can I?”

“A scribe’s daughter? Which scribe?”

“I don’t know her father’s name. We never talk beyond histories and old rituals. But I know she adores oranges and she hates silly, fussy hairstyles and she has to keep up a blurring around herself while she’s in the Hall—”

“A blurring?”

“I can see through it if I concentrate. Someone wants her to marry above her station and makes her use the blurring like a veil. Poor Challen has to paint herself like a doll and wear fancy clothes like Raheen used to love, before she got fat.”

Elzan chuckled, surprised at the connection. He particularly disliked that vapid concubine, who declared her daughter the most talented dancer in the kingdom. Rohasheen was a lovable idiot who barely had the wit not to tell her mother she hated dancing.

“Challen?”

“What’s wrong, Mother?” He got up, taking three steps to her table before Lady Mayar shook her head and waved him away.

“I’m fine. So your sweetheart’s name is Challen?”

“If only she were. I doubt she knows how I feel. There’s no time to talk of us when we meet. She’s helped me make strides in my research I never could have made before I met her.”

“Ah, a woman of many talents.”

“Now you mock me.” Elzan grinned. “You never thought I’d sound like a love-struck idiot, did you?”

“No, but I like this new face. When will you tell her who you are?”

“Never. I hope she never knows how I feel. Why hurt her?”

“Perhaps you fear she will reject your love, my hawk?”

Elzan imagined Challen’s laughter fading to shock, maybe disgust—or worse, pity—when he revealed his heart to her.

“You could be right, Mother,” he said softly.

CHAPTER 13

Sixth Descent Moon

Challen met Elzan four more times in the archives as winter crept up on Bainevah. Senyet was caught helping Darhan, son of Lord Dothan of the East Gate to enter the Sanctum. He and Darhan and the Bride waiting in the garden were all brought before the King and Council. Sheelian was examined and found still a virgin; Darhan wanted to court her, not simply sleep with her. King Nebazz pardoned and married the sweethearts, then posted Darhan to the mountain wastes for three years for violating the Sanctum. It was mercy for them both, because they should have died for their sacrilege.

Senyet died of poison before he could be questioned. There had been no chance for Song Weavers to try to see into his thoughts and learn who his co-conspirators were.

Challen was furious and frustrated when she heard. Now they would never know who brought the magic into the Sanctum and controlled the soldiers who tried to kill the King. She fumed to Elzan the next time she saw him and her scribe friend cautioned her to remain quiet.

“What if a conspirator overhears us talking and thinks you know more than you do?” He squeezed her hand. “I couldn’t take it if I were to blame for harm to you.”

Challen nodded that she understood. She couldn’t speak. The mere touch of his hand, warm in contrast to the chill that had settled into her bones with winter made her feel weak and giddy.

The moon dark ceremonies passed and the other Brides grew more giddy, more worried about possible husbands and the latest fashions. If that were possible. Challen couldn’t understand the frantic interest in what she considered useless occupations. It was more important to keep warm. She hated winter. Snow had been exhilarating the first few times it fell, then the damp turned to ice in her bones.

“Thank goodness solstice is only a moon quarter away,” she remarked to four girls who had become friends.

Amilia dropped the vase of winter berries and balsam boughs she had spent two hours arranging. Mashana squeaked and nearly fell off the couch where she had giggled and whispered with Daniana—who did fall, biting her tongue so she spattered blood on her sky blue gown when she wailed. Tamisra sat very still and went completely white. The common room smelling pleasantly of apple wood and cinnamon from the braziers suddenly grew too quiet and the air took on a bitter tang of fear.

“What is wrong with all of you?” Challen snapped. She stomped over to help Amilia pick up the shattered vase.

“Solstice,” Amilia whispered.

“So?”

“The Sacred Marriage,” Tamisra said with surprising calm.

“Oh.” Challen felt a little weak-kneed and silently scolded herself to use common sense. “Are you all eligible?” Four nods. “Who else?”

Vashina, Susin, and Magreth were eligible. Sheelian who had left had not been eligible. Vashina and Mashana would be set free after solstice.

“Seven Brides and only one goes to the King,” Challen said. “Shall I calculate the odds against any of you being chosen?”

Her badgering tone helped more than her common sense words. Tamisra was the first to smile.

When O’klan came to summon them to dinner, Challen asked him to gather Court gossip to help distract her friends from their worries. He approved of her plan. Then, his smile fading, O’klan slipped a tiny parchment packet into her hand. She slipped it into the tight sash of her dress, thanked him with a nod, and followed him to the communal dining hall.

The paper held a message from Shazzur. As solstice neared, the people grew restless and uneasy. Rumors birthed quickly and died slowly. The cold weather aggravated the King’s healing wounds. Rumors said he could not perform the Sacred Marriage. If the people lost faith in the King, the kingdom would suffer; the damage from the failure that summer would multiply.

Shazzur warned Challen to guard what she said and did, and watch and record the slightest irregularity. An attack against the Sanctum could further harm the people’s faith.

Challen sent a note with O’klan the next day, acknowledging her father’s orders. She told him her friends feared now, instead of delighting in the honor. Reality had a sobering effect on even the most giddy or arrogant. Even Vashina was losing her acid tongue and talked less of her importance.

The tension began to affect Challen as the solstice grew nearer and the Bride had yet to be chosen. Because of the sabotage at the last Sacred Marriage, the Bride’s name would not be announced until she had gone into the chamber with the King. The girls themselves wouldn’t know who was chosen until the night before.

Nerves and the penetrating cold of the worst storm in decades made them all comrades and forged a tenuous truce among the warring factions among the Brides. They were all sitting around the braziers in the common room when Agrat and his staff came with the gold-covered box that held the lots for choosing.

A storm raged outside and this was the warmest room in the Sanctum, but Challen felt the temperature drop when the girls noticed the eunuchs standing in the doorway. Several gasped, and for a moment it seemed all the air had been sucked from the room. Challen wished she had sought solitude in her room, to get some more studying done. She had come to encourage her friends and to find more warmth than the tiny brazier in her room could provide. The smell of fear grew strong, cloying in the air as the Head Warder set up the box on the long table in the center of the common room. He drew out the tiny wax tablets and the stylus to write the names of the Brides for the choosing.

One by one, Agrat called the names of the girls who were eligible for the ritual. They approached him, said the ritual prayer for Mother Matrika’s guidance and blessing, wrote their names on the tablets and dropped them into the box. When they were finished, Agrat walked around the room, turning the closed box over in his hands, mixing the tablets and creating a rattling racket that grated on Challen’s nerves.

She shivered, recognizing the sound from her dreams. It sounded like Draktan pieces being tossed around in their box, and underneath that the swish-rattle-clatter of a massive loom as the shuttle ran back and forth, clicking on the frame, and the warp weights banged against each other.

Agrat walked around the room three times and the eunuchs chanted the ritual prayers to Mother Matrika. Then the Head Warder came back to the center of the room, put the box down on the table, and reached in. He stared at the wax tablet in his hand so long, Challen wondered if something was wrong.

“Kena’Shazzur’Challa’Naya,” Agrat said, still staring at the tablet.

It took a moment for Challen to realize that was her name.

“That cannot be,” O’klan said. He strode forward and rested a hand on Challen’s shoulder, as if he thought someone would snatch her out of his protection.

“Yes, I know that cannot be. She has not finished being purified and prepared,” Agrat said, his voice strained. He sounded as if he fought not to let his teeth chatter. “One of you girls wrote her name there instead of your own.”

Challen knew that was impossible. Agrat had looked at each tablet before it was put into the box. He risked a death sentence for interfering with the holy ritual.

“Someone has played a very nasty trick,” the Head Warder finally said. He tossed the tablet onto the table and reached in. This time he held out the new tablet for one of his assistants to read. The man went pale, his eyes widened, and he backed away. Agrat’s hand trembled as he turned the tablet to read for himself. “Kena’Shazzur’Challa’Naya.”

Someone giggled. Challen didn’t blame the girl. It was either laugh from strained nerves, scream, or break down crying. She refused to do anything but sit calmly and trust in Mother Matrika to guard them all and bring justice.

Agrat went through the box. Each tablet had Challen’s name on it. He finally turned the box upside down and shook it, proving there were no more tablets inside with the names of the eligible Brides on them.

“We cannot refuse the choice of the greater Powers,” the trembling, fat man said. His voice rose an entire octave above his normal speaking mode. “Kena’Shazzur’Challa’Naya, you are chosen for the Sacred Marriage.” He straightened his shoulders and glared when Amilia and Vashina both let out giggles that verged on hysteria.

“But my preparation—” Challen tried to find some reason for delaying the inevitable. She had ample proof that some greater Power specifically wanted her for the Sacred Marriage—but the question was, who? Mother Matrika, or one of her enemies? Which demi-god wanted her destroyed? Which one would invest so much power in sabotaging the Sacred Marriage with an unprepared Bride?

“You have been chosen by sacred lot. You will enter seclusion until morning. You will prepare to become the vessel of Mother Matrika.” Agrat slashed down with one hand. Four guards came into the room and took up position around Challen.

“What of her right to a companion?” O’klan demanded.

“She has no mother.” Agrat actually looked sympathetic. “She has the right to request a former Bride to spend the vigil with her.”

“Lady Mayar.” Challen felt breathless with relief. “O’klan, please, ask her?”

Her warder bowed, crossing his arms, fists clenched in silent vowing. He waited until the guards led her from the room. As Challen walked down the hall, she heard O’klan’s footsteps hurrying in the other direction.

She shivered despite the layers of her cloak, hood, and veil when the guards led her to the courtyard and she stepped into her sedan chair. The wind whistled, tugging at the wooden panels and thick fleeces that lined the sedan chair in the winter. The cold inside Challen made the cold of the howling storm seem mild in comparison. She found it hard to pray, hard to even know what to say, what to ask for.

More than any other moment since that flight into protective exile, Challen wished for her mother. But Shazzur had raised her to always face reality and never to waste time wishing for what could not be. By the time the guards carried her chair into the sheltered courtyard of Matrika’s temple, she had managed some semblance of physical calm, and that in turn helped her focus her mind.

Fact … She had been chosen, despite all human efforts to the contrary. If Mother Matrika’s enemy had placed her there to cause damage to Bainevah, Challen had to do everything in her power to make herself open to the Mother’s leading and indwelling, to counteract the evil intentions. Hadn’t Shazzur raised her on dozens of stories of people who had been tossed into circumstances beyond their control, who had made themselves open and obedient to Matrika’s use, and they had triumphed? If her father could be with her that moment, Challen knew he would say all her life had been leading up to this crucial moment.

She did not dare fail.

The hand that pushed aside the wooden panels and reached in to help Challen alight from the sedan chair was skeletal, wrinkled, and warm. She fought not to sob as her grandfather slid an arm around her shoulders to lead her into the temple. Such support and contact was not part of the ritual. Chizhedek knew who she was, though no one was supposed to know the Bride’s name until she emerged from the Chamber of the Suns with the King tomorrow afternoon. She could say nothing to the High Priest, and he could say nothing to her, but Challen squeezed his hand before she walked into the chamber where she would spend the night in preparation.

The door thudded shut behind her and it took all her force of will not to fall down on the floor sobbing. Challen studied the room, which was bright with lamplight, thick dyed sheepskins on the floor for warmth, multicolored cushions and couches, an entire banquet spread on the table pushed against the wall, musical instruments and scrolls for her entertainment. At any other time, she thought she would have found this time of seclusion enjoyable. Except for the reminder of her true purpose, standing in a corner.

Hanging on a woman-shaped figure of wood was a robe beaded with pearls and turquoise and gold. She would put it on before dawn and wear it to the Chamber of Ten Thousand Suns.

And then remove it and submit her body to the King and to Mother Matrika to complete the Sacred Marriage.

Shazzur had explained to her what happened between a man and woman. He had used dry, technical terms, making the physical act safe and clean. The thought of the King touching her naked body, entering her to spill her virgin blood for the Sacred Marriage—it made her feel as if the floor might open and swallow her down to the Netherhells. This was not the passionless mating her father had described. This was pain and sweat and humiliation, despite the honor of becoming a vessel for Mother Matrika’s blessing on the land.

Her father had explained the differences between men and women, the significance of her bleeding, and the signs of pregnancy. Shazzur had frankly told her men and women were both intended to enjoy sex, but the joy would only last if her heart was involved. He wanted Challen to enjoy her womanhood and cautioned her to choose as husband a man who would be her friend after the heat of lust had faded.

Challen wondered how it would be to laugh and tumble with a man she liked. She had no promised husband to stand with her at the ceremony that sacrificed the cloth stained with her virgin blood to the flames, just as her mother could not be here to sit in vigil with her through the long night.

Maybe once she was free of the Sanctum and its protective restrictions, she could speak openly with a certain young scribe and soldier, tell him the truth, and learn he was interested in her as a woman, after all.

Maybe the King would help her pretend he was someone else during the ritual. Tradition said Mother Matrika entered the body and mind of the Bride, but Challen knew better than to depend on every tradition. She would be fully aware of every sensation. There would be no one to take her body through the experience and give it back to her after the ritual ended.

“Mother Matrika, I put myself into your hands.”

Challen walked over to the nearest couch, sat down, and peeled off her veil and cloak. Voices seemed to whisper at the edges of the silence, trying to pierce the fragile shell of calm she had erected around her mind and heart.

She shivered, letting the silent tears come. One of her few clear thoughts filled her with regret. Why had she never asked Lady Mayar about her mother’s time as the chosen Bride? She knew why—she thought she had a year before she would have to face the ritual.

“Father, you told me when the need came my gifts would manifest. This is a time of need. My mother could send her thoughts across leagues to those waiting to hear. Father, hear me. Think of me this moment. Know what has happened and touch my mind and strengthen me. Our enemy is at work and I must not fail the Mother or Bainevah.” She clenched her fists and pressed them against her temples and tried to send her thoughts, her feelings to Shazzur. Wherever he was. She closed her eyes, warding off the tears as she alternately prayed to Mother Matrika to open her mind and begged Shazzur to hear her.

How long she struggled to break the silence inside her head, Challen had no idea. Why could she go to Elzan in her dreams, but not reach her father at this moment?

Her mind stayed on Elzan, despite her efforts to focus her thoughts elsewhere. When exhaustion finally took over, she curled up on the couch in a half-doze and dreamed of the scribe who had made her think marriage wouldn’t be such a burden, but something to enjoy.

A hand touched her, gently shaking her awake. Challen closed her eyes tighter, refusing to leave her sweet dreams behind. She didn’t want to face enemies and dangers just yet.

“Why, when things are not as we wish them, do we always blame our enemies?” a laughing, achingly familiar voice said.

Challen trembled as she raised her head and looked at the woman standing next to her.

“Mother?” she whispered.

“My darling. My treasure. I’m so proud of you.” Naya held out her arms. Her eyes sparkled with tears, but she smiled.

It didn’t matter that this was only a dream brought on by her strained nerves. Challen flung herself into her mother’s arms. They were warm and solid around her. The scent of moonlight, rain, and lilies enfolded her as she burst into tears.

“Is everything in order for tomorrow?” Elzan leaned against the long worktable where Abendago sat, surrounded by scrolls and wax tablets.

“Tomorrow, Highness?” The scribe tried to smile, but he looked like he barely had the energy to keep his eyes open and his stylus moving across the wax tablets before him.

“Solstice.” His guts clenched in apprehension when the harried little man startled and stared at him.

“Tomorrow?”

“How long has it been since you slept?” Elzan took the stool on the other side of the table. They were alone outside the Council chamber. The Court evening meal waited, but Elzan didn’t have the stomach for posturing and politeness after his long day of studying in the Scribes Hall. Challen hadn’t come today, either. He wondered if he could blame the storm. With his luck, her mother had found a suitable suitor and would keep the girl prisoner until she married.

“Please send for your Lady Mother, Highness. The King has complained of headaches most of the day, and he fell asleep when he was alone during the noon meal. That has not happened since he was first wounded. He was not alarmed and would not let me send for healers. But for him to fall ill on the eve of the Solstice—”

“Poison. Depend on it.” Elzan stood abruptly. “Someone wants the ritual to fail.” He shook his head, biting back a dozen angry curses. “I’ll fetch my Mother. Don’t worry, Abendago. This will be mended before anyone realizes anything is wrong.” He tried to smile for the worried, weary little man, but managed no more than a grimace as he hurried away.

It was a conspiracy. If their enemies could not contaminate the Bride, because she would not be chosen until this evening, then they would attack the King.

Lady Mayar was in the middle of preparations to leave when Elzan came to her apartments. She grew very still when he told her about the King’s illness and his suspicions.

“My son, I am learning that there are some things that have been ordained since the foundations of the world were laid.” Something that could have been a bemused smile touched her lips. “Yes, we will go to your father. I am sure this is only a passing illness.”

“No matter how quickly it passes, he won’t be fit for the ceremony tomorrow, will he?”

“I don’t think this time it will matter.”

Elzan could only stare at his mother. She patted his cheek, as if he were still ten years old.

“Shazzur told me something not long ago, when we were discussing a … a mutual concern. No matter how confused we are, no matter how desperate the situation or painful the losses we face, we must trust Mother Matrika. We must trust her servants to act as faithful vessels of her will. All that happens is ordained. Those who resist or try to change the will of the Mother will be dismayed. And those who obey will be … pleasantly surprised,” she said, with a hint of chuckle in her rich voice.

Elzan suspected his mother knew a great deal she wasn’t about to reveal to him. At least she was amused—that meant a pleasant outcome, even if it was aggravating and confusing to him right now.

Maybe it was time to trust the will of Mother Matrika. And if not her, then trust in the assurances of his beloved teacher and his mother.

“Did you know that at one time, there was only one Bride? The High Priestess was queen and consort and the vessel for Matrika to speak to the people. She was chosen at the time the king was crowned and their son was the next king.”

“Yes, Mother.” Challen knew this had to be some wonderful dream, and prayed she would never wake up. It was amusing, in a way, to see her mother walk about the small chamber, examining the Bride’s costume, tasting the sweets waiting on the banquet table and even plumping the cushions of the couches.

“You’re not dreaming, my dearest.” Naya shook her head, smiling ruefully. “What will it take to convince you?”

“I don’t care. I need you and you’re here. Mother, what if something goes wrong tomorrow? One Sacred Marriage has already failed—what if I fail?”

“You will not.” Her mother settled down on the couch and wrapped her arm around Challen again. “Everything will go wonderfully right. And we must talk of these things to prepare you for your duty once the ritual is over.”

“I know all the history of the Sacred Marriage. O’klan and I studied every scroll we could find.”

“Hmm, yes. And you think you’re simply remembering all the things you studied. Stubborn little bird.” She stroked Challen’s hair until her daughter relaxed enough to lean her head on her mother’s shoulder. “I’m here to give you an important message. The role of High Priestess must be restored. Your grandfather knew that, and he trained me from the day my powers first began to show themselves. He and your grandmother gave me to the Sanctum, so very sure I would be a Bride and the King would sire a son on me, marry me, and with my ascension to the position of High Priestess, restore the Sacred Marriage. The Sacred Marriage is for all time, my dear. King and Priestess, guiding and protecting the land.” She chuckled. “Oh, how we argued, when the King asked me to be a concubine and I refused. Father was even more upset when I chose Shazzur. But I think he understands now. He had the right idea, but the wrong sense of timing.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We rarely do, when we are in the middle of events. When all the steps have been taken and you can look back, then you will understand.”

“You sound like Father.”

“Yes, well, I think after all our years together, we’ve begun to sound like each other.” Naya laughed when Challen sat up and frowned at her, totally confused. “My dearest, your father and I have had many long conversations together in the years since I was murdered. Matrika allows me to visit him quite often, in his dreams.”

“He never told me.” Challen fought a painful tightness in her chest that could have been tears or anger.

“That is the price we pay. Together in his dreams, united and planning, but forgotten when he wakes. If anything remains, he thinks them only dreams. Tell your father that the time of dreaming will soon end, and reality will resume. Can you remember those words?”

Challen dutifully recited the words. She sighed when Naya stood and resumed her restless prowling through the chamber.

“The fullness of the Sacred Marriage must be restored. I put this charge into your hands, and into the hands of the king to come. You will become your grandfather’s heir, Challen. All the dreams and hopes he placed on me, will rest on you. You will be High Priestess someday. You and your brother will restore the Three and the Hidden City.”

“Asha?” Challen leaped to her feet and crossed the intervening space, to grasp her mother’s sleeve. “You know where he is?”

“I sent him away to safety, the day I died. Find the Song Weaver. Tell her to search the ancient texts and the ancient tongues for a song of healing and sing it to banish the darkness from her prince’s mind. Then she must journey with him. He will guard her and she will find your brother. When he is trained, he will find the Three.”

“Where are they?”

“He will hunt alone to find the place. He will find them when they have fought to freedom. This is his task, far in the future. Tonight, we must think about your destiny. You must remember everything I have told you. Everything.” Naya grasped Challen’s shoulders and shook her for emphasis. “Recite.”

Voice wobbling, Challen repeated back her mother’s words. Twice. Three times. Four times, until Naya was satisfied.

“Shadows came to Bainevah when a new king refused to submit to the ancient ways. The High Priestess did not want to relinquish her power, but schemed to rule beside her son. She suborned the Council and the Priesthood. They lied in the Mother’s name and demanded virgins be gathered together for the king’s use at each solstice.”

“And then there was a palace uprising and an internal war,” Challen said, nodding. “I remember this from the histories. The prince who was finally crowned established the Sanctum because there was no priestess to stand as his queen.”

“Because the darkness had crept into the land and tainted the minds of the Priesthood and the royal bloodline. It has taken many generations to purify the Priesthood and raise up a king who is willing to serve Matrika at the risk of losing all he holds dear. And a priestess who is willing to serve despite her fears.”

“I wasn’t chosen through evil magic?” Challen whispered.

“You were chosen because the winds of history have blown us to this time and place. Obey and be happy, little bird.” Naya pressed a kiss of blessing on her daughter’s forehead.

The door opened and a woman stepped in with a rustling of robes, bringing the scent of snow and a gush of cold air.

“My dear child, I came as quickly as I could,” Lady Mayar said. “There was a small emergency at the palace, but—” She gasped. Most of the color fled her face and her big black eyes grew wider. “Naya?” she whispered.

“It’s good to see you again, sister of my soul.” Naya winked at Challen and stepped back, to settle down on one of the couches. “Maybe now you can convince my stubborn little daughter that I am quite real and no dream at all.”

“Mother?” Challen stumbled, seeking the support of the other couch. She couldn’t seem to breathe for a moment. “You’re—I did touch you? I’m not dreaming. I’m not mad?”

“If you are, then we both are,” Lady Mayar said. She slid out of her cloak and dropped the baskets and bags she had carried. Laughing, tears streaming down her face, she ran across the room and wrapped her arms around Naya. The two women clung to each other and cried and laughed.

Lady Mayar accepted Naya’s presence much more easily than Challen could. It irritated her, in a way, to listen to the two women chatter about common friends and catch up on events in the palace and temple. She wasn’t irritated enough to lose her appetite, however, and devoured the plate of food her mother filled for her.

Naya refused to repeat the messages she had given Challen. She seemed to enjoy being mysterious, her eyes sparkling and her lips pressed flat to fight wide grins, whenever Mayar or Challen asked her a question she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer.

They talked about the failed ritual at the last solstice and what the scribes and healers had determined had happened. Challen felt much more comfortable now, talking about the mysteries and prophecies and theories that had immersed her attention for the last few moons. Naya seemed a little smug when Challen described what happened with the choosing of the Bride.

“Mother … were you involved with that? How could you change all the tablets to read my name?”

“The ways of the Mother are not for us to question or investigate too deeply,” was Naya’s only reply. Then she laughed and reminded Mayar of the ceremonies and feasting when they both served as the Bride. Challen relaxed, listening to them talk about the prayers and sacrifices, the chants and processions. It didn’t take long for her to realize that they were teaching her everything to expect, everything expected of her.

“Such ways are ending, aren’t they?” Lady Mayar said, interrupting the laughter at the end of a story.

“Ending?” Naya said, the laughter dying from her eyes as well as her voice.

“As the generations pass, we are slowly going back to the true way. Don’t think it hasn’t escaped me, sister of my spirit.” Lady Mayar shook her finger at Naya, who grinned but not quite as mischievously as earlier. “I am a priestess, though not High Priestess of the Mother. My son will be king. The Mother has blessed him with wisdom and strength and a strong soul. Adversity and uncertainty have formed him to fulfill a hard destiny. Bainevah will need such a king in the days ahead.”

“And he will need a High Priestess of great power, purity, and wisdom when he is king,” Naya whispered. “Strange, is it not, that even those who have passed through the doorway of death can feel weary?”

“Mother?” Challen trembled, suspecting that this sweet time together was nearly at an end.

“You need your rest, my dearest.”

She looked into her mother’s eyes and didn’t have the will to resist as Naya led her to her couch and made her lie down, and pulled a blanket up to her shoulders. A sigh escaped her and a feeling like tears flooded through her body and soul as Naya tucked the blanket around her, as if she were a little child.

“Mother,” she whispered.

“You will remember, my dearest. Remember everything, and tell your father to be patient. Tell him I love him more strongly now than I did the day I came back from death to be with him.” Naya kissed her daughter’s forehead.

Challen fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, hearing but not understanding as the two women talked a little longer. She didn’t hear when Lady Mayar hid her face in her hands and wept. She didn’t hear the howl of the storm grow to a roar, and didn’t feel the pressure in the air as snow buried the city. She shivered when shadows tried to creep under the door of the chamber to wrap around her. Lady Mayar kept watch, her healer powers and the force of her pure spirit combining to keep the daughter of her dearest friend safe through the night.

CHAPTER 14

Winter Solstice

Agrat came an hour before dawn to wake Challen. He pronounced the storm a good sign and smiled, though Challen thought he vibrated like a harp string tightened to the point of breaking. Records said a blaze of sunlight and warmth spilled over the sacrifice as a sign of Matrika’s blessing. How could light break through the storm burying the city?

Challen shivered when Agrat showed her a gold box filled with healing herbs and the finest oil, and the thick white cloth to cleanse her after the King had taken her maidenhead. Her blood and his seed would be sacrificed to the Mother, the cloth thrown on the sacrificial fire at sunset.

How could the sunlight and warmth come during a storm that roared with the loud threat of staying for half a moon?

Three eunuchs brought in buckets of steaming, scented water to fill the bathing tub that sat behind a screen in the corner. They brought in a tray full of breakfast, as if the banquet table wasn’t still heaped with more food than Challen or Mayar could eat in four days of feasting. They brought in flowers to be woven into her hair, and the three veils for Challen to wear as she walked the long hallway to the Chamber of the Suns for the ritual. Then, finally, Agrat and the eunuchs left and she was alone again with Lady Mayar.

“From this point on, you must be silent,” Lady Mayar said. “I am supposed to give you advice and words of wisdom and help you open your soul to the Mother’s guidance. However, too much seriousness is just as bad as not enough. Eat your breakfast quickly, so the water will still be warm. We don’t have much time to prepare you.”

Despite the slowly increasing pressure of apprehension, Challen laughed when Lady Mayar told her about pranks her mother had played on the eunuchs when they were Brides. Her heart swelled with pride when she heard how her mother searched for the truly needy, to help them. Mayar described how Naya had been an ornament to Court and a much-sought guest at feasts because of her quick wit that never mocked others, and her wisdom.

“You are much like her,” Lady Mayar said, when her stories had carried them through breakfast, bathing, and dressing. She took the flowers from the long tray and twisted them into a crown for Challen’s unbound hair. She smiled at her handiwork, and handed Challen the silver mirror so she could see how she looked. “Like a bride, going to meet her true love. Ah, and that is something I wanted to tell you earlier, but your mother thought it would only distract you. Challen, my dear—”

A loud thump on the outer door startled them, followed by a silver peel of trumpets. Challen knew what that meant. She stood and held out her hands for her three veils—green for Maiden, red for Mother, gray for Crone, the three phases of a woman’s life and the three aspects of Mother Matrika.

“All will be well,” Lady Mayar whispered as she lifted the veils and put them over Challen’s head. The eunuch guards entered the room, giving them no more time. “The King is ill. He has chosen my son to take his place. You remember my son, who spoiled you as a baby? He is your friend, the scribe Elzan.”

Elzan?

Challen’s thoughts spun in dizzy circles as Lady Mayar led her from the room. O’klan waited for her out in the hallway of the temple, next to Chizhedek. She let her grandfather take her hand. They walked down the long hallways to the altar, with Lady Mayar and O’klan. Eunuchs followed, making their drums throb and their silver trumpets peel loud enough to drive away the dark spirits that would try to overpower the world on this shortest day of the year. Challen paid only enough attention to keep from stumbling.

Elzan. Her friend—Prince Doni’Nebazz’Elzor’Mayar?

No wonder her father had seemed amused when she told him about her handsome scribe.

She would not give her body to the King, but to Elzan.

Stories whispered in the shadows of the Sanctum flooded her thoughts. What seemed uncomfortable, even embarrassing when she thought of lying naked with the King changed perspective when it was Elzan who would share the sacred bed with her.

Challen barely noticed when the procession reached the altar and the High Priest put her hand into Elzan’s and didn’t flinch as the icy sacred wine and oil spilled over their joined hands. She couldn’t break from the whirling images as the priests led them away, until massive doors, double-wide and taller than two stories, swung open before her.

She stepped into the chamber of the Sacred Marriage, her hand still in Elzan’s grip.

The chamber was round, the ceiling domed, painted with suns. Legend said that was not gold on the ceiling, but light from the sun, captured by priests’ magic. Its official name was “The Chamber of Ten Thousand Suns.” Challen eyed the suns, roughly calculating their size and the dimensions of the room. Maybe two thousand suns, she decided, but not ten.

The bed looked wide enough for four to sleep without touching, heaped with a rainbow of pillows and sheets. The gold box holding the healing oil and cloth sat on a stand at the foot of the bed.

A feast waited on the far side of the room and lanterns in niches all around the room made it as bright as day. Perfumed oil made the air thick and it was pleasantly warm. She might finally be warm enough for the first time this winter.

“Prince Doni’Nebazz’Elzor’Mayar,” Chizhedek said. “You are here to submit yourself to the Mother, for the good of the land. Blood and seed shall spill for the sacrifice. Life and death, pain and rebirth and obedience. Humble yourself before the Bride who carries the Mother’s glory, Kena’Shazzur’Challa’Naya.”

Elzan caught his breath with an audible click and his hand tightened painfully around Challen’s. She knew he was about to protest that she wasn’t ready. Speaking was not permitted until the High Priest had finished blessing them. She squeezed Elzan’s hand, hoping he understood.

Elzan said nothing. Her grandfather spoke the words of blessing on them. Before he turned to leave them alone, he grasped Challen by her shoulders and pressed a kiss on her forehead, through her veils. Then Chizhedek was gone. The doors swung shut with a loud, hollow thud that echoed against the domed ceiling. Elzan released her hand.

“Lady Kena’Shazzur,” he began, his voice strained.

“No. Wait.” Challen stepped away and fumbled to take off her veils. She nearly yanked half the flowers from her hair. She didn’t care. More serious thoughts filled her head now, stilling the nervous fluttering that made her want to giggle like one of Vashina’s brainless friends.

For a prince to be chosen in the King’s place was momentous. Equal to naming him Crown Prince.

Her friend, Elzan the scribe, would someday be king.

If he did not fail in the Sacred Marriage.

“Challen?” Elzan stumbled back a step to lean against the door, staring, his gaping shock changing to a relieved smile.

He wore nearly his own weight in gold, silver, turquoise, and pearls. His kilt hung to his calves, chiming with gold beads in the long, multiple strands of his belt. His sandals were so heavily crusted with gold Challen wondered how he could walk. The triple kohl lines around his eyes couldn’t hide the scribe who haunted her dreams. She trembled, but this was a pleasant, warm, melting kind of trembling.

“No wonder…” He wore the mischievous grin she loved. “Your father is the slyest trickster who ever served the Mother.”

“My Father?”

“I confided in him about a scribe’s daughter who had caught my heart, and all I knew was her name and her mother wanted a high marriage for her. He laughed, as if he knew something that had escaped me.”

“I’m sorry.” A whisper of laughter escaped her, prompted by the chagrin on his face. “I couldn’t tell you I was a Sanctum Bride. I didn’t want to frighten you away.”

“Frighten me!” He stepped away from the door. “If you only knew the sleepless nights I spent, wishing, wondering how it would be to hold you in my arms…” His smile faded as he glanced toward the bed.

“Wishes do come true.”

“This isn’t right. I can’t just take you. Use you.” He took a step away even as he reached out as if to pull her to him. He glanced at the bed again.

“We are both being used by Mother Matrika for the good of the land.”

“That’s just it.” He swallowed hard, as if he forced down a torrent of words. “Late at night, I think I would trade the throne to make love to you, just once.”

“I’m glad,” she whispered. Why did his words make her want to fly and weep at the same time?

“How can I perform the ritual properly, when every part of me would be consumed in … enjoying you? This would be pure pleasure, not the sacrifice, the dedication and holy service required. After the failure at summer solstice, I can’t risk a second failure. I can’t risk Bainevah. Not even for you.”

“If we are both willing to serve, do you really think the Mother will grudge us some pleasure and joy?” Part of her stepped back, aghast and amused simultaneously. She should have been nervous, at least shy, yet she was on the verge of begging Elzan to make love to her.

No, she realized. He was right. This wouldn’t be the Sacred Marriage. How could the Mother inhabit her if her heart and body were filled with hunger for Elzan?

“Mother Matrika, guide us,” she whispered.

“The first lesson your father taught me was that the king can never put his own pleasure above serving Bainevah. My mind wouldn’t be on the ritual.”

“And my father taught me I must obey and trust the hand of the Mother. She has brought us here. I want to serve the Mother and bless the land. Don’t you?” She waited until he grudgingly nodded, then backed up to the edge of the bed. “Elzan, please help me?” she whispered and held out her hand.

Three long steps brought him to her side. He caught hold of her hand and warmth rippled through her body. She looked into his eyes, bright like the clearest summer night sky, and thought she would fall into them. He caught both her hands in his and kissed them. The brush of his lips against her skin caused a tingling that grew stronger as she gazed into his eyes.

“I think what matters most,” Elzan murmured, “is that we are pure and wish to serve Bainevah first. And … that we don’t come together for our own pleasure the first time.”

“The first time?” A sensation of lightness spread through her body.

“We have until almost sunset. After we have served the Mother, the time remaining is for us to use as we wish.” He lowered her hands, drawing her arms down and apart to bring her closer. His eyes gleamed and seemed to swallow her as he leaned close enough for their noses to touch.

“As we wish?” she whispered, closing her eyes the moment his lips touched hers.

A fire exploded into life in her belly, moving outward in a rush that pushed Challen across the room. Breathless, she fought to not fall to her knees as the room spun around her.

Where was Elzan? What had happened to him? Challen dredged up all her strength and opened her eyes and turned to find him.

Elzan stood exactly where she had left him, in front of the bed, holding the hands of a woman who looked exactly like her. He stood perfectly still, eyes closed, smiling.

Challen gasped. The woman opened her eyes—and they were blacker than the night sky, filled with stars.

“Elzan!” Terror tore away the paralysis and gave her back her voice. Elzan was in danger—hadn’t the man who attacked her at the oasis had black eyes? Whenever the wounded prince was controlled by evil magic, didn’t his eyes turn black?

“Hush, silly bird.” Naya grabbed hold of Challen’s arm. “The ritual has begun and you have better things to do while your body is being used.”

“Mother?” Challen turned to face Naya. The wall vanished into blinding bright mist behind her.

Elzan’s lips tingled from that one, brief kiss. He gloried in it, even as part of him pulled back in shock. Had it been sacrilege, stealing one moment of sweetness before serving Mother Matrika?

Challen stood perfectly still as he stepped back. He smiled, admitting prideful hope that their first kiss had affected her deeply as well. He turned to the pitcher of wine and the silver cup, set with precious stones and blessed by Chizhedek. His hand trembled slightly as he filled the cup and turned back to her.

She stood with her head bowed, face pale, half-hidden by her loose hair. Elzan held out the cup to her.

“We must drink, vow ourselves, and pray for purification.” His voice sounded steady and he was glad. “We are your servants, Mother Matrika. We give our lives and bodies to you, as vessels of blessing to Bainevah. Purify our hearts and minds. Bless Bainevah through us.” He watched Challen. Was she too still? He thought of the instructions the King had given him, whispered in a hoarse voice. The pains that had wracked the King were gone, dosed away with Mayar’s healing touch and drugged wine, and he had likely forgotten half the instructions before he fell asleep last night. Elzan hoped Challen remembered her part of the ritual, and his, just in case.

“Please, Mother Matrika,” he continued, going beyond the required words of the ritual to counteract whatever sacrilege they committed. “Bainevah has fallen away from your teachings. We have worshipped the servants and not the mistress of all who guides and guards our lives. Forgive us and bring Bainevah back to your ways from this moment. Use us. Let us serve you.”

“Do you really believe that, Elzan?” Challen whispered.

“Yes.” He shivered, hearing a hollow ring in her voice. He held out the cup to her. She raised her hands, but instead of taking it from him, she pressed her hands around his.

Flame raced through his body at her touch, but not desire. This was the roar of a gold refiner’s fire, scorching through him, devouring the dross.

“Then drink and give your life to Bainevah. And to me.” Her voice filled the room. Challen raised her head and her eyes held the entire night sky of stars.

Elzan had no control over his body. He trembled as the cup touched his lips. He opened his mouth and let the wine thick with spices fill it to choking. He swallowed and struggled to fight down the purely physical terror that shuddered through his body. His conscience was clean, he knew. He had not asked for this duty, had not grudged his father the throne, had not prayed for his illness. His only sin was joy—and lust—at the thought of enjoying Challen’s sweet body. He wouldn’t be punished for that, would he?

His body reacted to the fire that filled the very air, the sense of giant, unseen hands holding him still. His body was like a mindless animal and would not listen to the pleadings of his mind and reason.

Matrika shrugged out of the ceremonial robe, revealing Challen’s body in all the slim, ivory, and fiery-golden glory Elzan had envisioned. She took the cup from his hands and led him to the bed. A mere brushing of Challen’s hands over his body, and his clothes and ornaments fell away in a heap.

“You truly please me, Prince of Bainevah. You struggle against your hungers and fears and study to know what is right. You discipline your body and your mind to obey that knowledge. For that, you have suffered and will suffer. For that, you will be blessed and you will bless Bainevah.” Nothing of Challen showed in the woman’s smile, in the blazing glory that radiated from her body like the corona of the sun.

Elzan complied when she pressed him down on the bed. He wondered how he could complete the ritual as he stretched out on his back. Then he felt aching desire grow as Challen’s body straddled him and Challen’s hands brushed over his body, leaving icy fire in their wake. This wasn’t the pleasure he had known in the concubines’ hall and longed for with Challen. It burned. It sucked at his flesh, taking and leaving nothing in return.

“She is yours, Prince of Bainevah,” Matrika whispered. “A pure heart, willingly given. Treasure her, because she will be the greatest reward you and Bainevah shall ever possess. When she warns and commands, remember that I speak through her. Obey her, and know joy. Disobey, and know you have condemned Bainevah to generations of struggle and suffering.”

The ache roared and burned through his body. Elzan felt himself falling away as his body gave up all his strength to her.

Challen couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe as she saw the entire kingdom spread out before her. She saw the wastelands where the Chadrasheeri raiders hid when they nibbled at the borders of Bainevah. She saw the mountain cities of Dreva and a vast army preparing—an army gathering in the middle of winter?—aimed directly for Bainevah, where a poisonous green light suddenly flared to life like a beacon.

A beacon to guide the enemy to the heart of the land.

The beacon seemed to be made of shadows, sucking all the energy from the stars and fires and lamps around it.

Challen shuddered.

She saw rivers and underground streams and seeds waiting to burst into life. She saw the sprawling city and the many small villages connected to it with thread-like roads. And over it she saw a vast web connecting all into one cohesive unit. Bainevah. Held together with a power that pulsed in the sudden darkness that wrapped around her.

Challen fell but felt no fear, only a sensation of suddenly growing small. Warmth seared her body from the inside, driving away the cold and doubts and terrors of the misty future. She kept falling and the web of power vanished, making her cry out.

“Remember,” Naya whispered. She emerged from the darkness and held out her hands, and Challen felt warm and safe and supported. She felt like she had as a child when a nightmare woke her and her mother comforted her.

Then Naya vanished. Challen floated in mid-air. The chamber coalesced around her and she looked down to see Elzan, drenched in sweat, his eyes tight shut, his mouth open in a soundless shout of pain. Matrika in Challen’s body crouched over him in the bed, her hand cupping his face, making him shudder.

“Please!” Challen struggled against the power that held her aloft. “Don’t hurt him. Punish me instead.”

“Healing sometimes causes pain, Kena’Naya,” the woman said, speaking with a voice that sounded like roaring rivers and bird song and the sighing of the wind. “He is purified and made ready. Now it is your turn. Do you pledge yourself to Bainevah, to me, to him? No matter what it costs you?”

“Yes.” She shivered as she began to fall and the room spun around her. “I was born to serve. My mother came back from death to birth me—what else can I do but obey?”

“Oh, innocent one.” The woman laughed, and the pulsing threat of annihilation left her voice. “There is always a choice. You have chosen well and wisely. Be happy. Be free to take all the joy you can this day, and for many long days and moons and years to come.”

Challen cried out as sensation burst through her and she suddenly had a body again. She shuddered, aching as if her body was one massive bruise. All her muscles felt as if she had climbed a mountain for hours. Tension coiled deep inside her belly. In another moment, it would break free and tear her to shreds with the force of the release.

Sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging them, but she opened them anyway. She knelt over Elzan, her hands braced on either side of his shoulders. He took a deep breath. The lines of torment left his face. A shuddering sigh escaped him and he opened his eyes.

“Challen?”

“Elzan. Help me! Something is tearing me apart inside.”

“We need to finish this, while Matrika’s power still flows through you.” Elzan sat up, gathering her into his arms while she was still astride him. The hardness of his arousal, pressed between them, sent a sweet throb of fire through her body.

“Finish?” She cried out when he caught a handful of her hair, holding her head still, and captured her mouth in a hard kiss. The aching pressure deep inside grew stronger as his tongue invaded her mouth.

Challen understood and honeyed intoxication flooded her. She wrapped her arms tight around him. The heat of his body only escalated the fire in her belly. She gloried in the feel of his smooth, hard muscles and sleek skin, drenched in sweat. Elzan’s hands roved over her body, hungry and rough and possessive. Then he grasped her hips hard enough to bruise and lifted her. She opened her mouth to protest, erupting with a shriek as he settled her down on top of him again and slid inside her.

Shudders wracked her body and flames seared her blood. Challen clutched at Elzan and harsh whimpers tore her throat. She felt him bucking underneath her, heard him shout, but she understood that he felt no pain.

She fell forever, wrapped in a numbness that soaked into her flesh and bones and then her mind. Challen gasped for breath, and suddenly even that small effort seemed too much. Hands reached through the encroaching darkness to hold her. Hot, strong, trembling hands on her shoulders.

She opened her eyes and looked down at Elzan lying under her while she knelt astride him. He was flushed, sweating, kohl smeared and dripping down the sides of his face into his ears and hair. She felt his heart racing to match hers, felt the gasping struggle of their bodies to breathe. Felt a bruised throbbing deep between her legs.

“Challen?” Elzan’s arms trembled as he held her upright.

She tried to speak. Her lips managed a weak smile that threatened to break. She collapsed on him and he tucked her head under his chin, his arms tight around her.

“Elzan,” she whispered, wanting something but unable to grasp that part yet. He seemed to understand, and slid her off him to the blankets next to him. She shuddered at the sticky sound as their bodies separated into two entities again.

She wanted to stay joined with him, and that made no sense because she felt weak and hollow and ached all over, not just between her legs. She wanted to curl up and sleep, yet all the images in her mind kept churning, wanting to be spilled.

Spoken. That was it. She had to tell Elzan. She opened her eyes and found him leaning over her.

“Challen? Please. How do you feel?”

“Tired.” She smiled at the rasp of her voice. “Empty.”

“My Father warned me you might be this way when the Mother left.” He brushed a kiss across her forehead. “Lie still and let me take care of you.”

Challen almost laughed, because she was unable to do anything but lie still. She felt the warm blankets he wrapped around her, the gentleness of his hands, but as if through a thick membrane that cushioned every sensation.

Elzan brought wine. He propped her up with pillows and helped her sip, then tore bits off a honeycake and fed her. She closed her eyes, and a moment later opened them again as a chill washed over her. Elzan had pulled back the blankets. Vaguely, she remembered she hated feeling cold.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “It is required…” Elzan showed her the cloth destined for the sacrificial fire.

His touch was soothing as he wiped the bloody smears from her belly, gentle as he lifted her legs to clean her and wipe the healing oil over the faint aching that throbbed and died under his hands. Challen watched him, drowsy and faintly amused by the strain on his face.

“What’s wrong, Elzan? It didn’t hurt that much,” she offered, when she wondered if the sight of her blood made him ill. Now that she could think clearly again, Challen realized the tearing of her virginity had been nothing compared to the overwhelming experience of being inhabited by Mother Matrika.

“Hurt?” His mouth worked as if he would say more, then he shook his head, covered her again, and moved out of her sight.

Challen managed to get up on one elbow. He had his back to her, and she realized through the dissipating haze in her mind that he cleaned her blood off himself now. She watched him, awake enough to admire the play of lean muscles in his back and down his thighs. He picked up his discarded kilt and wrapped it around himself. He flinched when he turned and saw her watching.

“What’s wrong?” she repeated.

“Wrong?” Elzan shook his head and came back to the bed. He sat down, close enough their hips touched. “The King didn’t warn me about this part.” He stroked tangled hair out of her face and his pained look turned rueful. “I want you, Challen. It’s torture to look at you and touch you and want you—and even if you were eager, I can’t. There’s nothing left inside me.”

It took a moment for what he meant to seep through the comfortable haze around her mind. It took a moment more for Challen to realize that sound was her laughing, breathless, barely enough to move the blankets covering her.

“I’m sorry,” she managed to gasp, and struggled to free a hand from the blankets to reach out to him, as if touching would convey what words couldn’t. “It’s just that I understand completely how you feel.”

He caught her hand and pressed it to his cheek. Elzan’s face crumpled into a tired smile that echoed the shock still enfolding her. They had both been prepared, as much as human words could convey. Being inhabited by Mother Matrika, purified by her touch, used for the good of their land, was beyond explanation or preparation.

That reminded her.

“Elzan, Bainevah is in trouble.”

“Not after what just happened to us.”

She tried to pull her hand free, but he held tight and pressed a kiss against her palm. “Our enemies gather to march on us. Dreva and Chadrasheer are both threats.”

“They are always threats.”

“I … saw it. The Mother showed it to me when she came in.” She frowned and tried to find the words to tell what she saw.

Bit by bit, she scraped at her memories, giving Elzan the details. It was a laborious process filled with long silences. He never pushed, never showed any impatience. He fetched wine for them and meat rolls and grapes. He wrapped them both in blankets and held her close, holding the cup for her when she was too distracted with her vision to do it for herself. When Challen reached the end they held each other, listening to the storm howl beyond the dome.

CHAPTER 15

“The Mother gave you this vision for a reason, but how do we use it?” Elzan mused. “She warned me that generations will suffer if I don’t heed your words. But how do we use your knowledge? What do we do first?”

“Prepare the armies?” she whispered.

“But who can we trust with your vision? That beacon you saw, poisonous green light in the heart of Bainevah, means there is a traitor. We were brought here for a reason. I am most glad of that,” he added on a whisper. He stroked loose hair out of her face, his touch turning to a caress that sent a humming through her body, pooling in that spot that still ached.

“You will be Crown Prince now. You can act and few will stop you. The King trusts you. He will not gainsay your orders.”

“If only I had you next to me as my advisor.”

“You have my Father.”

“Hmm, yes, and I need to have a word with him about how little concern he showed for you.” Elzan turned them so she lay on her back, caught in the curve of his arm, and he leaned over her. “He loves his secrets, doesn’t he?” He cupped her cheek and chin in his hand and his touch sent a warm trembling through her. “I can imagine him laughing in secret while I ate myself alive with frustration because of a lovely scribe’s daughter who was beyond my reach.”

“I told him about you. I wish he had said something to me. When I’m free of the Sanctum, you can be sure I will have some words for my Father.” Challen laughed, knowing Shazzur would only be smug and lecture her on trusting him.

“Free of the Sanctum.” Elzan’s smile faded. “I hate him,” he groaned, leaning down so his forehead touched hers.

“My Father?”

“Your husband.”

“I don’t have a husband.”

“Your betrothed. The one who will take you to his home tonight if he has any sense.”

“I’m not betrothed,” Challen whispered, delighting in the pain she heard in his voice. “The only man who touched my heart was my friend, the scribe.”

“Truly?” Elzan whispered. “Challen … I can’t ask you to wait for me. I could never make you a concubine.”

“Your mother doesn’t seem to mind.”

“My Mother…” Elzan drew back, and she missed the warmth of him. “She says they love and they are happy, and the truth is different from appearances, but—”

“You will be Crown Prince. Your duty is to Bainevah, first. Putting desires before duty is the crime that caused many kings to harm Bainevah in the past.” Challen took a deep breath, listening to the sense of rightness inside her, stronger and surer than any vision. “When you are able, send for me and I will gladly be your concubine.”

“Only in name.” He slipped the ram’s head ring off his hand and put it on her thumb, pressed her hand closed around it and sealed it with a kiss. “You are my wife, from this moment. You hold my heart and I will never give it to another. I swear it. If I am king, I promise your son will be my heir.”

“You shouldn’t make such promises.”

“I swear it, Challen. I swear it by your blood and my seed on the cloth for the sacrifice. I swear it on the bed under us and the gold of the ten thousand suns above us. I call on them as witnesses.”

Challen sat up abruptly, feeling as if all the air had fled her body. She stared, first at the box holding the cloth stained with her blood. Then at the suns painted on the ceiling. She ignored the chill air against her bare flesh, the blanket sliding off her breasts, the gooseflesh crawling all over her.

“Elzan … ten thousand suns shall witness it,” she whispered. A gasp of laughter escaped her when he only frowned. “The Prophecy! The pure blood of the wise will be spilled by the young ram, and ten thousand suns will witness it. The young ram. Not the king, but the son of the king. The next king.”

“What could be more pure than the blood of a virgin?” he whispered. “The pure blood of the wise. You are very wise. My love.” He slid his arms around her and drew her close against him for a kiss that burned down into her belly and sent a wave of fire out to her fingers and toes. When he drew back long moments later, he was as wide-eyed as she. “The Prophecy meant us. Here, in the Sacred Marriage. But then the Flame follows. I always believed it meant destruction for the Three.”

“If the first part wasn’t death, the second could be a blessing. Maybe—maybe a child from us?”

“A child. From us. You’re my wife, Challen, because the Mother ordains it, yes?” He bent his head, his lips parting softly, poised to kiss her again.

“She told me to take joy today, and for the rest of our lives. She blesses our love.” Challen closed her eyes as he captured her mouth in another kiss that left her trembling, hollow inside.

His mouth stole her breath and every thought while his hands pushed aside all the blankets of their warm cocoon. She was aware of the chill air, but it meant nothing because a sheet of flame seemed to wrap around them. It scorched her as his hands slid over her bare skin. She wrapped her arms tight around him. A melting sensation pushed away the residual ache, bringing a muffled laugh from her that died in Elzan’s demanding mouth.

Elzan smiled as he woke, remembering laughter. Lemon and a faint aroma of purifying incense touched his nostrils. He stretched and felt the warm body next to him. He slid an arm around the soft form, finding a shoulder draped in silken hair that held the sweet lemon scent. His questing hand continued over soft skin and firm muscle. A drowsy murmur answered his caress and his companion snuggled closer to him.

Opening his eyes, Elzan sat up and looked down on Challen. She smiled softly in her sleep, just as he had hoped. He licked his lips and found them faintly sore. That prompted a smile, remembering what felt like hours of kisses, driving themselves breathless, laughing between gasps for air. He leaned down to kiss her, pausing to brush hair off her face first. She snuggled closer against him, curled up on her side like a child.

He kissed her, softly to avoid waking her, trailing his kisses from her lips down her chin and the golden line of her neck, down to the curve of her breasts, just visible under her arm. Elzan stopped and drew back. Waking Challen by making love to her had its attractions, but he owed her some consideration. Knowing they had to go on with their separate lives, would Challen welcome his touch again?

Elzan wanted to stay forever curled around Challen, warm in their blanket nest, listening to the storm howl beyond the dome.

The Dome of Ten Thousand Suns. Elzan lay down and drew the blankets up around Challen and himself, and grinned at the dome. It amazed him to realize he was part of the Prophecy. It made him feel very small, and very grateful. Shazzur was right, when he maintained that those who obeyed the Mother were rewarded in ways they could never imagine.

Challen had been a surprise, eager for his touch, to learn his body as he learned hers and follow his lead in lovemaking. She clung to him, when he expected a virgin to shy away after the first passion had passed and they lay exhausted and drowsy.

She wanted to stay with him. Elzan prayed Challen didn’t really know what she was saying when she agreed to be his concubine. If he ever became king, he would be required to accept the “diplomatic gift” of concubines. No matter how much he loved Challen, her position would be precarious even as First Concubine. How long would they have to wait even for that? The concubines’ hall was little more than a private brothel for the princes to share. He couldn’t do that to her. Only the king had private concubines.

But wouldn’t the Prophecy make a way? If they were right, they would produce a child, the Flame of the Prophecy, and the Flame would restore the Three. If they were meant to have a child, Challen had to remain with him. But how? Or was the child already conceived? Would they have to content themselves with the joy they had shared these few hours, the satisfaction of knowing they had served the Mother well, and never be lovers again? If she were pregnant, would she be forced to marry quickly, to protect herself and their child? The enemies of Bainevah would hate Challen for bringing blessing to their land. If they learned she carried Elzan’s child, she would be in ten times as much danger. How could he protect her? A husband who would claim her child was the only answer; an answer Elzan loathed even contemplating.

Tradition and ritual stood against them marrying. It had been different when the High Priestess was queen and only her son could become king. No foreign nations sent concubines, in the hope that one would become Queen Mother. There were no competitors when the Queen carried the Mother’s power.

Challen had blushed when he called her his priestess and then made her moan with most unholy caresses.

They had talked about so many things in the quiet, drowsy hours, curled up together. Odd talk for new lovers. About Court politics and schemes, what her vision of the enemy threat could mean, and how the Prophecy could affect their lives for years to come. Challen smiled when she reminded him of what her father had always said—Trust the Mother’s words, trust the Prophecy, obey and all would be well.

Trust the Prophecy. Elzan wrapped his arms tight around Challen and smiled up at the dome. The Prophecy had brought them together for a day of pleasure and discovery. Was that their only reward? Was this all Mother Matrika wanted, or did more tasks wait for them?

A gong shimmered in the echoing halls beyond the chamber. Elzan groaned. That signal meant they had two hours until sunset. Their escort approached, to take them to the sacrifice.

Challen sighed and rolled over, stretching. Her arm rested across his chest as her eyes flickered open. She froze, staring into his eyes. Then she smiled, making him melt inside.

“Good morning.”

“Very good morning.” He pushed his worries aside and gathered her close for kisses that made his sore mouth throb.

“It’s still afternoon,” she whispered against his lips.

Elzan held Challen tight and they laughed together.

“You are nothing like what I expected,” he said with a chuckle that ended in a rueful sigh.

“What did you expect from Shazzur’s daughter?”

“Not—” Elzan sat up. “Well, I suppose you’re exactly what I should have expected. A reward of pure joy for the obedient.”

Bells rang in the corridor. Challen looked away first. Elzan wanted to say many things, but every word caught in his throat. He slid the blankets aside and crossed the room to the racks holding their second set of clothes. Green and gold robes; fertility for the crops and sunlight to warm the land. Solstice had passed and now the days would lengthen.

He hesitated, nearly dropping the robe. What if the sun did not shred the storm burying the city, when the cloth touched the flames? What if the days didn’t lengthen, the snow didn’t melt?

“No. We succeeded,” he muttered. Elzan winced as he jerked the sash of his robe too tightly. Even if they had only imagined the words Mother Matrika spoke through Challen, the power that had swept them away was all too clear a sign that the Mother approved and blessed them for their obedience. Nothing could negate what had happened between them that day.

The bells sounded again as Elzan handed Challen her robe. She looked pale and didn’t meet his eyes as she took it, nodding her thanks. Elzan turned his back, letting her climb out of bed and put on the robe with some semblance of privacy.

“They’ll be here in another moment,” she said.

“Yes. Too soon. An entire moon alone with you wouldn’t be enough,” he said, turning. She blushed, but she also smiled.

The doors swung open, stopping his next words with a wave of bells, drums, and trumpets. High Priest Chizhedek entered, followed by an entourage of priests and priestesses.

Elzan smiled when the look the old man gave Challen held nothing priestly and holy, but only love and concern for his grandchild. Challen held out her hand, displaying the ram’s head ring. Chizhedek went still, then slowly turned to look at Elzan. He inclined his head slightly, his smile just as slight, but Elzan wanted to let out a war whoop of exultation.

The High Priest approved of his claim on Challen. Suddenly, nothing seemed impossible.

Wind heavy with snow and ice whipped down into the sheltered palace courtyard, threatening the sacrificial flame. Elzan shivered despite the fur-trimmed cloak wrapping him head to foot. The fire on the altar flickered and sputtered, the wood hissing as globs of icy wet threatened to douse it despite the thread of sacred oil trickling in from the side of the altar. The growling storm snatched at the torches lining the courtyard, dousing two as he watched. Elzan stood at attention at the east side of the altar. High Priest Chizhedek stood at the north side. The west side was empty, waiting for Challen to appear.

The costumes of the Court crowd were bright with color as if defying winter to worsen. The heavy gray sky drained color from everything. The wind blew louder with every heartbeat.

Where was Challen? He had a sudden vision of finding her slaughtered by their unseen enemies on the way to the ceremony.

Just as he thought it, Lady Mayar entered the courtyard. His mother would have stayed with Challen while she bathed and dressed for the ceremony. Elzan was glad for that. He caught sight of the big eunuch, O’klan, and knew the man would have let nothing happen to Challen.

Challen entered the courtyard, arm-in-arm with the King. She held her face in a solemn, unreadable expression. King Nebazz beamed with delight, nodding to the courtiers he passed as he led Challen to the altar. He carried the gold box and bowed as he handed it to Chizhedek.

Elzan stared, remembering how pale the King had been just last night. Lady Mayar had confirmed the King was not ill from natural causes, but they could not determine the unnatural causes. Elzan had feared when he finished the ritual he would find the King dead and Bainevah in chaos, and whatever good he had managed to do for the kingdom would all be for naught.

“Your Majesty is well?” Chizhedek asked.

It wasn’t part of the ritual, but Elzan could understand why the priest would ask. Just a day ago, the King had been unable to leave his bed, sweating and aching and his head threatening to burst. Now, he walked with a spring in his step and ignored the icy air and the churning clouds trying to bury the kingdom in snow.

“Most well. Mother Matrika entered my dreams and touched my head and heart and gave me back my strength. Blessings on you, my son,” King Nebazz continued, turning to Elzan and raising his voice above the wind and the whispers. “Mother Matrika is pleased with you, and with the Bride who carried her spirit.” He raised Challen’s hand and kissed back and palm in blessing.

Elzan longed to bellow loud enough to crack the lowering gray bowl of the sky. Challen trembled as she bowed to the King and wrapped her arms around herself.

The King had addressed him as “my son” in public, at a holy ceremony, in front of more than half the Court. Short of announcing he would marry Lady Mayar, or publicly taking the onyx crown from his head and putting it on Elzan, King Nebazz could have taken no surer step to designate him Crown Prince.

Elzan barely heard the ritual words as the High Priest chanted blessings on Bride and King, on land and sky and water. He stared into the flames, struggling to calm his thoughts.

“Take this sacrifice!” Chizhedek shouted, rising to a climax in the ritual chant Elzan had not heard. He took the gold box and flung it open. He raised the bloodstained cloth high.

Silence filled the courtyard, every eye focused on the cloth. Chizhedek let it fall. It fluttered down like a bird, caught in the storm winds. Elzan feared it would sail past the altar. What evil omen would his enemies find in that?

Then, as if guided by an invisible hand, the cloth flew into the exact center of the sacrificial fire. It burst into flame before it landed on the wood. Bright light exploded up in a pillar, reaching to the steely sky.

The clouds split as if sliced by a knife. Light poured down and the clouds rolled back like an orange peel. Sunset filled the sky in obscenely luxuriant waves of purple and scarlet and gold. Warmth cascaded in a waterfall and the snow melted under the blast.

Exultant shouts rang through the courtyard. Elzan reached for Challen, but she was already snatched away in O’klan’s arms. The big eunuch whirled her around. Shazzur appeared from the crowd—where had he been all this time?—and O’klan handed Challen into her father’s arms.

“You have done well, my son. You have always made me proud,” the King shouted through the clamor. He clasped Elzan’s shoulders. “Come. We must talk.”

Elzan hesitated, wanting to find Challen. But she was nowhere to be seen and the King held out his hand and beckoned for him to escape the already loud celebration.

“Elzan?” His mother appeared at his side and linked her arm through his.

“Challen,” he blurted.

“Shazzur and O’klan have already spirited her away. She is safe.” Lady Mayar brushed a kiss against his cheek. “Come. The King requires your presence.”

He nodded and cast one more glance around the courtyard. Then he let his mother lead him to join the King. He was Crown Prince. There was work to do.

CHAPTER 16

Winter returned by nightfall, creating ice everywhere from melted snow, but people didn’t seem to care. There was always bright sunshine and a blast of unseasonable warmth at the winter solstice ceremony, just as a rainbow-streaked cloudburst drenched the city the entire day at summer solstice. This year, however, the warmth lasted twice as long and the clouds were mere shadows of their former thick darkness.

Elzan had a private moment between the ceremony naming him Crown Prince and the feast. He retreated to the Council chamber and shut the door. He could be alone here to think. For years he had dreamed of the moment he would wear the onyx circlet now sitting heavy on his head, a simpler version of his father’s crown. Elzan ignored it for far more important matters.

All Bainevah feasted and celebrated. In the Sanctum, Challen celebrated with the other Brides. Elzan smiled at the thought of the ring she wore, marking her as his though they might have to wait years. She would wait for him. He could hardly believe his good fortune.

No, not good fortune. He had been obedient, willing to risk his dreams for the sake of Bainevah. Willing to risk losing Challen for the sake of what he knew was right. This was not his reward, but his recompense—his and Challen’s—for what they had suffered already and would suffer in the future.

And so Challen was his, completely, as Matrika had said. Elzan thought back to those sheltered hours and knew she had given herself to him, just as he planned to give the rest of his life to her. He knew he glowed, with a smile so broad it was almost fatuous, giddy with relief. He had come here so he could lower his guard and bask in the glory.

“Did you have so little faith in yourself, Highness?” Shazzur asked as he entered the room.

“Faith? A man would have to be dead not to…” His face burned as he realized what he had been about to say about Challen’s beauty and sensuality to her father.

“Ah, so that smile is for my daughter’s sake and not your crown. Well, I am pleased.”

“I love her. I swear I will make her my queen.”

“I believe you.” Shazzur chuckled. “May I make one request of you?”

“Anything.”

“I would like at least one granddaughter. Have as many sons as you wish, but I want a granddaughter to spoil, as I wasn’t permitted to spoil Challen. We had so little time, and so much training and preparation ahead of us.”

“Sons.” Elzan had to sit. That twisting in his gut had nothing to do with the ache he felt when he remembered Challen, flushed with pleasure, responding to his every touch. “The Flame is our child. Challen is the pure blood of the wise, and I’m the young ram.”

“Most assuredly.”

“The Flame is our son?”

“Or a daughter.” Shazzur sat and nodded slowly. “Two of the Three are women, after all.”

“You’ve known all along?”

“I’ve guessed. Even I don’t realize the true meaning of visions until their fulfillment occurs before my eyes.”

“How long will we have to wait?”

“Until the child of the Prophecy comes—or until you can be together?” Shazzur’s eyes twinkled when Elzan could only bow his burning face and grin. “You will not know what is possible until you ask. Do not hesitate to ask. Those who seek first to serve Mother Matrika are unable to ask for what will harm the kingdom, even if they seek their heart’s desire.”

Elzan kept those words in his mind during the banquet. He ignored the raucous words of praise for his manhood, the flattery that grew more explicit as the hours passed and the wine flowed freely. He listened to the music and the singing and watched the dancers, content to be an observer. This celebration tonight was in his honor, and yet he felt no pride. Elzan was content to be a vessel. He was tired. When could he retire to his rooms and fall asleep dreaming of Challen?

“My son, my heir!” the King cried as the troupe of dancers left the open floor surrounded by banquet tables.

King Nebazz stood and held his goblet high. He was not drunk, Elzan was pleased to note. Perhaps in a little while, the King and Lady Mayar would leave the feasting and then those with any sense and decorum remaining could leave as well. Elzan hoped it was soon.

“Ask anything of me, Prince Doni’Nebazz. I wish to give you your heart’s desire this night, to show to all the Court my pride in you. Elzan. My firstborn.” He bowed to Lady Mayar. “Son of my dearest love. My Queen.”

Heart’s desire.

Elzan stood slowly from his place at the King’s right hand. Silence rippled through the hall as the feasters realized something was about to happen. He stepped down from the table on the raised platform, and walked into the open square, where he could see everyone and be seen and heard by them. He bowed to his parents. He bowed to Shazzur. He glanced around the feasting hall. The kingdom was his this night. He was their hero. He could have anything and no one would fault him.

Could he really arrange for Challen’s safety and their happiness so quickly?

“Majesty.” Elzan bowed again, deeply, in a gesture of total obedience and subservience to the King. “Grant me two requests, small things which will not shake the kingdom.” He grinned when a ripple of laughter met his words. “But which mean more to me than I can express.”

“Ask, my son.”

“Grant me one concubine. All my own. As inviolate as my own mother.”

King Nebazz laughed, setting down his goblet to brace his hands on the table. Elzan saw vicious grins as opponents and detractors among the Court—including three half-brothers—waited for his fall from favor for such a foolish request.

“My son, that is already yours as heir! Seven suites of rooms wait for your concubines. Ask something harder.”

Laughter rippled around the room again and it was warm, perhaps touched with relief. Elzan thought his knees would fold. He glanced at Shazzur and his teacher shook his head, eyes brimming with laughter.

“I ask that you send Doni’Hobad’Shazzur’Conia to the Sanctum to ask his daughter to be my First Concubine.”

“Ah, I understand now. It is a wise king, my son, who loses his heart to the maiden the Mother blessed.” King Nebazz caught up Lady Mayar’s hand and kissed it before he turned to Shazzur. “My loyal Seer, I ask as a proud father and not a king … Will you give your daughter to my son?”

“I cannot, Majesty.”

Silence crackled through the room. Elzan thought everyone had caught their breaths at the same moment. Every gaze stayed on Shazzur as he stood and reached for his cloak.

“My daughter has already given her heart to him. There is nothing left for me to give.” He bowed to the King as laughter rumbled through the hall again.

Challen sighed and wished she could retire to her rooms. This feast was in her honor, and it would be extremely bad taste to abandon it. The Brides were the only revelers. They laughed and danced and played ridiculous games, feasted, then told stories. They teased her constantly to know what Elzan had been like. Challen kept her silence, knowing she would lose the sweetness of those memories if she shared them.

A long line of serving girls entered the hall, carrying more trays of delicacies for the celebration and led by Agrat. The fat eunuch glowed with giddy delight. Tonight, even Agrat’s posturing couldn’t irritate Challen. She realized now the terror the man had lived under since the failed ritual at summer solstice. If another Bride had been rejected by the Mother, found to be impure or inhabited by evil magic, it might have cost him his life because he was Chief Warder. Now, he laughed and beamed at her, bowed to her every time he saw her, and acted as if the success of the Sacred Marriage was entirely due to his training. Challen didn’t mind. Nothing could bother her tonight.

She smiled and squeezed her hand tightly around Elzan’s ring. He waited for her, as she promised to wait for him. Even if it took twenty years before she could go to him in safety.

“Lady.” O’klan hurried into the room. Snow clung to his hair and the shoulders of his robes. “Lady, will you speak with your father?” He beamed at her as he bowed.

“Father?” For a moment Challen wondered why the eunuch had not brought her father to join the feast; this was in his honor, for hadn’t he raised her to be a proper vessel and servant for Mother Matrika? But no man was allowed so far within the Sanctum. She couldn’t leave Shazzur outside in the snow.

The Brides cried out in protest as she got up to leave. She laughed and told them to enjoy themselves, promised to return quickly, and wrapped herself in the furred cloak O’klan brought.

“Father?” Challen stepped out into the courtyard. She was pleased to see someone had built a fire and erected some kind of shelter against the wind and snow. “What is it?”

“My dear, a young noble wishes to make you his wife. Will you consider his offer?” Shazzur asked, taking hold of her hands. His were warm and his smile glowed brighter than the torches behind him.

“I can’t marry someone I don’t love.”

“But he adores you.”

“I don’t care. I love Elzan. I promised I would wait for him and I will.”

“It could be many years.”

“I am already his wife, Father.” She held out the ring Elzan had put on her hand. “See?”

“Don’t you want to know who has asked for you?” Laughter hung in his voice, irritating her.

“It doesn’t matter. Tell him I am sorry, but I can’t cheat him, and I won’t break my promise.”

“You won’t break your promise,” Elzan said, appearing from the shadows beyond the edge of the fire. He was frosted with snow, his face red, his smile a beacon. Challen stared, feeling as if her heart had forgotten how to beat.

“You don’t mind being a mere concubine?” her father asked, shaking her to break her from the happy daze.

“I don’t care what the rest of the world thinks of us,” she whispered, “if we’re together.”

“There, it is as I told the King—she has already given herself to you.” Shazzur kissed her forehead in blessing and gave her a gentle shove in Elzan’s direction.

She ran to him. Elzan swept her up in his arms, enfolding her inside his cloak as they kissed.

O’klan opened the doors of the Sanctum for her, so they could go inside and pack a few necessary items before Challen went to the palace with Elzan. A shriek echoed down the long hallway, competing with the returned howl of the wind. Challen stopped, frozen to the core. She smelled blood.

“Murder!” Agrat shrieked, and thudded down the hall, moving twice as fast as a man of his bulk should have run.

Elzan and O’klan darted inside. Challen would have followed, but Shazzur caught hold of her arm and held her back. He wrapped his arms around her and demanded Agrat tell them what had happened.

The fat eunuch sank down on the snowy steps, shuddering and gasped out the words. For the first time since the feast began, all the Brides had been left alone. No servants, no eunuch warders. Agrat heard screams and came back into the room to see blood everywhere.

Vashina and Tamisra attacked two other Brides with their eating knives while the other girls screamed and tripped over each other as they ran for the door.

“Their eyes?” Shazzur barked, when the Head Warder started to dissolve into hysterical babbling. The fat man just stared at him. “What did their eyes look like?”

“Their eyes?” Agrat swallowed convulsively, like a man trying not to vomit. “Their eyes.” He went even paler. “Their eyes were black, like burned pits in their heads.”

“Vashina and Tamisra were both eligible, Father,” Challen whispered. She felt cold all the way through, but not from the icy wind and the snow falling in great, thick, wet flakes.

“Imagine what they would have done, if one of them had been chosen for the Sacred Marriage,” Shazzur muttered.

All rules were set aside as priests from the Healers Temple were called in to take away the wounded. Vashina killed herself before Elzan could subdue her, but O’klan hit Tamisra with a stool and knock her unconscious. Officials from the Court were notified of what had happened. Healer priests adept in ferreting out evil magic came to stay in the Sanctum until it could be declared safe and sacrosanct again. A double unit of guards from the Host of the Ram stood guard around the Sanctum, in case someone else turned murderous.

Just before Elzan took her away to the palace, Challen remembered the message she had been given for Veerian, the Song Weaver. She had refrained from crying up until that point, but Elzan’s hope and relief at the news and his worry for his half-brother were so clear and strong, she burst into tears.

“Sshhh, love, don’t cry,” Elzan whispered as he set her in the saddle of his horse and climbed up behind her. He wrapped his arms and his cloak around her and clucked to his horse. “Be glad for me. Rushtan and Tamisra will both be healed and freed of the magic that controlled them. If our sons can be as good friends to each other as Rush and I have been, I will be eternally grateful to the Mother.”

“Sons?” Shock and memory cut through her weariness and suddenly her tears seemed silly. “How many were you planning on having?”

“As many as the Mother gives us. And one daughter for your father to spoil.”

First Ascent Moon

Challen was half-asleep when Elzan left her to dress for the Council meeting that would deal with the violation and deaths in the Sanctum. She was glad to obey his teasing order to stay in bed, and burrowed under the covers.

Soon, though, the unfamiliarity of the bed and room began to press on her. The scent of Elzan lingered in the blankets, bringing memories of the quiet watches of the night when they had held each other close, whispering and dozing and sharing nothing more passionate than a few kisses. That wasn’t enough to counteract awareness that she was no longer in her own room. Challen grew restless. She wanted Elzan’s arms around her, his laughter in her ears, his kisses and caresses, and the warmth of his body next to hers under the covers.

Especially the warmth of him. She hadn’t been truly warm since winter began, except for the hours she lay in his arms. The heat they had generated seeped away even as she tried to fall asleep again.

“You’re a hedonist,” she whispered in the darkness. Her voice sounded loud. Challen realized the silence was total. The winter storms had calmed again. Did that accrue to her account as well, or was it just a natural cessation in the bad weather?

It really didn’t matter, she decided. Challen was fully awake now and she knew she would only get cranky and stiff if she stayed in bed any longer. Besides, she needed a bath.

That was a problem. Where was she to bathe? Where were her clothes? O’klan was to pack all her possessions to transfer to the palace, but she had no idea where her new quarters were. She put on last night’s clothes and contemplated wandering the palace in search of someone to help her.

Maybe there was a servant in the outer rooms of Elzan’s suite? Challen realized she knew very little about the everyday details of her new life. That was an unsettling revelation.

A soft knocking broke into her musing. When she answered, O’klan stepped into the room, beaming.

“I am here, Lady, to serve you until you have established your household,” he announced with a teasing twinkle in his eye.

“Household. I’m not quite ready for this.”

“Understandable. You go from a simple scholar’s life in the desert, to the Sanctum where you were pampered and you studied. Now, you will command servants and manage the prince’s estates and attend Court gatherings. A very large change.”

“O’klan—could you—would you stay here with me? As my teacher and my adviser? I know you’re happy—”

“Lady, my duties are finished in the Sanctum. My most important duty was to guard you. I am honored you ask me. You could command.” He bowed, eyes gleaming.

“I can’t command my friends. Besides, who else can I trust to keep me from making myself and Elzan look foolish?”

“To be called your friend, I would willingly become the lowliest slave in your household. However.” He bowed again and offered her his arm to escort her from the room. “I have a duty to guide my lady so she will become the jewel of the Court. I have no right to humble myself so drastically.”

Challen laughed as he led her down several private halls to the palace women’s bathing room. This late in the morning no one used it, which suited Challen perfectly.

For the first time, it didn’t bother her to have the eunuch on the other side of the screen while she bathed. She listened as O’klan gave her the first of many lessons in behavior and fashion and managing the Crown Prince’s household.

I’ll be with Elzan. He’s made me First Concubine, but only until we have a son. Challen felt warm beyond the bath’s heat. Pregnancy and childbirth were beyond her comprehension at that moment, but the actual process of becoming pregnant … She pressed Elzan’s ring to her lips and wished he were there, kissing her. She sank beneath the scented water. Bubbles escaped her lips as she laughed.

“Lady?” O’klan asked.

Challen sat up, sputtering. She realized the eunuch had been silent a while now, likely waiting for an answer from her.

“I’m sorry. I ask you to teach me and then my mind wanders.”

“Understandable, Lady.” He chuckled, bringing new warmth to her face. Challen silently scolded herself for thinking he wouldn’t understand, just because he had been neutered.

O’klan returned Challen to Elzan’s rooms and left two guards at the door, while he went to check on the progress in setting up her new quarters. There was little for Challen to do without her scrolls or tablets or flute. While she was gone, the servants had straightened Elzan’s rooms, so she didn’t have anyone to speak with, to question or try to make friends. She felt odd, wandering around Elzan’s rooms, investigating the evidence of his everyday life and interests.

Then she found his study room and the stacks of tablets and racks of scrolls and piles of notes on prophecies. He had told her of the King’s commission to learn anything that might help return the Three and protect Bainevah. Challen smiled and settled down for a pleasant morning of studying and learning how her lover’s mind worked. She had admired his clear thinking when she thought he was only a scribe who shared her interests. Knowing him as the prince and her lover opened vistas of experience and background she had not guessed. She looked forward to merging their minds as thoroughly as they had merged their bodies.

Knocking on the door dragged her out of a fascinating scroll she had meant to read since the fall rains started. It had amused her to find Elzan had it. Challen scowled and sighed as the knocking continued. She wished O’klan were there to tell the people outside to go away, that she was busy.

Or was it a summons to come to Elzan? He said he would call on her to help him report to the King. Had Council ended already, and he needed her in private conference? She tugged her dress straight and hurried through the interconnecting rooms to the main door.

“Lady Kena’Shazzur, will you speak with Princess Kena’Coori?” the guard asked when Challen opened the door.

“Princess? Yes. Please, Highness, come in.” Challen pulled the door open wide and dropped into the deepest curtsey she could remember.

A slim blonde woman entered. A tall, icy blond eunuch in palace uniform shut the door behind her, staying in the hall.

“Oh, please, don’t,” the woman said, and went nearly to her knees to make Challen stand. “The King freed your family from bowing. Besides—” A dimple appeared in one cheek. “You’ll be queen someday. I should bow to you.”

“Oh, no, never,” Challen blurted. “Highness—”

“We are now sisters,” the princess said. “So please, no titles? I am Cayeen. Elzan told me to consider you his wife, and asked me to come keep you company.”

Challen took a deep breath and a step backwards. It was one thing to hear Elzan vow they were already married, but to know he had told someone else, and this woman accepted his words, was something else altogether.

“Please, be welcome. Sister?” Something warm sparked deep inside when Princess Cayeen smiled.

They spent the morning together. Cayeen gave Challen an insider’s view of life in the palace and put her at ease by telling ridiculous stories and snatches of spicy gossip. When it came time for the noon meal, they went to Cayeen’s rooms, accompanied by her eunuch guard Ashur and two members of the Host of the Ram.

While they ate, word came that Lady Mayar had assembled a team of healer priests to search the archives for the scrolls containing the healing songs. It could take moons of search, but she and Veerian were positive Rushtan and Tamisra would soon be free of the magic that controlled them. Cayeen burst into tears when the messenger left, and it was then Challen learned that Rushtan was her only full-blooded brother. She answered all her new friend’s questions, about the visions, the messages she had been given, and her own strange experience with the magic that turned eyes black and stole a man’s body from his control.

Because no one knew how many people had been affected by the magic that had taken over Vashina and Tamisra, and because they had attacked when the Brides were alone, it was assumed that Challen had been the target. Until they could be sure all the enemy’s servants had been found and the magic destroyed, the King had ordered a guard on Challen. She felt conspicuous, irritated, frightened, and relieved to have guards. Cayeen had the ability to ignore guards that came with long practice and Challen tried to mimic her new sister.

Sister. It felt odd to realize she suddenly had a large family. It pleased her that Elzan had asked his sister to consider Challen his wife. It pleased Challen more that Cayeen accepted her so eagerly.

Elzan came to fetch her that evening and brought her back to his quarters because hers weren’t ready yet. Challen thought it ridiculous that he wouldn’t let her see her half-prepared rooms. They laughed together, playing at arguing and ignored their guards as they walked the private hallways of the palace. This was how it would be for the rest of their lives, she decided, and it filled her with an overflowing sweetness that made her want to both laugh and cry.

That realization startled her, because she didn’t think she had ever been a particularly emotional person. Passionate about ideals, about right and wrong and justice, Shazzur always said—but never emotional. Could she be pregnant after only one long, delicious day in Elzan’s arms? Even if she were, the baby wouldn’t affect her already, would it?

No, she decided. Not pregnant. Simply showing the strain of the sudden, multiple changes in her life.

“It was rude to yank me away from Cayeen,” she told Elzan, when they were finally alone in his quarters.

A miniature feast waited for them. She was hungry, but she didn’t want the game between them to stop.

“Rude? You are my wife, and if we had gone to the Temple and made our vows properly, we would be alone for an entire moon quarter. Maybe two.” Elzan startled a squeak out of her by sweeping her off her feet and sitting down at the table with her on his lap. “Cayeen would have been rude to try to keep us apart. Besides, if I hadn’t come for you, our other two sisters would have swooped down on you eventually, and Cayeen is the only decent one of the bunch. You like her, don’t you?”

“Very much. Elzan…” She sighed as he kissed her.

The hot food had cooled and the chilled foods had warmed by the time they had made up for a day spent apart.

CHAPTER 17

The next day, Elzan again spent with the Council, this time questioning Agrat and his assistants about everyone who might have had access to the Brides or who might have been able to sneak into the Sanctum. Challen spent the morning at the Healers Temple, glad to be anonymous in her green robes and free of her veil. Jeconiah avoided her, to the point that it might have been amusing if she had thought about it. Challen had other things on her mind, however. She discovered that her sensitivity had doubled and her endurance in healing had tripled. When she reported the change, Lady Mayar looked suspiciously smug.

“You knew this would happen?” Challen demanded.

“It is common enough. Once someone serves as a channel from the Mother, other blessings flow more freely.” Lady Mayar hugged her. “Your other talents shall appear soon, I think.”

Challen couldn’t get her mind off that revelation as she finished her morning’s work and climbed into her sedan chair to ride to the Scribes Hall to meet with Haneen for lunch and study. She paid little attention when the second shift of Host guards, Belten and Oyen introduced themselves to her. Then, nearly to the Scribes Hall, she felt ashamed. Hadn’t she vowed she would never become like the nobles who treated their servants and guards as furniture? Challen started a conversation with the two men, and discovered they had asked for the duty because they were friends of Elzan’s since boyhood training. She liked them and felt guilty for making them travel about in the cold. When she said so, they laughed and wouldn’t tell her why.

“Welcome, Great Lady, vessel of the Mother.” Haneen dropped to her knees on the archives floor when Challen entered the room.

Challen stared at her friend. A shudder ran through her, with a sickening certainty that Haneen’s friendship had been a mask and now she feared the exalted personage Challen had become. Then she saw the tiny shudders in the scribe girl’s shoulders. Haneen’s face was pink and her shoulders twitched as she struggled not to laugh aloud.

Laughing, Challen leaped the steps and grasped her friend’s shoulders and pulled her to her feet. The two hugged and began a silly dance in the cramped aisles. Fortunately, she had closed the door when she entered the archives. Belten and Oyen couldn’t see the First Concubine acting like a giddy little girl.

“Oh, I could strangle Elzan!” Haneen blurted, when they had finally settled into the niche where they shared meals and studied together. “But I shouldn’t talk that way, should I? It could be treason. All these years, I thought he was a scribe’s son who couldn’t decide what he wanted to do!”

“Thank the Mother I wasn’t the only one he fooled.” Challen shook her head. “I wish you could have been with me.”

“Not in the chamber, I hope.”

“Don’t be silly. There was just so much they kept from me. So much that has been lost or hidden. Most people think the Sacred Marriage is all pleasure for the king, don’t they?”

“Well, of course. Beautiful, pampered young women brought to him at every solstice.” The young scribe frowned. “It’s not?”

“Elzan said he was warned, but it wasn’t enough. It can’t be described. It isn’t all priestly talk, when they say the Mother inhabits the Bride. I was … pushed aside. Given visions and messages and warnings, while the Mother … she said she was purifying him. Preparing him for the days ahead. Haneen, the truth of the Sacred Marriage has been hidden. I’m sure it’s the same with the Three. Until the priestly conventions and fancy phrasing are pushed aside, we won’t find the truth to recover the Three and save Bainevah. Will you help me? Help us?”

“Always. Ask to have me assigned as your personal scribe. Then I won’t have to spend my time on others’ research projects.” A sparkle lit her eyes. “And won’t Mohash and Terlok and all their friends be in a snit!”

At mid-afternoon, Haneen left the archives to ask to borrow a scroll Cho’Mat had taken. Challen was alone when there was a knock on the archives door. A soldier in the uniform of the Host of the Ram opened the door and looked in.

“Lady, we are to take you back to the palace,” he said, bowing slightly to her. “The prince’s orders.”

“Of course.” Challen reached for her cloak, then paused to write a note to Haneen. “What happened to Belten and Oyen?” she asked, as the two new guards led her out to the sedan chair.

“Their duty shift is over.”

“Oh.” She made a mental note to ask Elzan about things like schedules for guards and protocol. He was Crown Prince; she refused to embarrass him with little displays of ignorance.

She was so caught up in reviewing what she and Haneen had found, it wasn’t until she reached the palace and stepped out of the sedan chair that she noticed the change.

The one that carried her to the Scribes Hall had a sapphire blue ram’s head, Elzan’s sigil. Each prince had his own gemstone. This sedan chair had no sigil at all and the bearers were not the same men, either.

Silence is a tool and weapon, her father had cautioned her once. Silent and alert, gather details so your enemy does not know you are aware of him until you strike. Do not strike until you know you can break free.

Something was very wrong, and Challen knew she had let herself fall into a trap. The soldier had said “the prince,” but he should have said “Crown Prince,” or “Prince Doni’Nebazz.” She was not going to Elzan.

Worse, in the brighter light of the courtyard, Challen saw that the two men had no shadows.

She let the soldiers lead her through doorways, up stairs, down hallways and prayed they would soon enter a portion of the palace she recognized, so she could flee and not make things worse by getting lost.

“What’s this?” a young male voice said.

By his resemblance to Elzan, Challen knew the young man who stepped into the intersecting hallway ahead was a prince. He couldn’t be more than seventeen, she decided, with the first fuzz of beard shadowing his cheeks. He wore riding leathers trimmed in fur and carried a heavy cape over one arm.

“A new concubine, Highness,” the lead guard mumbled.

“A new concubine?” The prince smiled as he looked Challen up and down. “When will you be available?”

“I am First Concubine to Prince Doni’Nebazz.” Challen tried to sound affronted, not frightened. “No one touches me but him.”

“Elzan’s concubine? What are you doing in this part of the palace?” He turned to the two guards. “You aren’t—”

The soldier leaped, drawing the long, double-edged dagger all guards wore indoors. Challen shrieked warning, but the prince had dropped backwards, slung his saddlebags off his shoulder and knocked the guard’s blow aside.

The man behind Challen lunged at her. She turned, jamming her elbow into his gut. His wide-eyed shock turned into fury and his eyes went black as he drew a long knife.

“Lady!” the prince shouted, and swirled his cape off his shoulder into the face of the guard, blinding him. She yanked the dagger from his suddenly lax fingers. The prince turned to face the other guard who came at him now.

Challen gripped the knife, knowing she was out of practice. It was one thing to practice with her father, using a wooden blade. Could she stand against a man determined to kill her, with a real blade that could draw her blood or his?

“Run, Lady!” the prince shouted. “Guards! Ho, guards! Treason!” His voice cracked as the guard caught him in the gut and knocked the air from his lungs.

Challen lunged at the man. Her blade hit the fire-toughened leather padding his shoulders and turned sideways, stabbing his neck. The man bellowed and twisted, knocking her off her feet.

“Guards!” the prince shouted again. He ducked under the flailing man’s arms and yanked the blade from Challen’s hand. “Lady, run!” He put himself between her and both men. “Guards! Treason!”

“Guards!” Challen shrieked, but she didn’t run.

The word of the Mother never fails, she heard her father say in multiple memories.

If she was to be part of the continuing Prophecy, Challen realized, she would be protected. She would not be permitted to die. Why fear, when she had so many weapons at her disposal?

“Too frightened?” the second man sneered. He shifted his knife to his other hand and advanced on her.

The first man knocked the prince down. He outweighed him, a head taller than the boy who fought with everything he had.

Fury wiped away Challen’s fear.

“Go back!” she ordered, putting iron into her voice. The soldier laughed. Challen narrowed her eyes and thrust all her will at him.

His leather breastplate burst into flames. He took four more steps, raising the knife to plunge into her—then he shrieked unholy terror and stumbled backwards.

The first man saw his partner burst into flame and jerked aside as he lurched across the corridor directly at him.

“Guards!” the prince shouted, and propped himself up on one elbow. Blood spilled through the fingers of the hand pressed against his chest. “Treason!” he tried to roar, ending in a cough that brought blood from his mouth.

“Guards! Treason!” Challen shrieked, and dropped to her knees next to the prince. “Take my hand. I am a healer.”

She kept part of her concentration on the guard stumbling down the corridor, blinded by the flames covering his body. His partner had vanished. The stink of burnt flesh filled the corridor in a greasy, grayish haze. The man tried to scream, but the flames leaped up to his face and hair and he reared back in agony. Challen imagined he had swallowed flame.

What had she conjured?

“What is your name, Highness?” she asked, and turned all her attention to the prince bleeding on the floor next to her.

“Mynoch. Please, I don’t want to die,” he whispered, and would have blushed in shame if he hadn’t lost so much blood.

“You will not. Now, listen to me.” Challen nearly burst into tears as a wave of palace guards poured down the corridor.

“It’s about time those slugs got here,” Mynoch whispered.

“Indeed. Listen, my young hero. I will take you to the healing lands.” She closed her eyes and called up the golden healing energy. Challen put all of herself into the effort, knowing she and the prince were safe now.

Lady Mayar magically appeared with the palace healers, who took over the healing haze Challen held around Prince Mynoch. She had to grip Challen’s shoulders and shake her to break through the tight focus necessary to heal the prince.

“No. I can’t. I have to—” Challen gasped, twisting to free herself of the woman’s hold.

“Enough, before you hurt yourself, child.” Lady Mayar wrapped her arms tight around the younger woman and bodily pulled her away from the wounded prince. “He is in good hands. Think of Elzan’s worry, if you will not care for yourself.”

That broke through. Challen nodded and went limp. She tried to look over her shoulder to see the prince as Lady Mayar helped her stand. She couldn’t see him for the bodies grouped around him and the smoke still filling the air.

Challen’s knees tried to fold only a few steps down the hall. She clutched at Lady Mayar’s supporting hand. The journey passed in a disjointed series of images; a vague awareness of more stairs and several hallways. The lamps grew more numerous, the hallways wider, the paint on the walls more colorful.

“I’m sorry,” she managed to say, fumbling at the wall to keep herself upright when her knees seemed to go boneless.

“You overspent yourself, child. First at the temple and now on Mynoch. Sit.” Lady Mayar sounded almost amused.

Challen let the woman guide her to a low couch in a narrow room that was pleasantly warm, decorated in bright colors, cozy with plants miraculously green. It seemed she only blinked and Lady Mayar returned with a cup of wine, which she pressed into Challen’s hands. She sipped it and began choking.

“Ah, now, just sit still and let yourself catch up,” the woman soothed. She smoothed her long robes under herself and sat next to her.

“It’s my fault,” Challen whispered.

“Indeed it is not.”

“They were trying to … they were taking me somewhere. Probably to their master. Prince Mynoch was in the wrong place.”

“He risked himself to help you, which is an amazing thing, considering the mother he had. Hush, child, and finish.” Lady Mayar tipped the cup up to Challen’s lips again. “That’s better,” she soothed, when the cup was finally empty.

“If I had simply set fire to them when I realized what was happening—”

“There is no such thing as ‘simply’ setting fire to someone,” she said, pressing one slim finger to her lips. “It takes concentration. I daresay you had little chance to gather your wits long enough to create the flame. Am I right?” She smiled and took her hand away when Challen nodded. “And, if you are like your mother, the talent comes more easily when you are irritated, rather than frightened.”

“I wish Mother were here.” Challen didn’t feel the least bit ashamed of the soft moan that escaped her lips.

“As do I. She could give the scribes an image … Oh, what fools we have been. I know you have inherited your mother’s gifts. If Naya was a mind scribe, then so must her daughter be. That man who escaped shall not be free for long.”

“What?”

“Do you remember I told you how your mother put images into the heads of those trained to receive them?” She stood and caught a hand under Challen’s elbow, making her stand. “Naya was an asset when she served among the horse soldiers during that final campaign at Bayitia, against Dreva.”

“My Mother was a horse soldier?” Challen gasped.

“She worked with their spies. Naya took jobs in the enemy camps, washing dishes and clothes and cooking food, to study the commanders and listen to their plans. Then, she would put what she knew into images and send them to the scribes who could receive them, who would tell the King.”

“You think I can do the same? I’ve never been tested.”

“Yes, and more fools we. Or perhaps that is all to the good. If your enemies knew you could do such a thing, they might not have tried to kidnap you. Death would be safer for them.”

They stepped out into the hallway, turned to the right and walked only a few paces down to a door on the opposite side. “These are your rooms now,” Lady Mayar explained. “Across the hall from mine.”

“They are?” Challen knew she sounded rather pathetic, and tried to blame her scrambled wits on her shock and the wine.

“I wanted you next to me, but I realized Elzan wouldn’t be comfortable. Nebazz always insisted I come to his rooms because mine were next to his mother’s rooms. The walls are too thick to hear anything, but men are so easily intimidated.” Her eyes sparkled, prompting Challen to laugh, though the sound hurt her head a little. “That’s better.” She tapped on the door with a freshly painted blue ram’s head on the lintel. It swung open and O’klan gaped to see Challen standing there.

“Lady—come in, Priestess,” he said, bowing as he stepped backwards to usher Challen and Lady Mayar into the suite.

“O’klan, someone tried to kidnap Lady Challen,” Lady Mayar said as they sat down. “We need a receiver scribe, to make images to identify the men who attacked her.”

“Immediately.” The eunuch bowed and hurried out the door.

“If I inherited my Mother’s gift,” Challen couldn’t resist saying.

“I’m sure you did.”

An hour later, Challen sat back amazed and stared at the accurate sketch of the soldier who had escaped. She wasn’t quite sure how it had been done. She had felt an odd tingling inside her head, not quite in her sinuses, but behind her eyes and stretching behind her ears when the two scribes entered the room. They had smiled when they saw her, acting for all the world like she was someone they had expected.

When Lady Mayar commanded, Challen calmed and centered herself as her father had taught her, and recreated the face of the guard in her mind. The tingling faded to an occasional tickle behind her ears. One scribe closed his eyes and rested his hands on his partner’s shoulders, and that man began to sketch furiously. In moments, the face had appeared on the parchment.

“This one is not a guard, Lady Priestess,” the younger scribe said. “I have seen him often around the palace, but he does not wear a uniform.” He glanced at Challen and his frown of concentration eased. “Lady Naya was my teacher. I thank the Mother you are her daughter in truth.”

“Thank you,” Challen whispered.

“You’re safe now, Lady,” O’klan said. He had stood behind her the whole time, his hands resting on her shoulders.

“From now on, I will question every guard who comes for me, and never go anywhere without you,” Challen promised.

“Indeed, you will not,” the eunuch scolded. “I will put a gold chain around your pretty little ankle and the other end around my wrist and I will not let go until I chain you to your prince and he will not let go until he gives you to me again.”

“How boring.”

That earned a chuckle from Lady Mayar and grins from both scribes. Challen felt the last bit of frightened tension leave when the scribes packed up their ink, pens and parchments and departed. Lady Mayar left to take the sketches to the King. Challen would likely have to repeat her story many more times before this matter was closed—if it ever closed—but for now she was safe and could rest.

She sighed and stretched out on the couch. O’klan locked the door and sat on the end of the couch to watch her.

“What are you thinking now, Lady?”

“I wish Elzan truly was a simple scribe and nobody cared what we were to each other and the Mother had no need for us.”

“The world would be a much darker place if that were true.”

“I know.” She sighed again. Then a faint smile brightened her eyes. “But Elzan holds me in the dark, and kisses me, and we keep each other warm. O’klan, I’m so tired of being cold!”

“Put on more clothes, silly girl.” O’klan bustled into the next room; probably her dressing room. “How can you become queen if you don’t have the sense to stay warm?” Then he let loose his big, booming laugh that threatened to shake the walls and brightened the very air.

“Queen?” She stared at nothing as the idea reverberated through her mind. For the first time, the word actually seemed real, and to apply to her.

“Of course, queen. Your prince is the Crown Prince. If I am any judge of young lovers, you hold his heart in your hand and his eyes will never stray. He will make you his wife as soon as the law permits. You will be Queen of Bainevah.”

“Oh. My.” Challen shivered a little, but she smiled.

She was still smiling when Shazzur arrived. O’klan led him to the room Challen had designated her workroom. There were shelves to fill with scrolls, and a long table and wall space to assemble her loom, which had been in storage in Shazzur’s house.

“Have you heard how Prince Mynoch is?” Challen asked after she had hugged her father, glad for the bruising tightness of his embrace.

“Amazing is how I would describe him. Did you know his mother was a diplomatic gift from Chadrasheer?” Shazzur said as he sat down, holding onto her hand. “He is a hero, now. Elzan is in a quandary because of it. He owes Mynoch for protecting you, and yet his brother very clearly opposes Elzan. Mynoch has always been a quiet boy, staying in Shadrash’s shadow. He may just come out a better man for today’s events.”

“You think Shadrash was the instigator, Father?”

“He is my first suspect, yes. It will be interesting how palace politics re-align themselves in the next few days.” He squeezed her hand. “The place is in an uproar now over the audacity of your enemies, on the very heels of the Sacred Marriage. You and Elzan have impressed quite a few people.”

“I killed a man with fire, and I nearly let a boy die to protect me!”

“No, not for that, child.” He shared a longsuffering look with O’klan. “Elzan’s devotion to you. When he heard, he wanted to fly from the Council, but he didn’t. He made decisions and gave orders and he stayed at his post, though it visibly tormented him to leave your care to someone else. The people are most impressed, both that you have captured his heart so completely, and that he puts Bainevah first despite his love for you.” He chuckled. “He insisted rather vehemently that I see to your welfare.” He caught hold of her hand and held it, making Challen turn to look at him. The Seer gazed long into her eyes.

“Well, Father?” she finally said.

“Recovering. I knew you had a stronger spirit than anyone was giving you credit for.”

“Stronger spirit, but slow wits.” She held his hand when he would have let go. “Those men did not have shadows. I didn’t notice until we returned to the palace and I couldn’t escape.”

“No shadows?” Shazzur frowned as he thought. “The evil is more pervasive than anyone guessed. Who can we trust? Ah, and that could well be the intent of our enemy. Make us cower in our rooms, afraid to trust anyone, unsure where the enemy will strike next. If Bainevah lives in fear, we are defeated without a siege or battle being waged.”

“This is a plot that has been building slowly, through generations. Elzan and I found an enemy of the Mother, Maquaos Shadowmaker. Shadows, Father. He hates the Three because they defeated him. What if he is behind it?”

“Then,” O’klan said slowly, “this is a battle among the demi-gods, and humans are only playing pieces in their game.”

“Game!” She shivered. “Father, did Elzan tell you of his dreams? He heard voices arguing over a game. He thought it was Draktan, but it made no sense.”

“Draktan?” Her father nodded. “A game in which the pieces change levels of power. But it does make sense. We have much work to do, my child, and very little time to do it. Summer solstice could see the end of this ‘game’ among the powers.” He smiled, looking very tired. “I fear we will all think we have been living in a pleasant dream up until now. Or that our most vile nightmares have become true.”

“Dreams?” Challen blushed as she remembered the charge from her mother. “Father … Mother came to me before the Sacred Marriage. Lady Mayar will verify that she was there, flesh and blood, not just a vision. She said to tell you that she has visited you often in your dreams, but you were forbidden to remember when you woke.”

“Remember, and know they were true visitations, yes.” He nodded, and his eyes gleamed with tears. “But I have been comforted often by what I thought were merely dreams. It is good to know they were real.”

“She said to tell you the dreaming will soon end.”

“Ah?” He smiled and closed his eyes for many long moments. When he opened them again, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. His hands trembled and Challen felt the ragged, racing beating of his heart. “My dear, what a great gift you have given me. A blessing. Your mother was the completion of my soul, and my greatest joy is to know that you have found such oneness with Elzan. Bind yourself to him completely, and never let sorrows darken the light of your soul. Do you understand?”

“Not completely, no.” Something tight loosened in her chest when Shazzur chuckled at her wry tone and patted her cheek.

In a way, it was comforting to know that some things would never change between herself and her father. Challen decided she preferred his teasing and secrets. It meant all was right with the world and Shazzur was in control.

O’klan couldn’t seem to open the door quickly enough when Elzan reached Challen’s rooms that evening. He hurtled through the door almost before it opened completely, scowling, his hair wet from crossing one outdoor courtyard for a shortcut. He stopped short in the middle of the main room, breathing heavily, staring as he took in the sight of Challen waiting for him.

She had put on her only blue gown—dark, sapphire blue—and braided matching ribbons into her hair. She had washed her hair with lemon because he liked the scent. She wore no jewelry but his ring. Hands clasped demurely before her, head slightly bowed but still permitting her to see, she waited.

O’klan grinned and nodded to her and left them completely alone.

“Are you really all right?” Elzan demanded, sounding rather breathless.

“Kiss me?” She muffled a squeak of protest when he leaped across the room and his arms enfolded her tightly enough to threaten her ribs. “Now I’m all right,” she whispered against his lips, as one kiss turned to many.

“Warm now?” Elzan whispered in the darkness of her bedroom.

Challen laughed. Perhaps she had complained too much. She preferred the dry cold of desert winters. That was bearable, but the ice that filled the air here seemed to seep into her bones. It didn’t make the chill and damp any more bearable to know she and Elzan had been part of the turn of the seasons.

“Here, wrapped in your arms—”

“With twenty blankets around us.”

“I’m warm enough, yes.” She sighed in sleepy pleasure when he nuzzled at her ear. A tiny nip startled a squeak out of her. Elzan held her tight so she couldn’t return the favor. “If you could only take care of my other little problems, everything would be perfect.”

“What little problems?”

Challen smiled into the darkness. Elzan sounded indignant rather than worried, so he knew she was teasing.

“Now that I must manage your household, when will I find time for my studies?”

“That is what O’klan—”

“He studies with me.”

“O’klan and your servants are for. You make decisions and give orders and they will manage everything else. Your only duties are to study the prophecies and be the joy in my life.”

“Such heavy duties.”

“O’klan is here to protect you. I am here to keep you warm and happy. All I ask is that you always look at me with your heart in your eyes.”

“Always.” Challen took a deep breath to stifle the sudden longing for tears. She turned in his relaxing embrace and rested her head on his chest. The curling, stiff hairs tickled her face. “We would be warmer if we wore clothes to bed.”

“Maybe.” The vibrations of his chuckle tickled against her cheek. “We would certainly get more sleep.” Now Challen had to laugh. “Too much comes between us during the day, love. I want nothing between us at night.”

Tears again threatened at the backs of her eyes. Challen found it hard to breathe. How could such happiness come to her in the middle of so much danger?

The thudding of fists on a door echoed through her rooms. Challen flinched. “What—”

“Sshh.” Elzan sat up, drawing her up with him. He listened as the knocking stopped. A pause of three heartbeats, then three more knocks.

“Trouble?” she whispered.

“I’m needed in Council.” Elzan slipped from between the blankets. His bare feet thudded on the furs carpeting the floor. Cloth rustled as he scrambled in the dark for his clothes.

“Highness?” O’klan called through the closed door.

“I heard,” Elzan called back. “Open—Challen?”

“I’m fine.” She reached for the robe draped over the chair next to the bed and slipped it on.

“Open the door so I can find my clothes, will you?” He muffled a curse as the door opened and lamplight streamed into the room. O’klan helped him put on his boots as Elzan struggled to turn his clothes right side out.

I’m concubine to the Crown Prince, Challen reminded herself, fighting the resentment that threatened to sweep away the warmth and contentment of moments before. He will be called away whenever there is an emergency. I must get used to this.

She followed Elzan to the door, and found Abendago and a handful of palace guards waiting for him. The scribe bowed and the guards averted their eyes. Challen felt her face burn. She had likely committed some social blunder. That didn’t matter when Elzan stole one more kiss before hurrying down the hall. She waited in the open doorway, O’klan hovering protectively beside her, the two guards outside her door discreetly looking elsewhere. She watched until Elzan and Abendago and the guards vanished around a corner.

A door opened with a soft click, near the opposite end of the long, wide hallway. Challen started to step back into her room to close the door, but curiosity made her turn to look.

For a moment, in the dim light of the few lamps, she thought Elzan came from the doorway. This prince’s hair wasn’t quite as glossy and didn’t have that bluish cast. Harsh lines around eyes and mouth made him look older.

When the prince walked through the puddle of light from the lamp hanging next to Lady Mayar’s door, he cast no shadow.

Despite herself, Challen gasped softly and flinched back from her door. The movement and sound made him look at her. His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed as he scowled at her. O’klan stepped in front of Challen, visibly challenging the angry prince. The guards snapped to attention without looking directly at anyone. The prince continued on his way.

“Something is wrong,” she whispered when she was safe behind her closed door again. “He shouldn’t have been in this hallway, should he?”

“The only women here are the King’s concubines.” O’klan’s midnight brow furrowed in thought.

“He was visiting his mother?”

“That is Prince Shadrash. His mother died three years ago. Rumors say another concubine poisoned her because Shadrash beat her son. But, there was no proof.”

“That’s the way of it here, isn’t it? Rumors, never proof. I don’t want to hear any of this!” She sank onto the closest couch, fists against her temples. “But I should hear, to be prepared.”

“You are most wise, Lady.” O’klan bent and took her hands. “Come, you must go back to your bed and sleep. Your prince will not return to you tonight.”

“Or for many nights,” she murmured. Her faithful adviser said nothing to contradict her. “No. There is work to do. O’klan, Prince Shadrash had no shadow. Go tell my Father, and have the prince watched. Perhaps he will lead us to the source of the magic that threatens us.”

CHAPTER 18

O’klan reported what they had seen to Shazzur. No one but the Council and the recording scribes could get in to see the King and Elzan.

Thanks to the half-day thaw which had covered the kingdom, several spies had returned to Bainevah earlier than expected. One reported that Moragraen to the south prepared for war along all its borders, not just the border with Bainevah. Whether it prepared to defend itself, or knew another country planned to pass through to reach Bainevah, no one was sure. The healer priests had yet to find the melody for the ancient song Veerian hoped would counteract the enemy’s magic. Shazzur and Lady Mayar agreed that finding the song was necessary, to use as shield and weapon against the enemy. They could not face down the suspected prince until they had that shield.

Elzan didn’t want to discuss such things when he finally broke free six days later. He muttered in his sleep, angry, and twitched as if fighting enemies in his dreams. Challen held him and told no one what she had heard. She expanded her studies to include geography and the countries which bordered Bainevah.

Challen had enough to occupy her time when Elzan was busy with the Council and possible border wars. Every morning, she went to the Healers Temple to work for a few hours, then spent the rest of her day at the Scribes Hall with Haneen, whom Chief Scholar Cho’Mat gladly assigned as her assistant. They worked hard, only stopping for meals when O’klan forced them.

There was a significance to the lack of shadows. The more Challen and Haneen studied, the more sure they both were that Maquaos Shadowmaker was involved. What sort of power did the fallen demi-god wield that he stole the shadows from his victims? Did willing minions also lose their shadows? Did it mean they were slowly fading into another realm? Could Rushtan and Tamisra die soon, if they were not cured?

Challen seemed to be the only one able to detect the lack of shadows and she was both grateful and frustrated; grateful she was believed, and frustrated that she had to always be on the alert to detect the lack. Suddenly, it seemed everyone in Court avoided bright lights and stayed in the shadows where their lack of one could not be detected.

One of the few amusing changes in her life came from Prince Mynoch, who insisted on accompanying Challen whenever she left the palace. He hovered in doorways in the Healers Temple, trying not to be sickened by the work she did. She admired him for fighting his queasy stomach to watch over her. In return, she tried not to laugh at his infatuation with Haneen.

Haneen was not at all impressed by the prince’s presence; especially when he couldn’t find a single scroll without help. Mynoch, however, wore a dazed smile whenever Haneen was present. If Challen got up to find a scroll and Haneen stayed seated, Mynoch stayed seated. If Haneen got up and Challen stayed seated, the young prince followed the scribe girl to help her. Haneen appeared not to notice him, except when he got in her way. Mynoch tried very hard to understand the work they were doing and Challen admired his attempts. Was he truly interested, or was it only to earn Haneen’s approval?

Elzan grumbled about Mynoch’s presence, but laughed with relief when Challen told him about the hopeless love the prince showed for the girl scribe.

“I know exactly how he feels.” Then he had kissed her, driving away all thoughts of her research that day.

Elzan asked his friends in the Host of the Ram to watch Shadrash, and told them what had been discovered. He confessed to Challen that he was amused and flattered that most of his friends believed Shadrash was a willing partner in the slow infiltration of evil, rather than a victim.

His amusement vanished, however, when Shadrash vanished from under the watch of Elzan’s friends, Belten and Oyen. The two had been doubly diligent because they felt responsible for the kidnapping attempt on Challen. All the Host of the Ram joined the search during a thickening snowstorm. They checked all the haunts where the fleeing prince might go for shelter; hunting lodges, inns, brothels.

The morning after the snowstorm, Shadrash’s body, and that of the man who tried to kidnap Challen, were found in a garden courtyard. A team of servants had gone to sweep away the new snow and begin preparations for redesigning the bushes and the patterns in the flowerbeds. They found the two dead of multiple stab wounds, bloody knives in their hands, lying in puddles of frozen blood. To all appearances, they had argued and battled, and managed to kill each other. Elzan and Challen, Shazzur and Lady Mayar knew better. Whoever controlled the two had realized that they were under suspicion, and had killed them rather than let their tools fall into enemy hands.

“He throws away his broken tools to keep them from betraying him,” Elzan said a few nights later, when they were able to spend some private time in Challen’s rooms. A strangled chuckle broke from him. “I never thought I would pity Shadrash. Then again, I never thought I would be grateful to Mynoch. He’s turning out to be a friend. And he adores Haneen.”

“The problem is learning how Haneen feels,” she said, and settled down at her loom. She had come to a particularly intricate part of the border design and she wanted to get it completely finished before she went to bed.

“The problem is the scandal someone in Court will try to start, if he spends any more time with you.”

“Oh.” Challen mentally kicked herself for not anticipating that. “I am so tired of politics and everyone looking for the worst in everything.”

“So am I, love.” Elzan stretched out on the couch on his side. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Weave.”

“You’ve never seen a loom used before?” She couldn’t help laughing at the idea. The loom had always been part of her life. Her mother had been a skilled weaver, and Challen had taken great pride in working her skills up to her mother’s level.

“Mother loved to weave when I was small, before she became High Priestess. That was long ago. Show me how?”

“You won’t see enough from way over there.” She batted her eyelashes at him, earning a bark of laughter.

Elzan came over to sit next to her and for several minutes there were no sounds but the brushing of threads, the clicking of the shuttle as it tapped the braces on each pass and the chiming of the warp weights against the floor as she adjusted them. Challen worked past the border piece and for several passes there was nothing but plain white thread.

“That’s it,” Elzan whispered. His hand shot out and stopped her hand, just as she was about to pass the shuttle through the threads. “That’s the sound from my dreams.”

Challen went very still as his words reverberated in her heart and mind. It made so very much sense; the sound of weaving, to her mind, hinted at the presence of the Three. Did the “game” Elzan overheard concern the fate of the missing servants of the Mother? Was the outcome of the game more than just the fate of Bainevah, but the recovery of the Three also?

They found no more answers as the quarters turned into moons, but Elzan and Challen couldn’t complain. Veerian and the healer priests found the right music and words to break the magic that bound Rushtan and Tamisra’s souls. Challen visited the two victims and verified that they had shadows again.

Before the enemy could retaliate, Rushtan assembled a team and set out to search for Asha, Challen’s brother. Shazzur believed that his missing son would be the key to the recovery of the Hidden City and the Three—and to Challen’s surprise, he sent Rushtan and Veerian to the mountains that once held the city.

Third Ascent Moon

Anbis, the Drevan ambassador, came to the capital during the moon dark ceremonies, two moon quarters before equinox. Ostensibly, he had come to celebrate the marriage of King Nebazz to Lady Mayar. Elzan suspected any courtesy from Dreva or Chadrasheer or Moragraen. Because of his attitude, Challen was curious and paid extra attention to the newcomers.

She glimpsed Anbis’ arrival on her way back to the palace after a full day in the Healers Temple. The spring illnesses were so virulent this year, she had forgone her time at the Scribes Hall five days in a row, to stay all day at the temple and support Lady Mayar. Cayeen, who had become a good friend and co-conspirator in dumfounding the entire Court, had met her on the way back from the temple. They saw the long procession coming down the wide road leading to the palace, and paused just inside the palace gates to watch the Drevan party arrive.

“I thought all Drevans were pale,” Challen said, and glanced at O’klan in his usual spot at her right elbow. The big eunuch nodded, meaning he would look into it.

“So did I,” Cayeen said. “They always proclaim that their fair coloring reflects the purity of their spirits. How could such a dark-haired, dark-eyed man rise to so much power?”

“Magic,” O’klan murmured. “Magic is more important to the Drevans than even their whiteness. He is powerful and dangerous. Stay away from him.”

“Please,” Ashur said, breaking his customary silence. The icy blond eunuch traded somber glances with O’klan.

“What do you two know?” Challen demanded.

She turned away from the long procession of pale, square-built Drevans. They wore leathers and furs trimmed in gold and bristled with spears and arrows dipped in gold, as if their armies were for show instead of defense. She knew better, after moons of reading history and politics with Mynoch and Haneen.

“Rumors only, Lady.” O’klan opened the door into the palace. The four Host soldiers assigned to Challen and Cayeen divided up, two going ahead and two staying outside. Ashur followed the soldiers, then the two women, then O’klan brought up the rear with the soldiers behind him.

Challen almost smiled, realizing that after nearly three moons as Elzan’s concubine, she was used to this constant attendance. No one had vanished in two moons, and no one had been attacked by people whose eyes were black, and she had grown so used to checking for shadows that she did it without thinking. All seemed peaceful and the spring rains promised flourishing crops. Elzan had warned her and the Council often enough, their enemy would strike when they began to relax their vigilance. Challen glanced back over her shoulder, as if she could still see the Drevan party arriving at the palace gates. Had the enemy come to them? Should they prepare for an attack, or would the attack come from a totally different quarter?

“When the Drevans came to arrange for Anbis’ arrival, some of their servants said he would come in search of a bride for their Priest-King,” O’klan continued after the door had closed.

“Oh, no, not again,” Cayeen moaned. “Be grateful you are a concubine, Challen. The Drevans consider concubines unworthy of notice. He won’t even look at you during the feast tonight.”

“You could feign illness and not attend,” Challen offered.

“He would send one of his healers.” She gasped. “Especially if he’s interested in me. Oh, why did I have to be fair like my mother? He’d pass me by if I was dark like the King!”

“I can’t change the color of your hair, but I can make you ill.” She muffled a chuckle when Elzan’s sister stopped short and stared at her.

“You can do that?”

“Healing is often a matter of changing the balances in the blood. If I push them in the wrong direction … you will be ill and not even another healer will be able to tell I did it.”

“Make me so ill I can’t move until long after he’s gone!” Cayeen pleaded, mischief in her eyes despite the longsuffering note in her voice.

Challen found she had pushed herself past her limits, making Cayeen ill after spending the entire day in healing. She dosed herself with a hot herbal tonic and lay down for a nap, after O’klan promised to wake her in time to dress for the welcoming feast for Anbis and the Drevans.

Elzan woke her. Lines of strain creased his forehead and shadowed his mouth. When she started to apologize and explain, he pressed a finger to her lips.

“You are too ill to attend the feast,” he said, and brushed a kiss across the back of her hand.

“No, I’m—”

“Too ill, after spending the day serving our people and then worrying about my sister. O’klan told me you offered her your help,” he added, one side of his mouth quirking up. “My love, your timing is perfect.”

“Elzan?” A chill passed over her. Challen struggled to sit up. “What has that Drevan done or said already? He’s only been here a few hours.”

“He is just a shade too proper in all things, like every Drevan ever sent here. But for one thing.” He swallowed hard, as if fighting nausea. “He made a point of announcing that he has come on the guidance of a vision from his god, Skataeroz. He is here to bring unity and friendship between the Bull and the Ram, between Skataeroz and Matrika. To counter the snows and darkness of Dreva, he seeks a priestess of royal blood and fire, to marry their Priest-King.”

“None of your sisters have any gifts to serve in the temples.” She shivered, knowing what he would eventually say.

“But as the Chadrasheeri ambassador pointed out, you are in essence an adopted daughter of the King. Your father’s status makes you royal. You are a priestess because the Mother’s power flows through you. You have the fire talent, inherited from your mother, and you are a healer, serving in the temple.”

“And because this was all stated in Court, with regal phrasing and surrounded by political ramifications, they couldn’t name me outright and you couldn’t refuse them outright.” She sighed and closed her eyes and decided that yes, she certainly did feel too ill to go to the feast.

“They don’t even like to acknowledge concubines exist,” Elzan murmured as he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her onto his lap. “They will have to swallow a great deal of pride to even broach the subject of you. And then there’s the rudeness of demanding I hand over the woman who is practically my wife.”

“There is precedent, unfortunately. King Banpolissar, in the Fourth Dynasty, had a concubine who was a distant cousin. She was the only living female of royal blood at that time, so he gave her as wife to King Handracharach, who conquered him in battle, to form an alliance.”

“Dreva has not conquered us in battle … and I would be very happy if you weren’t so cursed conversant with Bainevah’s entire history,” Elzan said, ending on a growl. He kissed her before she could retort.

“He will demand me, eventually.”

“Not during this visit. Your father and grandfather were at the welcoming ceremonies and they both refused. Politely, of course. With heavy, formal language. Basically they said there would be no marriage unless Matrika spoke directly and clearly. We don’t worship Skataeroz, and the Bull has no power in Bainevah. Why should we bow to his prophecies and commands?”

“Easier to say than to support.”

She shuddered as a dream image snapped into her mind. “Dreva instigated that trouble with Chadrasheer last fall, didn’t they? How hard would it have been to kidnap me, on the journey to Chadrasheer?”

“Even then, they were aiming for you. From the man who attacked your household at the oasis, your journey—that night you went wading in the fountains.” He shook his finger in her face, but the teasing fell flat. “Skataeroz knew, somehow, that you would be a vessel for Matrika. I’ll wager his minions tried to prevent your participation in the Sacred Marriage.”

“They failed.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean they’ll give up. If they could turn you to their profit, like changing the status of a Draktan piece, imagine the disaster that could befall Bainevah. And how the loss of you will destroy me.” Elzan cupped her cheek in his hand. “The Mother has spoken through you, and she will speak again in the future. She warned me to listen when you speak for her. How can I listen if you aren’t here, safe and cherished?”

“He’ll use all the political tricks and nastiness he can find, to force you to give me away. How many nobles in the Court and the Council would agree, just to harm you? How many hope you’ll choose one of their daughters as a concubine, and they could end up as grandfather of your heir? How many are more fearful of Dreva than they are of displeasing the Mother?”

“You are too wise. But, fortunately, your father is the Seer and your grandfather is the High Priest, and the entire Host of the Ram will stand in your defense. All the priests know you are the vessel and voice of the Mother, and the scribes will search night and day for ways to counter the Drevans’ claims. They will not have you. I swear it.”

“But until they have given up and gone away?” She blinked to fight tears, and smiled in the face of Elzan’s intensity.

“Until then … As you love me, Challen, stay away from Court while Anbis is here. Have Haneen and Mynoch do all your running and never let O’klan out of your sight.”

“And I so much wanted to show off my new dress tonight,” she whispered. “You know how much I love catching up on the gossip and seeing all my friends among the nobles.”

“You love confounding everyone by playing games with their simple little minds.” Elzan held her at arm’s length and studied her face. “I know you only play at being a Court lady to support me, and I love you for that. It won’t be that great a hardship to stay in your rooms for a few quarters, will it?”

“I should thank Ambassador Anbis for giving me the excuse. But I won’t even mention his name, from this day forward,” she hurried to add.

Elzan kissed her, and she felt his worry for her in the hardness of his mouth.

CHAPTER 19

Spring Equinox

Elzan woke with a shout choking him. He shuddered and wrapped his arms tighter around Challen. She moaned, her face wrinkling in reaction to her dreams.

Bad dream. That’s all it was. What did he expect, after too much wine, too much fancy food, and the pressure of the equinox ceremonies and festivities in Court?

Life had been so much simpler before he became Crown Prince. He had duties in the Temple now, often standing in the King’s place. Court festivities that he had avoided before were now required. Despite needing to keep Challen hidden from and forgotten by the Drevans, she still had to make public appearances as First Concubine to the Crown Prince. Shazzur, Queen Mayar, and other friends helped keep Challen constantly under surveillance, surrounded by friends and protectors. There was always a healer priest or priestess available, to check Challen every time a Drevan came close, to ensure they hadn’t managed to drug her by touch or with perfume.

Challen tried to face the challenge of her safety as a game, much as she faced the day-to-day demands of the Court. Cayeen had rallied the other two princesses to join her in helping Challen deceive and stun the courtiers. Elzan himself sometimes laughed to see his three half-sisters, who usually agreed on very little, united in a common purpose and enjoying it. With the help of all three princesses, Challen played the games of Court with aplomb, even if she didn’t enjoy them.

She usually let people assume she was lost among the Court gossip and innuendoes, blending into the surroundings. And then she would make an observation or come up with a witty retort that no one expected. Challen had many admirers both because of her wit and beauty, and because she never attacked. Elzan depended on her powers of observation to catch reactions and comments that he missed; she overheard what people would never say outright in Elzan’s hearing. She was his second set of eyes and ears. Often, she was the better half of his mind.

Elzan had been proud to have her walking at his side last night during the equinox festivities. Only two things could have made last night perfect—to link her arm with his as his wife and to bid farewell to the Drevans.

They had stayed up late after retiring to his quarters, making love with a passion and energy that echoed the power of the Sacred Marriage. It was no wonder they had bad dreams, after the wine and food and exhausting themselves with pleasure.

Elzan took a few deep breaths now to calm his racing heart. Sweat glued the sheets to him. He unwrapped Challen from his arms with a sticky sound, sat up and peeled back the sheets.

Too hot for so early in the spring. As if he stood inside a burning house.

Shazzur’s house. Flames licked up the walls and smoke gathered in thick, suffocating clouds at the ceiling.

Shazzur. He had dreamed of Shazzur, attacked by faceless, black figures who cast no shadows. He had fallen, bleeding from multiple wounds. Fire gusted through the house. Servants lay in limp piles on the floor.

Elzan closed his eyes, trying to drive away the images. They grew stronger. He could actually smell the smoke, the scorching of cloth, the stink of spilled wine, the iron and copper tang of Shazzur’s blood filling the air.

“Father,” Challen whimpered.

Elzan felt the hot, sticky sweat turn to ice down his back. If Challen also dreamed of her father…

He barely had his belt fastened to hold up his trousers when he reached the door out into the hallway. The two guards on duty stiffened to attention.

“Wake the palace,” Elzan snapped as he ran down the hall. “The Seer is in danger!”

There were no servants moving about so early in the morning, as Elzan dashed into the wide, paved plaza of fountains and trees between the palace and the courtiers’ homes. He shouted to raise the alarm and kept running.

Smoke sent a few questing tendrils out the windows of Shazzur’s home. Flames crackled softly inside, barely licking above the windowsills, like serpents’ tongues. Thudding feet behind Elzan echoed with metal toecaps on stone—soldiers. Breathing a prayer of thanks, Elzan slammed into the door. It flew inward, shattering like tinder.

Sparks rained down his back, but he didn’t feel the scorching. Elzan pressed his hand over his mouth and nose to block the thick smoke that sucked air and moisture from him. He stumbled into the main room where Shazzur had taught him as a child. The marble floor was smeared with blood. Elzan saw a pale hand sticking out from a tangle of cushions that glistened with oil. As if someone had prepared it for a bonfire.

“Shazzur!”

Elzan clawed at the detritus covering his beloved teacher. He shouted for the soldiers to get a healer. No one answered. Then he uncovered Shazzur and saw the flowing wounds in the man’s chest.

“Mother Matrika…” He pressed his hands flat over the blood and closed his eyes to concentrate.

There was no time to wait for a healer. Elzan had enough experience with wounds, he knew moving Shazzur from the burning house could kill him. As if he wasn’t dying already.

He pushed aside his desperation and fury, saving all his energy for this supreme effort. Closing his eyes, he called up everything inside himself and focused on sealing the wounds, forcing the life back into Shazzur’s body.

Challen had taught him some healer discipline and now Elzan was glad for those quiet hours of study, when the energy flowed almost effortlessly. He would save Shazzur. He could feel the life growing steady again in the old man’s body.

Elzan heard a rattling sound. Like Draktan dice bouncing across the board. A sudden cold brushed across his bare, sweat-streaming back. He opened his eyes.

Something moved in the black whirlpool of smoke. Elzan couldn’t break contact with Shazzur to face it.

Firelight flashed off a sword streaking down out of the smoke at him. Shouting, he threw himself across Shazzur’s body to evade the blow. Flames streaked across the roof beams. Armor rattled as soldiers stumbled into the room and the sword came down again. Elzan kicked at the hand holding the blade.

His assailant emerged from the smoke. A man in a guard uniform, his face a mask of sweat. He leaped at Elzan, yanking a dagger from his boot sheath. The soldiers lunged to stop him.

Through streaming eyes, Elzan saw the burning ceiling beams shatter and reach flaming arms to embrace him. The knife slashed through his thigh as he rolled aside. His attacker screamed.

“The piece is mine!” a shattered voice whined.

“The play is not finished,” a laughing voice said.

Elzan knew that laughing, mocking, rich voice. It battered at him as flames enfolded him and dragged him into darkness.

“The piece is mine! My forfeit!”

“Yes, but a higher piece has risked its rank to rescue it. Our opponent is either an idiot or far more canny than we thought.” The laughing voice sounded subdued. “We must choose. We can remove one piece and separate the two destined to rule the board. They may rejoin stronger. Capture the priestess while it is alone. And risk retribution. The choice is difficult.”

“Take the piece. I want it,” the whining voice snapped.

“Take the priestess piece,” a dry voice whispered. “Take it soon or the game is lost. Rally all and take it. The opponent has made another move toward the higher game. We must capture the piece and make it our own. We need it to win.”

Elzan heard his mother’s voice. Gently, it drove away the darkness, turning it to black cloth that muffled every sense, then gauze that turned gray and shredded. He couldn’t open his eyes, but that didn’t matter. He felt heavy, tired. His tongue swelled and when he swallowed, fire raced down his throat.

“Can you hear me, my hawk?” Queen Mayar whispered. Cool wet touched his lips. Elzan flinched, then pried his lips open, greedy for moisture. “Slowly. Slowly. We must not cause more harm with the healing.” The cool wet vanished after only a trickle down his throat.

“Te—tem—” His lips didn’t want to form the words.

“Yes. You are in the Healers Temple. We have wrapped you like a newborn, to hold ointments against your skin. Do not move. Let us attend to all your needs.” One finger stroked his bottom lip, then the cool wet returned.

Elzan swallowed greedily at the trickle—sweet water, with fruit pulp and honey. His mother had given it to him as a child when he was ill with fever and oozing spots, and couldn’t keep anything in his stomach. Fear tried to settle into his body, but Elzan refused to listen to it.

The liquid seemed to vanish in his throat, evaporated by the heat of his body, which felt like cracked baked clay, screaming for moisture. He didn’t have the strength to move—why did his mother have to caution him to hold still? It was almost funny. Before he could try to laugh, he fell asleep.

When he woke, Challen was there. He heard tears in her voice, but it turned to choked laughter when he demanded kisses with the water. Demanded with whispers, his throat crackling, the effort draining him of all energy. She kissed him as he fell asleep and kissed him every time he woke.

How many times he woke to drink and then sleep again, Elzan didn’t know. He only knew Challen or his mother were always there, enfolding him with their love and soothing his thirst. They refused to let him speak or move, but he knew Shazzur was alive, and that was all that mattered.

“Father?” Challen stroked his cheek as she tipped the cup of sweet water to his lips.

Shazzur smiled and his eyelids flickered open and he swallowed, as compliant as a sleepy kitten.

“Elzan?” he breathed.

“He lives. He’s burned, he took a knife in his leg, and he drained himself healing you, but he will be fine. The pain will hold him to his bed only for a little while.” Her voice cracked with words she promised herself she would not speak.

“But as for me?” He closed his eyes. “You want to scold, my dear. You fear giving me more pain, but let me assure you—” Shazzur paused for breath. “I feel only great weakness, as if I am nothing but parchment held to my bed with heavy stones.”

“You lost too much blood.”

“Ah, not too much blood, my dear, or I would not be here arguing with you.”

“We are not arguing!” Her voice cracked. “Father, I’m—”

“Ah, no, do not apologize. If you were not angry with me, then I would worry.”

That took her breath away a moment, then Challen saw the humor in that wry bit of truth. It twisted at her lungs, yanking a weak chuckle from her. They were both quiet for a few moments more as she put the cup to his lips and he drank.

“You should be with Elzan,” Shazzur said with a soft smile.

“I am, when you sleep.”

“And when do you sleep? You are not a full priestess yet, though there is great healing in your presence. Like your mother,” he added in a whisper.

“O’klan watches over you when I rest. And when I see to Elzan,” she admitted with a smile in her voice.

“Good. Treasure him. Do not harm him by risking yourself. Your mother tore my heart to shreds when she risked herself as a spy. Even before she knew I loved her.”

“Father, don’t weary yourself,” she protested, hearing the tears in his voice. She knew Naya’s memory was a sweet agony, but her father had never showed his loneliness so clearly.

“Yes, I am weary. I want to join her. To rest.”

“You are not allowed to leave us. Bainevah needs you.” She put down the cup and pressed his cool hand to her cheek.

“No,” he whispered, smiling more. “You and Elzan shall guide Bainevah from her darkness. I am no longer needed.”

“Don’t speak that way.”

His hand felt too cool. She rubbed it between her hands and got up to call one of the novices to bring heated bricks. With so much blood lost, Shazzur could not afford to become chilled.

“Your mother woke me,” he whispered when she returned to his side. “Can you guess what she told me?”

“She likely came to warn you, but you didn’t listen.”

“Perhaps. My usefulness to Bainevah wanes.” He raised a hand to her lips when she would have protested. “Naya told me you conceived at equinox. A son.”

“A son.” She heard the words, but the meaning would not penetrate to her mind.

“Your mother beckoned. And I saw you, with a child in your arms, begging me to stay.” Shazzur sighed, his eyes bright. “I could not decide which fate I wanted.”

“Father?” She clutched at his cool hand.

“I am tired. My gifts will go to another, and I will rest.” A broken chuckle escaped him. “As you must rest. You will give birth at solstice. Mother Matrika will doubly bless us that day.”

“You will be there to see it, Father. You must be there, to hold your grandson and bless him. The future king.”

“Perhaps.” He closed his eyes. “Let me rest, Challen. I want to dream of your mother.”

“Only to dream. Do not go to her. Please?” she whispered, her voice threatening to break.

“As Mother Matrika wills.”

“Father—”

“I love you, Challen. If I have been harsh, it was to make you strong. Your mother knew. She saw what would be required of you, and she was proud.” He gently pushed her away with his cool hands. “You always make me proud. Now, go and rest. You carry the future in your womb, Challen.” He chuckled. “My grandchild.”

“Father—”

“Go. Tell Elzan. Then rest. Tomorrow we will talk more.” Shazzur tried to look stern, but Challen saw his weariness and chose to give up. She kissed him, gave him the last of the sweet water, tucked the blankets around him, and stood to leave.

“Are you ready, my love?” Naya said from the far corner of the room, opposite the door.

Challen turned. Her mother stood at the edge of a rolling, emerald meadow, so vast the trees that encircled it were distant blurs. Naya glowed, light spilling from her hair, her eyes, her fingertips, from under her multicolored robes that swayed as if tugged by a breeze Challen couldn’t feel.

“Mother?” She could hardly force the words out.

“Naya.” Shazzur’s voice boomed like a joyful shout. He stepped past Challen, holding out his arms.

His hair was dark red, not a glint of silver, and his chest and shoulders were wide with muscle. He wore the vest and trousers of a horse soldier and a bronze sword hung at his hip. Naya ran to him and he caught her up in a tight embrace and they kissed.

Challen heard a long, slow sigh of escaping breath behind her. She knew, without looking, that Shazzur’s weary, wounded, abandoned body still lay on the bed. What she saw was the essence of her father, free and reunited with her mother.

“You no longer need us, little bird,” Naya said when the kiss ended. “We will always be here, but you are able to stand now and take your destined place in the battle.”

“Who is our enemy?” Challen blurted.

“You already know,” Shazzur said. “You have done well, sending Rushtan to find your brother. We were both wrong, my dear.” He laughed, a booming, joyous sound Challen hadn’t heard since her mother’s death. “Asha is the Flame, not your son.”

“Your grandfather wanted me to be High Priestess after him,” Naya said. “He wanted me to be Queen. His dream was true, but he interpreted in error. Tell your grandfather, the days are coming and are almost here, when Bainevah will be pure again, though the pain will be as great as the pain Elzan suffered at the Sacred Marriage. Tell him.”

“Yes, Mother.” Challen repeated the words back until both her parents were satisfied.

“Don’t grieve,” Shazzur said. “Be happy for us. Be happy in your love, even though you must hide it for many long days.”

“Father?”

“Challen?” Mayar knocked on the door of the room.

The room spun around Challen and she cried out, flailing through sudden darkness. She found herself crouched on the floor, still clutching the cup. Queen Mayar came in and halted in the doorway. She called for lamps.

“Are you all right?” She knelt next to Challen in the spilled light coming through the doorway.

“He’s gone.” Challen wondered how her eyes could stay dry, how she could speak the words so easily. “Mother came for him. He’s gone.”

Challen went to sit with Elzan while the healers bustled through Shazzur’s room and tended to the body. She sat with him two hours, but he slept the entire time. Challen held his hand and whispered the news of their son. Elzan never stirred, and she blamed the sleeping potions. She kissed the bandages across his eyes. He had made himself vulnerable to heal her father. The man who had attacked Elzan had died, taking the brunt of the burning ceiling beam as it fell. He was too badly burned to identify. Challen had hoped that when Shazzur was stronger, he could have spoken with the mind scribes to make a sketch of his attackers. Now, that would not happen. Her mind felt cocooned, separated from the world and ordinary thoughts. She couldn’t feel anything but a great weariness. She knew she needed to rest. The enemy had struck deeply, and would strike again while they still reeled from the blow. Who would die next? She had to be awake, alert, strong and ready.

When O’klan came to take his turn watching Elzan, Challen went to Mayar’s workroom to rest. She washed, changed her robes, and lay down on the couch. Then the tears came, and she wept until nausea tried to turn her body inside out.

When she finally slept, she dreamed the Bull-man tried to push through the barrier of shadows that surrounded her dreams. He roared and tried to batter her with clawed hooves, but the shadows held strong and protected her.

Fourth Ascent Moon

Cloth rustled somewhere in the room. Elzan lay still, trying to determine who was there, and how many. It struck him as funny-sad that he couldn’t seem to smell anything. Maybe the stink of the healing ointment had destroyed his sense of smell.

“Mother?”

“No, Highness,” O’klan whispered. “The Lady Priestess sleeps. My Lady is with her. She insisted I come to you.” The eunuch’s voice grew slightly louder. A cup touched Elzan’s lips. He smothered a whimper of relief as sweet wet filled his mouth.

“Shazzur?” he asked after swallowing slowly.

Silence. O’klan smeared honey ointment on Elzan’s lips.

“I do not know where or how the Lord Seer is, Highness,” the eunuch admitted with a long sigh. “My Lady asked me to think only of you, and that is what I do.”

Queen Mayar was there the next time Elzan woke. She shushed him when he asked about the seer.

“Are your eyes closed, my hawk?”

“How should I know?” Elzan let out a bark of laughter. His throat crackled like ancient parchment, but didn’t bleed.

“Close your eyes. I will remove these bandages and we shall see if you may go without them.” Her robes gave off a scent like fresh green shoots when she leaned over him. Elzan gratefully inhaled the scent, glad to be able to smell again.

It felt odd as the slight weight of the gauze bandages come off his face. The last few layers were soaked through with ointment and tried to stick together. He braced himself, expecting to feel layers of burned skin come away with the bandages. There was only a sense of stickiness peeling away—like that last time he had let go of Challen, glued to her with their nightmare sweat.

“Very good,” she whispered. Her fingertips lightly brushed his eyelids. “Heat, not burning, made your face swell.” She chuckled. “You have lost much of your hair and your eyebrows and your beard is stubble, but you have not lost your looks.”

“Challen will be pleased.” He smiled, and it felt strange not to have bandages and ointment encasing his face.

“Indeed. At least something will please her.”

“How is she?” He tried to sit up and her hands pressed gently on his sore shoulders, keeping him flat in the bed.

“She cries for you. She tries very hard to be brave and let no one see how her heart aches. I am most angry that the King has forbidden her to see you.”

“What?” Elzan’s eyelids flickered.

“Closed.” She pressed her hand over his face from stubbly eyebrows to the bridge of his nose. “What do you remember?”

“I found Shazzur. While I was healing him, someone attacked me. The roof fell in on us.”

“Shazzur’s household was invaded in the night, his servants drugged and then killed. He told us he woke early.” Her voice caught for a moment. “He dreamed Naya came to him. He surprised his attackers. How did you know to come to him?”

“I had a dream.” Elzan paused, savoring the oddness of it for the first time. “I dreamed Shazzur needed me. When I woke, Challen called for him from her dreams. I roused the guards.” His throat began to flame, making him choke. He gulped the sweet drink laced with wine his mother held to his lips. “Mother, why can’t Challen come to me?”

“I, O’klan and Asqual are the only ones permitted near you while you heal. Only my most loyal priests may handle your medicine and food. If Challen may come, then so may your brothers and friends and co-commanders. Someone tried to kill you, and his friends will try again. It is easier to protect you if no one is permitted near you.”

“It makes sense,” he admitted slowly. “At least the King doesn’t suspect my wife of trying to kill me.”

“It would be easier to protect the two of you if you were together, but other concerns have intervened.”

“How is she handling all this?”

“In times of trouble, the Mother guides us if we let her. I feel the hand of the Mother strongly on her now. I think she is as important to Bainevah as her father was.”

“Was?”

“Open your eyes. Slowly.”

“Mother?”

“Let us see if you can see, then we will talk of other things.” She brushed drops of water around the edges of his eyes, tickling the scorched stubble of his lashes.

His eyes felt crusty, like sand mixed with glue. Queen Mayar sighed laughter when he winced and muffled a curse.

“Healing is rarely comfortable.”

“Thank you for the warning, however late.” Elzan smiled despite the blurring that filled his eyes when he opened them. At least he could see something. “There’s a fog—”

“Ointment in your eyes. It will wash away.”

“Shazzur is dead, isn’t he?”

“Yes, and Bainevah is poorer now. The King rages. He fears without Shazzur, we will never understand the Prophecy and restore the Three.”

“That’s not true.” Elzan pushed himself up with his elbows. Dizziness forced him back into his pillows with a groan.

“Slowly.” His mother moved into his line of sight. Her hair was pulled back simply. No makeup accented the slim lines of her face. Dark smears made her eyes darker. “I reminded your father you have studied the Prophecy. Shazzur himself told the King you would lead Bainevah to greatness because of your studies.”

“Not me, Mother. Challen knows more about the Prophecy than anyone. She was her father’s only student all her life. If anyone can guide us in Shazzur’s place, she can.”

“Yes. How foolish of us not to consider that.” She smiled, her pale face brightening. “Perhaps there is hope.”

“Doesn’t matter.” His chest tickled with a rueful chuckle. “Shazzur always told me the words of the Mother never fail, even when we mortals do. Challen and—” He shook his head, and regretted it a moment later. “Challen is vital to the Prophecy, Mother. Guard her. More than me. More than the King.”

“I do not fully understand,” Mayar murmured. “But I shall take your words to the King.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Three days.”

“I couldn’t even stand with her at Shazzur’s funeral pyre.”

“No, my hawk. The ceremony is tomorrow, but you will not be able to stand for several days more.”

“What? Mother—”

“Close your eyes and lie down, Elzan. You must rest. I tell you this so you understand your danger and why the King gave such orders. Shazzur died yesterday, and already rumors say the King ordered him killed for standing in the way of peace with Dreva. Rumors say the Prophecy speaks of Shazzur, when it says the Ram will spill the blood of the Wise.”

“Challen was the pure blood of the Wise.”

“Facts do not matter when rumors are so much more exciting. The people believe he was poisoned. Some say Challen poisoned him, for forcing her to become your concubine.”

“That’s a lie!” He choked on the flames in his throat.

“Hush.” She pressed a fingertip to his lips. “No one who knows her would ever believe Challen would poison her father. Yet rumors often speak the truth of what may happen. Even the Healers Temple is not inviolate. Someone could sneak in and attack you while you are unable to defend yourself. How hard would it be for someone to spill dust or perfume on Challen, so she carries a slow-acting poison to you? The enemies of Bainevah are cruel and clever, Elzan. We must guard you with triple care. You are not to leave here until you can defend yourself, and no one but Asqual, O’klan, and I may see you. Do you understand?”

Elzan understood all too well. He kept his eyes closed and tried to obey his mother’s command to sleep, but sleep was many hours in coming. Tears of anger rather than pain escaped him as he thought of Challen standing before the Court tomorrow at her father’s funeral pyre. Alone, because he, who said he loved her and would protect her, would not be at her side.

Even if he could forgive his enemies everything else, he would never forgive that.

CHAPTER 20

Challen clutched at O’klan’s supporting arm on her left, and Chizhedek’s arm on her right. She refused to submit to the spinning in her head. She had to stand tall and straight under the smothering protection of her gray mourning veil. This was her father’s funeral ceremony and she would give gossiping tongues nothing to wag about. She would make him proud.

Be grateful Elzan is not there on the pyre, she scolded herself when hot anger twisted through her chest.

No, but her lover was as far from her as death. Her mind understood the King’s reasoning in limiting the number of people who could approach the Crown Prince. Her heart raged that she was blocked from him. Her only comfort was that Elzan understood and hated the restrictions as well.

Every night since the fire, Challen dreamed of him horribly burned, oozing blood and ichor from his wounds. She knew he would only have scars on one arm; his attacker’s body had protected him from the worst of the fire. Only seeing Elzan and touching him would stop the nightmares.

That, however, was forbidden.

Queen Mayar stayed with Elzan while O’klan and Commander Asqual stood guard over Challen at Shazzur’s funeral. Challen missed the woman, who treated her as a daughter and guided her steps on the concubine’s slippery path between high honor and no power. She knew Elzan needed his mother more.

Challen was grateful for the thick gray veils. She could cry or glare or make faces at the people who walked slowly past the pyre to speak words of praise to the dead, and no one would notice. She held on tightly to O’klan’s and her grandfather’s arms and endured.

King Nebazz appeared last. He took hold of Challen’s hands and led her to the pyre. He beckoned for the torch, but instead of taking it from the servant boy’s hands to give to Challen to light the pyre, he drew a knife from his belt.

“Ah, my brother, my wise truth-speaker!” The King tilted his head back, staring into the rising sun. “I pledge here, your daughter shall be as my own. By her presence, your wisdom shall remain with us. Her voice shall be yours. Your memory shall always be honored!” he boomed across the echoing courtyard filled with courtiers.

A moment of silence. The torch crackled. The wind sighed. King Nebazz grasped the end of his beard, unadorned in mourning, and sliced off a finger’s length of it. While the crowd hissed astonishment, he placed the handful of beard on the pyre, then slashed his palm and let blood drip onto it.

Now Challen thought she really would faint. The King honored Shazzur as if he were his own father or the most revered priest in the kingdom.

The King sheathed his knife and took the torch from the trembling servant boy and turned to Challen. “Uncover your face, Kena’Shazzur’Challa’Naya. Show proudly your grief and love.”

Challen hesitated, unsure whether it was wiser to obey the King or obey custom. Then she saw the smears of the King’s blood on the wood of the torch. She could almost hear her father laughing his scorn for customs that smothered people’s hearts. She wiped the tears from her eyes as she lifted the veil and let it slide back onto her shoulders.

The King handed her the torch. Challen bowed to him and turned to face the pyre.

“Good-bye, Father,” she whispered. “Wait for me in the Mother’s arms.” She knelt and touched the end of the torch to the oil-soaked wood of the pyre and waited until the flames licked around the sides. The King helped her stand when her knees refused to obey.

“Come, and take your father’s place,” King Nebazz said.

Take her father’s place? Was he serious?

Swallowing a thickness in her throat that could have been tears or hysterical laughter, Challen let the King take her arm and lead her across the wide courtyard to the doors back into the palace. Behind her, the funeral pyre crackled and burst into a mound of writhing golden and red flowers, so hot it drove the onlookers back from all sides.

“Crown Prince Doni’Nebazz reminded me that in all the kingdom, you know the Prophecy best. Now that we have lost your father,” the King added after a slight pause.

The Council members stood in a semi-circle behind Challen, who stood facing the King at the foot of the horseshoe of tables. O’klan stood by the door. The Council’s lack of reaction told Challen this was no gesture of the King’s grief. This was thought out, and if not approved by all, at least agreed to.

Challen bowed her head, acknowledging the King was right. Shazzur had taught her prophecy and all the convoluted possible interpretations as bedtime stories.

“Lady Kena’Shazzur, for the good of the kingdom, take your father’s place. Become First Advisor. The Healers Temple vows the hand of the Mother is on you.”

“Majesty.” Challen spread her hands helplessly. “I will serve you with all that my father taught me. I have been told that I have great potential, but I fear I will fail you when you need my help the most.”

“Modesty is well placed, but all in its proper time,” Chizhedek said from behind her.

Startled, Challen raised her head. Her grandfather nodded to her. His expression was neither smile nor scowl, but something held in reserve. A secret gleamed in his eyes. Challen knew at this moment, he was all High Priest and their blood bond would mean nothing to him if it interfered with serving the Mother and Bainevah.

Strangely, that thought comforted her.

“My father taught me when Mother Matrika wished to use me, I would become a channel for her power. He taught me to be ready,” Challen said. She turned back to the King. “Test me, Majesty. If it is the Mother’s wish, I will succeed. If not, she will reveal another to serve you in Father’s place.”

“Well said,” the King murmured.

“Let the testing begin.” Chizhedek held out his hand. When Challen gave her hand into his grasp, his flesh scorched like lava waiting to burst through the crust of the earth.

He had begun the testing here. Challen almost smiled, recognizing the tests her father had employed as games in her childhood.

Mother Matrika, run like a river through me, she prayed. Water to douse the fire of those who hate Bainevah.

Chizhedek released her. Steam rose from his hand and drops of water flowed across his palm, dripping onto the floor. He nodded, an impressed frown breaking the expressionless mask of his face. He rubbed his hand dry on the side of his white robe.

The King laughed.

“Come, Lady Kena’Shazzur. Come, Priest of the Mother. We will go outside where you will be less likely to bring the palace down around us.” He stood and offered his arm to Challen.

She bowed to him and rested her hand gingerly on his bent elbow. The High Priest followed behind her, and the Council behind him. O’klan hurried down the hallway at their heels.

“Majesty,” she said, as they walked, “I am honored by your trust in me and in Father’s teaching, but is this truly the best for Bainevah?”

“We will let the Mother choose.” He squeezed her hand. “Some vow the Mother has already put her mark on you. The winter solstice has never had so definite a sign of approval.”

“Perhaps it was your heir who was chosen and not me.”

“Perhaps.”

They reached the courtyard where the solstice sacrifice had been made. The King released her and gestured to the altar.

“Fire,” Chizhedek said from behind her. There was no emotion in his voice, no indication what he felt or thought. “There is wood laid on the altar. Light it.”

Challen saw incense sticks and split logs the length and thickness of her arm, piled in a pyramid on the altar. Her sense of imbalance fled when she realized someone had anticipated the need. Had she passed another test by requesting they test her?

She closed her eyes and bit her lip against warning them that the most she had done was light cooking fires, lanterns, and the clothes of irritating soldiers. Killing the man who tried to kidnap her and kill Prince Mynoch had been a fluke. Challen smiled slightly as she thought of all the opportunities she had let pass by, to fight back when Agrat had been particularly irritating. It was too late now.

The image of the wood filled her mind’s eye. Challen envisioned flames, scarlet and gold flowers engulfing the wood. She whispered a silent prayer, and as her father had instructed, made herself an empty bowl, waiting to be used.

A harsh wind yanked at her braids. Something whooshed past her face. Challen staggered when intense heat slapped her. Opening her eyes, she gaped at the man-high pillar of fire roaring on the altar.

“Water, you have already given me,” her grandfather said, and held out his hand to Challen. “The Mother feeds us through the fruit of the ground.” An apricot stone lay in his palm.

Challen’s hand trembled as she took it from him. His hand felt damp and cool, not the dry burning that had prompted water.

In the brilliant light of the fire, she saw shadows strong and black from each person in the courtyard. No one there was among the enemies Elzan heard playing Draktan in his visions.

This test wasn’t to see whether she was worthy to be an advisor. This was, however, dangerously like the test for a High Priestess, when only women served at Matrika’s altar and the High Priestess ruled as Queen.

Healer, scribe, advisor, priestess—would there be any room left to be Challen, who loved and was loved by Elzan?

Shazzur had taught her the motions and words and prayers for this moment. Had he known she would someday need to prove herself worthy to serve the Mother?

Knowing her father, that was more than likely.

“Mother flow through me,” she whispered, raising the apricot stone high in her hand so the morning sunlight spilled over it.

A ring of black earth lay between the altar and the paving stones. Challen knelt and dug with two fingers, making a hole in the soft, moist soil. She inserted the stone and covered it with soil, then pressed both her hands over the spot.

Wet oozed through the dirt under her hands. Challen shivered. Did the water come from her hands, or up through the soil at her moment of need? She focused her mind on the Mother, on the ceremony and prayers her father had taught her. Tears spilled down her cheeks, startling her.

The soil grew warm, as if summer filled the ground. Challen refused to think beyond the moment and her silent prayers. She knew if she did, she would doubt and the flow of power through her could stop.

Shouldn’t she feel something? A tingle of power? A jolt, like lightning?

Shazzur had said the river felt nothing different, whether drought or flood, because it did as it was created to do.

A tickling at her palm almost wrung a cry from Challen. She shifted backwards, smearing wet dirt on her skirts, and took her hands from the damp spot in the soil. Pale green leaves and a soft brown twig poked up from the black earth. Before her eyes, it grew as tall as her hand.

“Majesty.” Challen’s voice broke. She struggled to her feet and stepped aside so the others could see.

“Such a depth of power has never manifested before,” Chizhedek murmured. He nodded to her and finally smiled.

Challen looked down. In the few seconds she had looked away, the tiny tree had grown as tall as her knees.

“Keep me strong and wise in your service. I listen, Mother Matrika.” Challen raised her arms high and braced for what would happen next. “Send me your servant to mark me as—”

Wings snapped in a suddenly stiff breeze. Two falcons skimmed into the open courtyard and dove, to land on Challen’s outstretched arms. She staggered under their weight. Nerves screamed, waiting for the first sharp stab of their talons.

“Two?” a noble blurted. “When has the Mother ever sent but one to mark her favor?”

“She wishes us to be entirely sure of her choice,” King Nebazz said with a dry chuckle. He pressed his hands together, palm to palm, and bowed low from the waist. “Thank you, blessed Mother, for sending this woman to stand among us as your eyes and ears and voice.”

“I hear, Mother Matrika,” Chizhedek called, raising his hands to the sky. “From this moment, Kena’Shazzur is my heir, priestess born, your voice and vessel.” He held out a hand to her. “Well done, Daughter of the Temple. Daughter of Naya. You have proven yourself worthy ten times over.”

Challen never felt the falcons lift from her arms, numbed by the chill that flowed through her at his words.

Her father had warned her. Mother Matrika never worked in loud, visible signs unless there was a strong need. The people needed large, bright reminders of her favor and guidance when they moved into times of potential catastrophe.

The King held out his hand to her. Challen barely managed the five steps to reach him before her knees startled to buckle. King Nebazz hooked her arm through his to support her without shredding her dignity. Challen was grateful.

Chizhedek caught her other arm. Nothing but sympathy shone in his eyes now. He understood, if anyone did. The aftermath, as her father had warned, was the worst part of being a vessel for the Mother’s power. Challen relaxed into the two supporting arms and let them lead her back to the Council chamber.

Shazzur’s funeral pyre had been lit at dawn, so the flames could rise with the sun and carry his spirit to Mother Matrika. Challen spent the entire day with the King and the Council and only began to learn the true status of the kingdom. She felt as if she had been living in a box with pretty pictures painted inside to give her a vague idea of the world. Taking her father’s duty destroyed the box and tumbled her out into blinding sunshine and overwhelming colors, sounds and scents.

When she left the Council at nightfall, Challen sent O’klan to the Scribes Hall to ask Chief Scribe Cho’Mat if she could see him. The response was that she was always welcome, and old men rarely slept until early morning. Challen suspected the elderly scribe had some inkling of what she needed and was ready.

Haneen would now live with Challen as her right-hand assistant, with her own guard and servants. Challen knew her friend would be delighted at the change.

Challen fell asleep as her bearers brought her back to the palace. O’klan woke her to walk from the chair to her quarters. She suspected that if there hadn’t been witnesses, her faithful friend would have carried her asleep to her room.

“Wait.” She stared at the double doors trimmed in gold, at the top of a wide staircase. Her rooms opened off a hallway shared by the concubines; this was an outside entrance, in a different wing of the palace. “This isn’t—”

“You have new rooms, Lady,” the eunuch said, keeping his voice soft. “You are now a power in the kingdom. The First Advisor to the King, and future High Priestess, cannot be a concubine.”

Challen hoped her face didn’t show her surprise, but she was too tired to do anything about it. No longer Elzan’s concubine? It was bad enough she wasn’t allowed to visit him, but now she was no longer part of his life? She had anticipated the time he could leave the Healers Temple, when they would have the long night hours to comfort each other and talk. She needed Elzan to guide her in her duties, so she could serve the kingdom well and not embarrass her father’s memories.

If she was no longer a concubine, then Elzan was no longer her lover. Would they even be allowed to kiss?

“But Lady—Queen Mayar was a concubine, and she is High Priestess of the Healers Temple.”

“Yes, but she had already given King Nebazz his son when she rose to her position. It may not seem different to you, Lady, but it is.” O’klan’s voice sounded thick with sorrow on her behalf. Challen took what comfort she could get.

Her bed was chill and her pillow damp with tears that night.

If only she could have been a scribe’s daughter, and Elzan merely a scribe.

Ambassador Anbis of Dreva requested an audience with Challen two days later. After the things Elzan had told her about the Drevans’ questions, their quest, and her father’s skillful blocking of their politely phrased demands, Challen could easily guess what the man wanted.

Her untouchable status as a concubine had been removed. That gave her protection, because now no one had the authority to give her to the Drevans and their Priest-King as a peace offering. At the same time, her new status made her even more valuable to them. Challen had read enough incidents in history where the priestess of one demi-god had wed the priest of another demi-god, to unite the two nations and make them both more powerful against a common enemy.

She understood Elzan’s teasing disgust with her overwhelming knowledge of history. Challen would have preferred not to know the Drevans had a precedent to follow.

On the other hand, Mother Matrika had given her no guidance in this regard. If Matrika did not order the marriage, Challen would not agree to it. To marry the Priest-King would be to make Matrika subservient to Skataeroz, rather than a partner. It would be the same as if Dreva had conquered Bainevah in a war and made all the Priesthood subservient to Skataeroz and the Bull of Dreva.

She had no choice but to grant Anbis’ request for the meeting. That did not mean, however, she had to see him in her private reception room. Her new quarters were her sanctuary. There, she could close her eyes and pretend Elzan would burst through the door any moment and sweep her off her feet to laugh and love. There, she could cry her loneliness, and no one would ever know. She refused to pollute her sanctuary with even the memory of Anbis’ presence there.

Challen had heard that in Dreva, gifts and powers were more important than birth, wealth or character. No one had authority without some power, gifted by Skataeroz. For all she knew, Anbis could come into her rooms and hear the echoes of her tears. That was too much intimacy to grant someone who she suspected had a hand in Shazzur’s death.

After all, Shazzur had built a wall between the Drevans and their goal. Had they killed her father in spiteful retribution, or to remove the barrier by removing his influence?

She met Ambassador Anbis in the gardens, with O’klan to her right, Andorn to her left, and faithful Belten and Oyen standing behind her. The three men had become good friends and requested the honor of being her personal guards. Challen imagined she would feel Elzan present at the interview through them.

Her fears were confirmed when she looked at Anbis, standing among the brilliant flowers and ornamental grasses in the early afternoon sunshine, and he cast no shadow. Neither he nor the two Drevan guards permitted him for this meeting cast any shadow, despite the angle of the sun.

The Bull was the emblem of Dreva, just as the Ram was for Bainevah. If she dreamed of the Bull-man tonight, would he emerge from the shadows at last, and wear Anbis’ face?

Mother Matrika, speak through me, Challen prayed. Fill my mind and lead my steps safely away from whatever trap he builds around me.

She calmed, as if being certain of the man’s status took away her fears. Challen set herself to be gracious and use diplomatic, empty words as her weapons and shield.

“Priestess,” the dark-haired, too-thin man said, bowing. His voice flowed in deep music that could mesmerize when combined with the black pools of his eyes. “All Dreva sends greetings and congratulates you on ascending to your proper position of power.”

Anbis had lower-rank priests who communicated with their Priest-King through scrying bowls. Why had he spoken of her?

“Thank you, Ambassador. You will please forgive me if I am not yet adept in proper protocol. My esteemed Father had no use for elevated language and gave me little instruction.”

She heard a snort from Andorn. A burst of love for Elzan’s close friend washed over her. She could depend on him to find humor in this encounter today, no matter how dangerous it grew.

“No, gracious Lady of the Temple, there is no need for apologies. Simplicity and forthrightness are greater beauty and grace than the most highly trained tongue.” His caressing voice sent warm, drowsy ripples through her. Anbis straightened his red and black formal robes with the silver Bull of Dreva across his chest. Challen concentrated on the emblem to avoid his eyes.

What was wrong with her? Was his spicy scent a drug to overpower her mind as it overpowered the lilies in the pond behind her?

“May I ask why you requested this meeting?” Challen caught a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye, but she knew better than to glance away from this man, even for a moment.

“For the sake of peace. For a strong alliance between Dreva and Bainevah. For the fulfillment of prophecies spoken in the Temple of Skataeroz.” He smiled, and Challen would have fled if O’klan’s hand did not rest heavily on her shoulder for support.

“Alliance?” she asked, following the silent voice that told her what was the more delicate thread in the conversation.

“You obey the Sacred Marriage, and are now Priestess because of the blessings you brought. I come to speak of a higher and more sacred marriage, Priestess.” Anbis leaned forward and Challen suspected he would leap on her if she were not so well guarded. “It is your destiny, Kena’Shazzur, to join yourself to the Bull of Dreva, the Priest-King of Skataeroz.

“Your marriage will combine two worships and nations into one.” Anbis’ voice smoothed into something hypnotic and sweet; Challen dug fingernails into her palms to fight the allure. “Matrika and Skataeroz will join in the partnership destined since the beginning of time. Bainevah and Dreva will join. We shall become the greatest nation the world has ever known.”

“You honor me, Ambassador. I should like to study these prophecies.” She would rather burn the scrolls that contained such prophecies, but Challen knew better than to destroy any knowledge, no matter how poisonous.

“When you come to Dreva to wed the Bull, all the archives of our temples shall be open to your study.” He bowed, and Challen suspected his smile was not pleasantness but triumph. He thought he had won already, did he?

“There can be no talk of marriage,” Queen Mayar said as she glided up to join them, with Jushta and six guards in attendance. Andorn moved aside to let her settle on the bench next to Challen.

Anbis reared back like a snake and opened his mouth to speak. He paused, and Challen could almost see the thoughts snapping through his mind. The Queen wore her formal robes as Healer High Priestess, giving her double status and power. Only a fool or a madman dared strike a healer, even if she weren’t a royal lady.

“Forgive my ignorance, Lady Priestess,” he finally said, smoothing his smile back across his face. “I do not understand how you can decide for Kena’Shazzur.”

“I do not decide.” Mayar took hold of Challen’s hand and squeezed just a little tighter than necessary.

Tingling warmth flowed between their palms. Why did the woman use healing power on her? Unless she thought Challen had been drugged, or poisoned?

“King Doni’Jazzan’Nebazz’Dayona has decided. Four princes have requested the right to court Lady Kena’Shazzur.”

“Forgive my bluntness, Lady Priestess, but the desires of a prince who will not rule are of no consequence to Dreva.”

“Propriety rules. Lady Kena’Shazzur is in mourning for her revered father, the former Seer and First Advisor to the King. By the King’s decree, when her mourning has ended she will be free to consider marriage, and not before then.”

Challen’s free hand edged toward her belly and the possible child there. She clenched her fist to stop the protective gesture; it could be used against her by an observant enemy.

“And how long must this mourning last?” Anbis asked, his voice softening almost to a whisper. He smiled pleasantly, but Challen saw the icy poison behind his polished manners.

“For such an exalted, honored and holy person as my father, three moons.” Challen almost smiled when Anbis moved back a step and his eyes widened in dismay. “As he died at equinox, my mourning shall end at solstice.”

By solstice, she would know if she was pregnant. Nothing, not even the threat of war, would convince King Nebazz to let Anbis take her if she was pregnant with his grandchild, Elzan’s firstborn, the future king of Bainevah.

“Agreed,” Anbis said, raising his hand to call all present to witness this moment. “At solstice, Lady Kena’Shazzur, you will see the wisdom in submitting to the marriage waiting for you in Dreva. It is foretold.”

“So you say, Ambassador, but I credit no prophecy I have not studied. Mother Matrika has not spoken of this marriage, and I would be a fool to act without her blessing.” A new thought struck her. “What does Skataeroz’s name mean?”

“Shade and shelter, of course.” He bowed to her.

Shade? she mused, as they went through the polite farewells required of diplomats who would rather use knives. I think not. I think shadows. I think darkness more appropriate.

“That was well done,” Queen Mayar murmured when the Drevans had left them. She began to withdraw her hand, but Challen twined her fingers through the woman’s and held on.

“Was there poison being used against me?”

“No, but I feared it. Elzan was unsure of what he had seen, and there is nothing wrong with hedging a wager.” She managed a smile, but it didn’t take the angry pallor from her ivory face.

“Elzan?”

“He woke from a terrible dream, of Anbis tying you to an altar. A Bull-man raped you, and a darkness that covered the land emerged from your womb.”

“Mother,” she whispered, and Challen wasn’t sure if she called on Matrika or Mayar.

“There, it is all right, child. The danger is averted. In three moons we shall know how to deny the Drevans in safety.” She again tried to free her hand, but Challen held on with both hands now. “Challen?”

“I need your help. I cannot examine myself to be sure … We must go inside.”

The entire party hurried in silence into the palace and up the stairs to Challen’s apartment doors. O’klan, Belten, and Oyen insisted on searching her rooms, first, to be sure Anbis’ people weren’t waiting to kidnap her. Andorn and Jushta and the guards protected them, watching the shadows at the bottom of the stairs leading to her door, as if the enemy would emerge there. Jushta and Queen Mayar’s guards stood outside the door while Andorn sent for others in the Host of the Ram to guard her balcony.

“This must go no further than this room,” Challen whispered, drawing Mayar and O’klan into her workroom. The eunuch brought a lamp and shut the door. “The day my Father died, he told me I had conceived on the equinox. A son.”

“Ah.” Mayar smiled and gently guided Challen to the couch. “You wish me to be sure?” She placed both hands over Challen’s belly and the faint golden glow rose from her fingers.

“If this is so, you cannot tell anyone, Lady. Not until the child is visible inside you,” O’klan said. “Your enemies will destroy the child and then say you were mistaken.”

“We have three moons of grace and freedom from suitors. Safe from Anbis and Skataeroz.” Challen felt a measure of calm wash over her, even though O’klan had confirmed her fears.

“Then we will have a Sacred Marriage and a royal marriage at solstice,” Queen Mayar announced.

“I’m pregnant?”

“The signs are clear.” She smiled and gently cupped Challen’s cheek. “Thank you, child.”

“For what?”

“Letting me touch my grandchild first.”

“They will say the child is not Elzan’s. They will accuse me of breaking my mourning by taking a lover.”

“Then we must guard your virtue as that of a Sanctum Bride.” A mirthless chuckle escaped her. “No one can then claim to be the father but Elzan. The King has forbidden all suitors to approach your door or walk in the gardens below your balcony. None may approach you anywhere but during Court and festivals.”

“Where there are plenty of witnesses.” Challen sighed, glad for the King’s decree even as part of her felt she would choke. Even Elzan could not approach her now.

“We must tell no one. Not even the King or your grandfather,” Mayar continued. “As wise as those two are, I fear the news of a child would test their discretion. All we need is for a single whisper to escape. It would open you to danger, and Anbis would order Elzan’s death to make it easier to take you.”

“Then to protect us all, silence.” She pressed both hands over her belly and imagined she felt the growing child move already. In fear, or to confirm the Queen’s words?

CHAPTER 21

“I’ve had those dreams again, Mother,” Elzan said, when Mayar entered his room that morning.

He could sit up now, if he leaned on his good hip and used his undamaged arm to push himself upright. Elzan slept more than he liked, but with few visitors, there was little to do besides study and sleep. Sometimes he woke up aching for Challen to hold him. When he didn’t dream of her kisses and her touch soothing his burns, he dreamed of floods—fire or water or bulls—coming down on Bainevah from the north.

The Bull was Dreva, the country to the north. During the Sacred Marriage, Challen had been gifted with a vision of Dreva gathering for war, guided by a beacon from within Bainevah.

“Again from the north?” Queen Mayar paused before putting down the wide tray with fresh bandages and ointment and wine to wash the seeping burns. “I told your father last night of your many visions. He was just sleepy enough to be amused. He says his seer’s ghost has given you the gift.” She settled on the padded bench next to the bed and began unwinding his bandages.

“And?” Elzan prompted.

“He is very pleased with Challen’s words, her confidence and wisdom and the humor she brings to Council. He doesn’t know whether she learned that from her father, or from you.”

“At least he acknowledges Challen was mine.” He still nurtured resentment at what the King had done. It was for the good of the kingdom, true, and Challen was even more carefully protected now as king’s adviser. More than he could have managed for his concubine. That rankled, even if he was grateful.

“She is still yours, in her heart where it truly matters. You are only forbidden her bed for the present time.”

“No, Mother. Not forbidden. Blocked. There’s a difference.”

“She is as sacrosanct as a Sanctum Bride. If you try to go to her, you will be halted long before you reach her door.”

“What was the exact wording of the ban?”

“The exact wording…” Mayar signaled him to be quiet while she finished unwrapping the bandages. She frowned as she gently swabbed the oozing flesh. “All suitors are forbidden to set foot in the hallways leading to her door. They are forbidden to enter her garden. They are only permitted to approach her among the Court or at festivals. Your father wants witnesses to whatever they say to her. Several of your brothers have tricked people into bargains and contracts they never intended to make. With witnesses and O’klan to guide her, our Challen is safe.”

Elzan smiled, despite the renewed stinging and a longing to dig his nails into his tender, healing flesh and scratch until he found relief. “He didn’t forbid the balcony or her rooms, just the means to get there.”

“What are you planning?”

“If I don’t tell you, then you won’t be tricked into betraying me.”

“I am very adept at keeping secrets, my hawk,” she responded tartly, yet with a smile.

“I know.” He caught her hand and kissed the back, wincing at the taste of sour medicinal wine. “You are true to me. If not for you, I think I’d be afraid to trust my heart to anyone.”

“But?”

“This is between Challen and myself. If you don’t know, you won’t be tempted to tell her. If she doesn’t know, then those watching her won’t be warned when I act.”

That night, Elzan dreamed of a river that dug into the ground around the city walls. Deep in the ground, the water burst up inside the walls of the city. It turned into bulls of fire, which rampaged through the city, goring and trampling and burning everything in their path.

Elzan woke with a shout. O’klan was on duty and hurried into the prince’s room. He wiped his face and gave him wine mixed with soothing herbs.

“Tell Challen,” Elzan commanded, when he had told the eunuch what he had dreamed.

“What can she do, Highness?”

“The city is built on bedrock. Nothing can tunnel under the walls unless treachery is used. Don’t you see? Someone here, inside the city, will help the invaders come through the walls. We’ll be devoured from inside, not from without.” Elzan clutched the half-empty cup hard enough his knuckles turned white. “Tell Challen to look for such images in the history scrolls. Fire and flood breaking through the bedrock.”

“Indeed, Highness. I will.” The eunuch put two fingers under the base of the cup, urging it back up to Elzan’s mouth. “Drink. Clear your mind and sleep. The sooner you are healed, the happier she will be. When her mind is eased over you, she will have more energy and thought to devote to Bainevah.”

“Does my Father work her too hard?”

“Not half as hard as she works herself.” He chuckled fondly. “She has much to protect. The future is in her hands.” O’klan waited until Elzan finished the wine. “When you are permitted to walk again, will you return to the Council?”

“If I could persuade my Mother, I’d have them carry me in. I don’t know if she’s worried about my dignity or my ability to defend myself.”

“The Priestess is a wise lady who has brought her own blessings on the land,” O’klan murmured. He took the empty cup. “Sleep now, Highness, and dream of our Lady. She dreams of you every night.”

“She told you that?” Elzan clutched the blankets to keep from running to Challen. His wounded leg wouldn’t support him beyond one step.

“No. I hear her sigh your name in her sleep.”

“Tell her I dream of her even when I don’t sleep.”

O’klan bowed deeply, his midnight face glowing with a smile, and left the sickroom. Elzan sighed and tried to find a more comfortable spot among his pillows. The spring night was cool, but he felt hot, his skin prickling, as if he were still inside the Shazzur’s burning house.

Maybe it was good Challen wasn’t there, he mused. She would hold him and kiss him and try to soothe away his discomfort. Her touch would kindle new fires, and until he healed, he would only find frustration in her arms.

Commander Asqual agreed with Elzan’s assessment when he came to talk the next morning. He brought detailed maps of the city and archival drawings of the phases of the walls built, dismantled and remade through eight centuries. Springs and cisterns around the city were charted by the royal surveyors and Asqual promised he would assign one entire Host to search for underground rivers.

Elzan had more dreams of the fire and flood, bulls and rivers digging under the walls of the city. When those visions didn’t haunt him, he suffered dreams of Challen that tormented him with longing.

Ten days after the fire, he got permission to try to walk. His burns had healed enough, Queen Mayar didn’t fear them re-opening under pressure. The long wound on his hip worried her, the muscle torn in such a way that it was stubborn about healing.

His leg had a tendency to fold without warning. Elzan held onto Commander Asqual’s arm and walked from his bed to his door. His head felt light and his heart thudded in his ears and the wound stabbed fire down his leg with every step. Still, he laughed with Asqual when he reached the door and leaned against the wall. He walked four more times before sunset, and each time was easier, until he needed no support.

Challen was his first visitor the next morning.

“Congratulations, Highness,” she said, when Elzan could only stare. She was a vision in midnight blue and silver Court robes.

He was sure he slept, dreaming she had come into the courtyard where he had gone to enjoy the cool morning sunshine.

“Since you can now walk, you are permitted visitors. Under strict supervision,” Challen continued. She nodded toward the guards; all personal friends in the Host of the Ram. Four around the courtyard, two at the door.

“Thank you, Lady Kena’Shazzur. I offer my congratulations on your new duties.” Elzan held out his hand. When she gave her trembling hand into his grasp, he bowed over it. He wanted to pull her down into his lap and kiss her until they were breathless. That was impossible, with six soldiers, Haneen, and O’klan in attendance.

“Every advantage has its disadvantages, Highness.” She swept her skirts aside and sank down in a full Court bow.

“No, Lady, you forget your family has no need to bow to royal blood.” Elzan caught hold of her hand again and raised her to her feet. “In my eyes, you are royal.”

“My love,” she whispered, before Elzan released her hand. She nodded to him and sank down into the chair next to his.

“What errand has brought you here?”

“Your visions, Highness.” Challen beckoned and Haneen hurried forward with a basket of scrolls. The scribe girl winked at Elzan. “We found similar references in ancient prophecies. Some may be linked to my Father’s visions. Will you read and give us your insights?”

“Gladly, Lady.” Elzan took the scrolls from her. Under cover of sliding the silk sleeve off, he squeezed her hand. He smiled when he felt his ring on her thumb.

Before Challen left two hours later, they had managed many a touch, a whisper, a long moment gazing into each other’s eyes. Elzan knew Haneen caught every stolen moment, and was delighted at the subterfuge. O’klan was hard pressed not to beam. The delight in the big man’s eyes was enough to start Elzan chuckling, even as he sighed for more than just the touch of Challen’s hand.

“Treachery.” Elzan pressed his hands against the table top, taking the weight off his aching leg. He didn’t care if anyone noticed; he had more important things on his mind.

One moon quarter of careful surveying and scouting by the most trustworthy and skilled engineers in the Host of the Ram had confirmed there were no underground streams or hidden tunnels to lead enemy armies into the city. No hidden springs in the bedrock to undermine the walls.

The only way for enemies to come into the city in secret was through treachery.

“No sign of armies approaching, despite the troubles with Chadrasheer last fall or the news from Moragraen,” Asqual said. “I agree with you, lad, but the scouting teams all say movement is to the east and west, not south toward us.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, stiff in his Court clothes. He and Elzan met every morning after Asqual attended Court.

“Treachery will come in as a flood from the north,” Elzan murmured. He picked up the parchment sheets and rolled them into a thick tube.

“I don’t doubt you. They could take the countries to the west and east, and come through them into Bainevah—but that means invasion next summer. Two moons until solstice. No good commander begins a war after solstice. No time for a siege.”

“Either the commander who will face us is not good … or he depends on deep treachery.” His mouth tasted fouler every time he used the word. “Commander, I honor you as an uncle, but you have forgotten one important detail.” He waited until Asqual had thought for a moment and his frown deepened. “Onash commands the Host of the North Gate. Anath has the West Gate. Abrak was given the Water Gate when I became Crown Prince. These three Hosts now scout to the north.”

“Hmm, yes, and they are just stupidly selfish enough to risk Bainevah for their own profit. It amazes me how they can all be your brothers. If they didn’t look so much like Nebazz, I’d accuse their mothers of whoring. How can any of them believe they could rule a shattered country?”

“I suspect their friend has promised there will be little bloodshed. Except mine and the King’s.”

“And my throat, and those of the Hosts loyal to you. Yes. You are, as always, right.” The old soldier grinned ruefully.

“I had the best of teachers, Uncle. Tell the King. Today.”

“Tell him yourself, my son,” Queen Mayar said, entering the courtyard where the two met. She held out Elzan’s Court clothes.

“Mother?” He swallowed an urge to whoop for joy.

“You are healed as much as you can heal, fretting and pacing here in your prison.”

“A loving prison, Mother.” Elzan clasped her shoulders and kissed both her cheeks.

‘The Complacent Faction,’ as Challen referred to her opponents on the Council, opposed her plan to build a new Hidden City. They maintained the city, its people and wealth, would be returned whole with the Three.

They think this is some child’s tale of magic and beneficent spirits, instead of a battle between Maquaos in his latest disguise and the Mother, she fumed.

She knew better than to say what she thought. Glancing at Chizhedek, who wholly supported her, she could see he fumed silently also. The support of the High Priest meant little to the opposing forces in Council, and that worried Challen.

“Majesty, Crown Prince Doni’Nebazz joins the Council,” the guard at the door announced, as Elzan strode through the door.

Challen stayed seated, glad for her right to do so. She gripped her chair, her hands hidden under her formal robes, to fight the urge to fling herself at Elzan. She devoured him with her gaze as the rest of the Council stood to welcome him.

Elzan took the empty seat at the King’s right hand. He gripped the chair arms to brace himself as he sat, meaning his wounded leg still bothered him. Watching him sit, Challen felt a subliminal settling in the room, as if the final piece in a puzzle lock had been put into place.

“Do you wish to speak before we continue?” the King asked his son, when everyone had taken their seats.

“I will return us to the discussion I interrupted, Majesty,” Elzan said. “I read the proposal to rebuild the Hidden City. I agree with Lady Kena’Shazzur. Prophecies support her stand. The Hidden City was established to serve the Three. How will they be served and how will they be restored unless the Hidden City is ready when the moment comes?”

“Highness, convince us that this is right,” Abendago said. He glanced at Challen and winked.

“The Prophecy speaks of the Flame coming.” Elzan’s gaze drifted to Challen as he spoke.

Her heart thudded against her ribs in panic and aching love. She hadn’t been able to tell Elzan of her father’s final words, and his assertion that the Flame wasn’t their child, but her missing brother, Asha. Elzan couldn’t know about the child inside her, could he? Or had a vision told him?

“The Hidden City,” Elzan continued, “is often called the Lamp of the Mother, and the Oil of Light. How can a flame exist unless it is contained by a lamp and fed oil? Furthermore, when the Three are restored, how can we keep them safe unless the Hidden City is prepared to shelter them? We endanger Bainevah’s future if we neglect such elemental tactics.”

Challen clasped her hands together until the ram’s head ring left its imprint in her flesh. She had used similar arguments. Just watching the faces of the members of the Council, she saw Elzan’s mere presence persuaded them. She didn’t know whether to shriek in frustration or laugh at the closed minds that resisted her, yet fell prey to Elzan simply because he was the Crown Prince and miraculously risen from his sickbed. She would not be angry or jealous, she vowed. She would be grateful for his support and his renewed presence.

In moments, Council approved her request to begin plans and to send a Host to survey a site. Elzan introduced the next topic. He spread his maps on the table and explained what he and Commander Asqual had investigated, what the scouts found, and his theory that treachery waited to assist invaders.

“All this based on your visions?” King Nebazz asked. He smiled without humor. Challen rather thought there was pride. “Enemies took my friend and Seer, but Mother Matrika gave his gift of visions to my firstborn and heir. We would be fools, my Lords of the Gates, if we did not pay heed to her messenger.”

There was surprisingly little dissension. Challen only saw one place where the preparations against treachery could unravel. She kept quiet until the Council adjourned to eat. With O’klan as escort, she went to the room holding the banquet table and a scattering of small tables for individual dining. The Council members sent servants to fill their plates for them while they talked in twos and threes. Challen preferred to fill her own plate. Elzan served himself as well.

“I miss you,” he whispered, as he handed her a tiny loaf studded with apricots, still warm from the oven.

“Thank you, Highness.” Challen flinched as she saw a shadow approach.

O’klan nodded to them and took up a position where he could see anyone approach them. Challen wanted to hug the big man for his cunning. He could warn them if anyone tried to overhear their conversation. Here in plain sight, no one could accuse them of breaking her mourning period and the King’s edicts.

“I reach for you in my sleep,” she whispered back, and stepped along the table, pretending to search for something else amid the fruit and sweets and strips of venison wrapped in grape leaves. “A hundred times a day, I turn to tell you something and find myself speaking to empty air.”

“I would hear you, no matter where I am.”

She nearly dropped her plate. Elzan handed her a goblet of sweet watered wine and she thanked him with a nod and sipped until her flaming cheeks began to cool. Then the detail that had bothered her in Council returned to her thoughts.

“Who commands the scouts to the north?” she asked.

“Anath, Abrak, and Onash.”

“Do you suspect treachery or stupidity?”

“Ah, my most perceptive Lady Kena’Shazzur.” Elzan bowed to her and chuckled. Several heads turned in their direction. “I think I would prefer treachery.”

“Why?”

“Treachery can be dealt with and eliminated. Stupidity speaks ill of my father’s bloodline.” He twisted his face into a mask of regret.

Challen laughed. She nearly spilled her wine. Her lungs hurt, though she didn’t laugh long. Later, she realized it was the first time she had truly laughed since her father had died.

Fifth Ascent Moon

“A good day today, Lady,” O’klan said, joining Challen on the balcony, where she had been since finishing her supper.

“A very good day.” She smiled at him and turned her back to the garden and the crimson, gold, and purple streaking the horizon. “O’klan, was I very … obvious today?”

By now, she not only had her father’s words and Queen Mayar’s testimony, but the proof of her own body that she was pregnant. It grew harder every day to meet Elzan in Council and speak calmly, to stand with him at the Temple during ceremonies and not blurt the news.

“No, Lady. You are always reserved and proper.” He grinned broadly and winked. “If you lower your eyes when you are greatly moved, no one will guess your feelings.”

“Good. Several on the Council would like to make me a daughter by marriage. Either to dominate or protect me. I wouldn’t like to hurt one or give weapons to the other.”

“Court gossip is forgetful, Lady. Those who remember you were the Prince’s concubine say you went to him because no one waited after the Sacred Marriage. Some even say he coerced you.”

“Who?” A spurt of anger warmed her face. “Only arrogant fools believe I would let anyone touch me but Elzan.”

“They forget your father would have fought the King if your Prince tried to claim you against your will.”

“The same ones who think they can trick me into marriage.” She nodded, seeing his malicious delight. “How is it you know all these things to warn me, and Mynoch doesn’t?”

“Ah, he is too devoted to little Haneen. He sees nothing, speaks of nothing but her. Love is very soothing to his temper.”

“How so?” Challen sighed as the cool breezes caressed her, soothing the damp heat that made her dress cling to her body.

“His brothers tease him that he has become a scribe, and he shows no anger.”

“He has. He’s so adept in the archives, even Hajbaz thinks he’s competent enough to work without supervision.”

“High praise,” O’klan agreed, grinning.

“Between Andorn and Mynoch, I know how Elzan fares when I don’t see him in Council. And it still isn’t enough.” She sighed. “I wish … I wish there were no Three, no Bainevah, no throne. Just Elzan and I, in the middle of nowhere.”

“And an endless night of stars and a soft couch and cool breezes,” he added, laughter making his voice rich.

“Torturer.” Challen gripped the stone railing to fight the longing for Elzan that filled her belly with churning warmth. “Haneen is with her sweetheart, and I am glad. Go enjoy yourself for the evening, O’klan. I need very much to be alone. Tell my guards, no one comes in unless they come from the King.”

“As you wish, Lady.” The eunuch bowed, then lightly squeezed her shoulder before turning to leave.

Challen looked out over the garden again, listening to the sound of his footsteps, the closing of doors and the click of his key in the locks. Finally she was alone, completely; no attendants, no ever-watchful guards. A soldier patrolled the garden below, but not so close as to intrude on her privacy.

A dew-jeweled garden, hours of privacy, rooms with every possible luxury, and a starry, clear night were worthless if she had no one to share them. Challen sighed and turned to go back into her workroom. The only way to get through the night was to read and make notes and fill her head with facts and figures until she was too tired to see straight.

Something thudded softly on the balcony. Challen paused, one hand on the clasp holding her dress together at her shoulder. She took a step onto the balcony and saw nothing amid the shadows. She undid the clasp and stepped back inside. The clasp on her other shoulder was stubborn. Challen hissed and sucked on her finger when she broke the skin, then tried again. Her dress slithered to the floor. The cool breeze from the balcony felt good, chilling her, clad only in a sheer, sweat-drenched sheath held up with two thin straps. The day had been too warm, locked up in Council. She welcomed the coolness, even if it raised gooseflesh.

“Torturer,” a man whispered from the balcony doorway.

Challen spun to face the intruder, mentally conjuring flames. She took a deep breath to shout for her guards. Released, unused energy flashed in the air as she gasped.

Elzan leaned against the doorway, his smile widening as his gaze traveled over her figure.

“You shouldn’t undress in a doorway, Lady Kena’Shazzur. A man might forget your need for privacy.”

“No one can see me from the garden.”

“Am I no one?” He took a step into the room.

“How did you get here?”

“I climbed from my balcony to the roof, then walked until I got here and dropped down. The King forbade your door and the halls and garden to his sons. He didn’t forbid the roof and balcony.” Elzan opened his arms.

“You could have hurt yourself. You could have fallen. What if a guard saw you and attacked before he recognized you?” She trembled with anger at his foolishness, fear at the thought of added injury, and greedy pride that he had taken such risks to reach her. “Are you all right?”

“Kiss me, Challen. I’ll be completely right then.”

She smothered a sob and flew to him. She tried to be gentle, careful of the pink, shiny flesh on his bare arm and side and leg. His simple servant’s kilt revealed so much his Court clothes and jewelry had hidden. Elzan growled, teasing, when she tried to keep her embrace light, and wrapped his arms around her tight enough to threaten her ribs. The force of his kiss bruised. His hands burned through her sheath.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, when his kisses traveled down her neck. “It’s forbidden.”

“I don’t care.”

“The King—”

“The King can’t forbid a man to make love to his wife. You are my wife, Challen, from the moment I held you in my arms in the Sacred Marriage.” Elzan shook her twice. “I am the Young Ram and you are the Wise and Mother Matrika made me responsible for your safety. She gave us to each other and bade us be happy. No one, not even the King can come between us.” He swept her up in his arms and started across the room.

“Elzan—”

He kissed her, smothering her attempts to speak. Then he shoved the door open with his hip.

“I’ll never forgive my Father for leaving my Mother a concubine for so long.” He shuddered once. “I’ll never do to you what he did to her.”

“But Elzan—”

“Don’t you want to make love to me, Challen?” he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Of course.” She wrapped her arm around his neck and drew his head down to kiss him. “But we’re going the wrong way to my bedroom.”

Elzan groaned, the sound turning to laughter as he let her slide down until she stood on her own feet again. They kissed, laughter bubbling up, vibrating through their bodies.

“I love you, Challen. Forever. You are the only one. You will always be the only one.”

“Always and only,” she whispered back. She took his hand and led him through her workroom to another door. Her bedroom was bathed in shadows, the air sweet with scented lamp oil. “Elzan…” She melted against him as he stopped her words with more kisses.

“Hmm?” He swept her up and carried her to the bed.

“Hurry.” She laughed as he dropped her among the pillows and pounced.

CHAPTER 22

“Do you have to leave already?” Challen murmured as Elzan unwrapped himself from around her.

He sat up, creating a perfect silhouette against the nearly full moon shining bright through her window as it headed for the horizon and dawn.

“You, love, should be asleep.” Elzan leaned over her and brushed a kiss across her forehead.

“I’m cold without you.”

His bark of laughter made them both wince and look toward the window, as if the soldier in the garden could hear.

“A little while ago, I thought we would set the bed afire.” He stroked her sweat-damp hair out of her face. “I love to watch you sleep, but if I don’t leave soon I could be caught.”

“A scandal, surely. Would it be enough to make Anbis leave?” She sat up and watched as he searched the floor for wherever he had tossed his kilt and sandals and breechcloth.

“Only death—which I wish I dared.” He glanced out into the garden, then turned back to sit on the edge of the bed. “Listen to me, love. I dreamed you gave birth to a flame that destroyed a vast, creeping shadow. You lay on a hill of snow, and as the child was born, the hill became a lush garden—”

“Our child will be born at winter solstice.”

Elzan didn’t even breathe. Though he had the moon at his back, there was enough light to see his staring eyes, bright with either astonished joy or terror or confusion.

“Challen?” he whispered, and caught up her hand to press against his lips. She turned her hand to grasp his and guide it to her still-flat belly.

“Father told me I had conceived at equinox.” She was amazed at how calm she felt, giving him the news. “If you dreamed this, then our child will be safe.”

“With Anbis trying to drag you away to Dreva and my brothers waiting to trick you into marriage.”

“I am safe—we are safe until solstice. We have plenty of time to think of what to do.”

“Until solstice,” he whispered. Then a grin wiped away the shock. “Our child!” He snatched her up into his lap and kissed her breathless.

Sixth Ascent Moon

Challen suspected O’klan knew about Elzan’s nighttime visits from the start. The eunuch always made sure she had treats in her bedroom; sweets and fruit-filled breads, skins of light, sweet wine and extra cups. Then he took to bringing her oysters in a bitter sauce and candied mandrakes; delicacies she didn’t care for, but which were reputed to inspire lovemaking.

Mynoch and Haneen brought her information about Skataeroz, who was referred to as Shadow Lord, the Darkness, He Who Devours, and other titles that confirmed their suspicions—Skataeroz was Maquaos Shadowmaker. Challen didn’t doubt there were prophecies in Dreva which dealt with her. The difference between the prophetic words of Maquaos and Matrika was that Maquaos could only speak the future he wished to be. He lacked Matrika’s power to move events and people to serve him.

The solstice deadline crept up on them and Challen’s attention focused on finding some way to refuse Anbis’ demands without plunging Bainevah into war with Dreva. She held conferences with her friends and confidants, and when Elzan crept along the rooftops of the palace to come to her, she told him what they had found. Still, all their work was useless if they did not learn the identity of the traitor who would sell them to Dreva.

Three days before solstice, Challen heard Amilia had been chosen. She watched King Nebazz carefully, trying to determine if he would carry his duty, or give it to Elzan again.

“I’m jealous,” she confided to Elzan, when he climbed down to be with her that night.

“Good.” He swept her up in his arms. “Now you know how I felt, thinking a husband waited for you.”

“My Father never did anything to find one for me, though there were several who did ask…”

“How many is ‘several’?”

“It doesn’t matter. He told them to wait until I was free to choose for myself.” She sighed and nuzzled his neck as he carried her through the door.

“I miss him. Let’s name one of our sons for him.” Elzan put her down on the bed and knelt over her. “Ease your heart, love. My Father asked me today if I would take his place.”

“What?” Her stomach clenched.

“He would rather be with my Mother. I understand why he never looks forward to solstice … As long as he is king, he must fulfill his duty.”

“Of course. To give it to you again would undermine the people’s faith in him, no matter how good the outcome.” She tried to swallow down her insecure feelings. No matter how she tried to reason through the situation, it still rankled her to think of Elzan with Amilia.

“He meant it as a gift, a sign of favor,” Elzan said, shaking his head. “I told him no.”

“Really?”

“Truly.” Elzan stretched out on top of her slowly, his arms along hers, fingers twined through hers, palm to palm, nose to nose, hip to hip. “I told him if I could not have you, I would be useless.”

Solstice

The day of the solstice, Challen found it ridiculously easy to send away her servants. Haneen was a little too helpful, pretending she wanted freedom to sneak away with Mynoch. Challen wondered who else knew about or suspected Elzan’s visits.

Court friends didn’t press when she declined invitations to celebrate solstice with them. They thought she was nervous and preoccupied because her mourning would end at dawn. It seemed all Bainevah knew about Anbis’ insistence that she was destined to marry the Priest-King. Challen was not nervous or worried. Elzan had everything planned, including convincing Andorn to guard Challen during the entire three days of celebration. Elzan had rehearsed how he would tell the King that Challen carried his child, before Anbis arrived to present his demand.

Challen did not fear for her safety. She lived in an odd bubble of calm that nothing could penetrate. The child inside her had been foreseen by her parents and they promised great good would come of this child. Nothing, not even the malicious power of Maquaos Shadowmaker, could prevent that birth.

The entire city concentrated on preparing for the Sacred Marriage. The summer ritual would bring the rains and grant fertility to the crops. Couples would marry all across the land as bonfires encircled the city walls so the light reached up to the stars. Old married couples and courting couples and bridal couples joined hands and leaped over the fires and vanished into fields, forests, elegant chambers, and barns to celebrate.

Elzan climbed down onto the balcony at sunset and waited until trumpets rang out from the Temple, where King Nebazz had joined hands with Amilia. He scooped up armfuls of the flowers there and joined Challen in her bedroom. He scattered the flowers over the bed before taking her into his arms.

As the moon rose, they listened to the sounds of drums and singing, flutes and harps as the city continued to celebrate. In the morning, the King and Amilia would offer the sacrifice. In the morning, when Challen’s mourning for her father ended, a flood of suitors would fall on her.

While the city celebrated the sacrifice, she and Elzan would inform the King of the existence of their child. Then they would go to Chizhedek, join hands in the Temple and be married.

“Tonight, all of Bainevah thinks about happiness and the future, not about war,” Elzan whispered. As he often did, he rested a hand on the now-visible bulge of the child inside her.

“If only the whole world could stay in this day,” she whispered back. He brushed a kiss across her cheek and in moments they were asleep.

Challen dreamed she held a child in her arms. A boy with red hair. The red locks moved, shifting and changing from scarlet to ember red to gold. They were flames, but she felt no heat, no fear. The boy looked at her with Elzan’s eyes and pointed upward.

Challen saw she stood before a dark building by the West Gate. The walls waved like a wheat field in a storm before harvest. She looked down as the child vanished, and saw men digging at the foundations of the wall.

A massive shadow reared up into the sky, casting darkness across the city, the country, a black so all-encompassing, it swallowed everything. But then she looked closer and saw tiny spots of light moving about the streets.

She knew those spots of light were shadows, bright in contrast to the darkness. Shadows of light cast by people who glowed from within. As they gathered together, the light of their souls grew stronger and merged into a wall of light that rose up in battle against the shadow that now looked like a man.

“Maquaos Shadowmaker,” Challen whispered.

A man stepped through the West Gate. He looked like Elzan, but his face was a twisted mask of anger, so she couldn’t tell which prince he was. He cast no shadow amid the darkness. He flung a net at Challen and though she tried to leap out of the way, the net tangled around her. The shadow-man reached down enormous hands that swallowed all light, and curled icy fingers around her. She felt the child inside her writhe and die.

“No!” she screamed, and bolted upright in bed.

Elzan held her close, driving away the ice in her blood with the heat of his flesh. He waited until her shudders died, stroking her back, her hair, murmuring sounds of comfort.

“Skataeroz—Maquaos knows about our baby,” she whispered. “He’s coming for me. Now. One of your brothers is helping him. Taking him through the walls, past the guards. The West Gate.”

“Then Anath is the traitor, and we go to your grandfather to be married now.” His voice was too calm. She felt his muscles turn to stone under her hands. “Can you climb?”

“Go over the roofs?” A choked burst of laughter escaped her. “I can do anything, tonight.”

Elzan dressed quickly and went to tell O’klan they were leaving. The faithful eunuch and six members of the Host of the Ram guarded Challen’s door, and three more patrolled the gardens under her balcony. Before Elzan opened the bedroom door, O’klan called from the other side.

“What’s wrong?” Elzan demanded. He glanced at Challen, to make sure she was dressed, then flung the door open.

King Nebazz and Queen Mayar stood in the other room. Challen’s first thought was that neither one looked surprised to see Elzan in her bedroom.

“My son.” The King’s voice sounded strained, and Challen saw sparkles of laughter in his eyes. “When were you going to tell me of my grandchild? Do you know how hard it is to perform the Sacred Marriage after Mother Matrika tells me the news that should have come from you?” He fixed a mocking-stern gaze on Challen. “How can I ever trust you in the future, my Advisor, if you keep such secrets from me?”

“Anbis,” Challen said. She regretted seeing the warmth and laughter flee both his and Queen Mayar’s faces.

“Hmm, yes.” He stepped back, allowing her to go through the doorway. The four settled at the table in Challen’s workroom. “Mayar says you kept quiet so he wouldn’t send assassins against Elzan or have someone poison you to kill the child—but you could have told me! Does your grandfather know?”

“If the Mother told you, she probably told the High Priest, as well,” Elzan said sourly.

“Were you two preparing to go somewhere?” Queen Mayar asked. She gestured at their clothes.

Quickly, Elzan told about Challen’s dream and his theory that Anath was the traitor, ready to order his Host to let Anbis and the Drevans into the city.

“They could even be coming through the city at this moment, to take Challen tonight. We were preparing to flee to Chizhedek to be married, and to find sanctuary there.”

“They intended to be married at dawn,” Queen Mayar added. “Our enemy obviously knows about the child. If he catches Challen, he will kill the boy and take her prisoner. Great darkness will come from the child he forces her to give him. Nebazz, the fate of Bainevah rests on what we do before the sun rises.”

“Then we will go to the Temple.” He nodded slowly, looking Challen and Elzan over from head to toe. “May the Mother bless you both, and all Bainevah through you.”

“She will only bless us, Majesty, if we fully return to the true worship. One priestess, wife and queen to the king, and her son the king. When the old ways are re-established,” Challen continued, “then the Three will be restored and Maquaos Shadowmaker will no longer threaten our land.”

Doors banged open with a clap of thunder. Icy wind swirled through Challen’s rooms and tore at the curtains. Darkness spun through the room.

“Mother, give us light!”

Challen heard her voice, felt the energy move through her fingertips, but someone else worked through her.

The lamps flared brighter and the flames stood still despite the wind that tore at their clothes. The four hurried from her workroom into the main room, to meet the intruders. Challen could only spare one moment of concern for the guards and faithful O’klan, outside her door. Had they fallen to assassins, or to magic?

“It is past midnight,” a man said in a sneering voice. “Your three moons of mourning are over, Kena’Shazzur. Submit now to the will of Skataeroz and bow to your lord and husband.”

“Anath,” Elzan growled, as three men stepped through the shattered door into Challen’s quarters.

Prince Anath was indeed the man from Challen’s vision. A man in black and red robes, wearing a bull mask, stood in the middle of the three. Ambassador Anbis stood on his other side. The two men sneered at the four. Red light glowed in the eyeholes of the bull mask.

“My promised bride.” The voice coming from inside the mask rang hollow, with the sound of the bleakest winter storm winds. He held out his black-gloved hands. “Come to me, and all these will live, despite their sins of denying the will of Skataeroz.”

“There was no promise made.” Challen felt the cold that yanked the breath from her mouth, but the power stirring deep inside her seemed to laugh at the feeble attempts to suck her life and mind away.

“Skataeroz speaks. You are mine!”

“Skataeroz is Maquaos, who was defeated more than once when he stood against Mother Matrika. You have no power here, no authority.”

“It is solstice,” Anbis sneered. “The days shorten. Darkness overcomes light. These days are ours.”

“Submit to me, or these die.” The Bull-man, the Priest-King of Dreva, gestured at Elzan and his parents, and blackness spun out from his hands like poisonous webs.

Queen Mayar grasped Challen’s hand and light sprang up from them. When the light touched the black shreds, it burst into flame. The cold in the room decreased.

“Traitor,” King Nebazz said. A flicker of movement turned into a knife that flew across the room. Bone crunched.

Anath opened his mouth to retort—and stopped, gagging, with a long knife lodged deep in his throat. He yanked at it, but the blade wouldn’t move. He crumpled to his knees, gasping for breath, drowning in his own blood.

“Mother Matrika, I am your servant, your vessel!” Challen shouted. Elzan grasped her other hand and she felt his love and strength flow into her like oil into a lamp.

Light filled her eyes. It flowed up from deep inside her, blinding her to the room, driving away the cold, erasing all sound and sensation. For just a moment, she felt a flicker of terror for her baby, and what such a rushing river of power could do to the child. Then even that fear burned away under the flow of divine energy.

Challen rose above the roofs of the palace, above the city, above the river plain where Bainevah nestled. The stars burned close enough to touch. The roaring of power in her ears and blood and lungs softened so she could hear the heartbeat of every living soul in Bainevah.

Through that, she heard another sound that made her laugh aloud.

A whining, nasty, childish voice cursed and screamed. Somewhere in the brightness, a tiny spot of darkness tried to resist the purifying fire. Maquaos struggled against Matrika’s power, like a spoiled little boy who disobeyed and refused to take his punishment—and yet was punished despite all he said and did.

“While you stayed outside my domain, you were safe,” Matrika said, her voice chiming as it bounced off the stars, rumbling with the power of volcanoes and rivers in flood. “You dared to invade my land. You dared to impose your will on those who had given themselves to me. The laws of the Unseen cannot be bent. All that is yours is now mine.”

With a sensation of a heavy door shutting, the sounds of protest suddenly vanished. Challen imagined Maquaos had been shut inside a room where he would spend eternity kicking at the floor and banging on the walls and generally behaving like a child having a tantrum.

“If you had submitted in fear, or even to protect those you love,” Matrika whispered, “you would have given Maquaos the right to rule you, and through you, Bainevah. Well done, child of Naya. Queen and High Priestess and bearer of the light.”

Challen fell forever and the brightness blurred and her body returned to her, heavy and aching with weariness.

“Challen?” Elzan held a cup to her lips. She sputtered and blinked and tried to sit upright. She took a deep breath and the stink of burning flesh filled her lungs.

“It’s over,” she whispered.

“Indeed it is,” Queen Mayar said. “We heard and saw everything you did.” She pressed cool hands on either side of Challen’s face and looked deep into her eyes.

Challen blinked and took a deep breath and choked on the faint, greasy gray smoke in the air.

“Are they … gone?”

“Burned beyond recognition,” King Nebazz said. “Priestess, you have authority over Dreva now, because you defeated the Priest-King, who was reputed to be immortal.” A dry chuckle escaped him. “That wretched, cold land is yours now. What do you say we should do with it?”

“Teach them Matrika’s laws and lead them into the light,” Challen whispered. She glanced at the three concerned faces all watching her. A weary smile touched her face. She felt as if she had gone through a long, draining fever. This was almost as bruising, mentally and physically, as her vision during the Sacred Marriage. “I think Mother Matrika would approve if I gave Dreva to my husband as a wedding gift.”

King Nebazz laughed. Not quite his hearty roar of approval, but the sound drove the waiting, uneasy quiet from the room.

“My son, I suggest you take no concubines. Give your love no reason to ever doubt you.”

“I am married to the High Priestess of Matrika,” Elzan said, and paused to lift Challen’s hand to his lips. He kissed palm and back and the warmth in his eyes made her heart leap. “Do you really think anyone will have the audacity to give me a concubine?”

“None at all,” Queen Mayar said. She slid both hands down to rest on Challen’s belly. “I can sense no harm, but I think you had best find a bed as soon as possible.”

“No,” Challen said. “I’m not going to bed until I’m married to the father of my child.” She tried to smile, despite the silent cry of protest that her body gave when she started to stand. “Besides, Grandfather needs to be told what’s happened.”

“I hardly think the High Priest of Matrika needs to be told. The flow of power, the battle of the demi-gods, is rather hard to miss,” King Nebazz said dryly.

“Not that.” She sighed as Elzan slid an arm tight around her waist and took all her weight onto himself. “I need to tell him he’s going to be a great-grandfather. Even if he knows already. He deserves that.”

Dawn had nearly come by the time they reached the Temple. Servants and guards removed the burned corpses and the destruction around Challen’s quarters. Soldiers tended the prisoners taken in the battle between Anath’s supporters and Challen’s guards. O’klan caught up with them in the palace courtyard, his robes torn, bandages on one arm, but grinning with delighted triumph.

The three men walked, leading horses so Mayar and Challen could ride, rather than waiting for sedan chairs to be brought.

“Majesty,” Elzan said, when they had left the palace behind and had some semblance of privacy again. “If my Mother has always been your one love, and as she says, you always intended to give me the crown, why did you wait to marry her?”

“She refused to marry me. I asked her the day you were born,” King Nebazz said. “I asked her many times over the years, and she kept refusing me! I was beginning to despair of her ever saying yes, until Mother Matrika designated you Crown Prince. Then she finally couldn’t say no.”

Challen gasped, choking on laughter. Surely she hadn’t heard right.

“By the time you were born,” Queen Mayar said, “there were four other concubines, all gifts your father couldn’t refuse. Two announced they were pregnant before your birth. I felt you were safer from all those nasty intrigues among the concubines if your status stayed uncertain.”

“I think you refused because being Queen of Bainevah would take too much from your duties as Healer Priestess,” Challen offered.

“It won’t be such a great burden, child,” she said, her voice serene but mischief in her eyes. “You and I will share the duties. And before they grow too onerous, we will both be saved by the arrival of your child.”

Elzan made a choking sound. Before Challen could even wonder what he was thinking, they arrived in the temple courtyard. Chizhedek waited on the steps, surrounded by priests and priestesses. Every torch and lamp was lit. Hundreds of people crowded the courtyard, and they parted to create an aisle for the royal family to approach the steps. Chizhedek smiled and held his arms out wide and embraced Challen when Elzan helped her down from the horse.

“Mother Matrika has spoken,” the High Priest called, and his voice boomed across the courtyard, echoing, so Challen thought all Bainevah could hear. “The Sanctum is abolished. The Sacred Marriage is once again a true marriage between king and land, between the King and High Priestess. Healing comes to Bainevah. Light conquers darkness. Life destroys death. Tonight, our enemy is vanquished forever. Today, the true Sacred Marriage will be made and through these two faithful servants of Matrika will come fertility and life, health, healing and prosperity.”

The gathered people erupted in shouts and cheers. Challen looked up into her grandfather’s eyes and saw tears there.

Elzan wrapped his arms around her from behind and drew her away from Chizhedek. His breath was warm on her neck. She felt the beating of his heart against her back. They had only been together for half a year, and she knew in the years to come they would only grow closer, more attuned, more united—and yet she couldn’t stretch her mind beyond the enormity of what they had accomplished together.

Shazzur had warned her that from those who carried great gifts and powers and wisdom, much would be demanded. Challen knew better than to rest and assume their battles had ended with this one victory. There were other enemies of Bainevah, other demi-gods who would try to step into the vacancy left by Maquaos, other nations who would not rest until they ruled all other nations. Challen knew in the struggles and years to come, she and Elzan would be together, and that was reward and blessing enough for all eternity.

Michelle L. Levigne

Michelle Levigne got her first taste of fantasy fiction with the Cat in the Hat books, and graduated to “harder stuff” with a graphic novel version of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe in a Sunday School paper in elementary school. She has a BA in theater/English and an MA in Communications, focusing on film and writing, along with the 2-year correspondence course from the Institute for Children’s Literature. She was heavily involved in fandom for several years and has more than 40 short stories to her credit in various fan magazines and universes, including Star Trek, The Phoenix, Stingray, Highlander, Starman, V, and Beauty & the Beast (live action TV show). Her first professional sale was in conjunction with winning first place in the quarterly Writers of the Future Contest. “Relay” was published in Volume VII. Since then, she has published ten SF/Fantasy and Contemporary romance novels through various electronic publishers, with several books pending future publication. Most of these books are in the SF universe called The Commonwealth. The Bainevah Series is her second foray into historical/fantasy/romantic fiction.

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