Twice Born

Twice Born

Published by Phaze Books Also by L.E. Bryce Dead to the World My Sun and Stars Ki’iri Becoming The Golden Lotus Concubinage “Artifice” from Phaze Fantasies, Vol. V A Crown of Stars Aneshu The Water Lovers of Sirilon (print)

This is an explicit and erotic novel intended for the enjoyment of adult readers. Please keep out of the hands of children.

www.Phaze.com

Twice Born A novel of homoerotic fantasy by

L.E. BRYCE

Twice Born copyright 2007-8 by L.E. Bryce All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

A Phaze Production Phaze Books 6470A Glenway Avenue, #109 Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222 Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC. To order additional copies of this book, contact: [email protected] www.Phaze.com Cover art © 2008, Kathryn Lively and Debi Lewis Edited by Kathryn Lively Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-60659-055-3 First Print Edition – August, 2008 Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

Part I Something Rich and Strange

Those are pearls that were his eyes; Nothing of him doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. —William Shakespeare, The Tempest, I.2:399-402

TWICE BORN

Chapter One Tharril did not remember what it felt like to be dead. The ordeal that led to his death—the beating that shattered his jaw and broke his body, the knives that cut his face and then his hands when he lifted them to defend himself, even the cold air scouring his tattered flesh moments before his tormentors flung him into the sea—those things he remembered. But the sting of the blade as it opened his throat, the shock of the water slamming into him, or his life bleeding out into the ocean—his imagination supplied what he could not recall, until those details became a kind of truth. One day, his body rolled onto shore with the morning mist, and those who came to gape at his white hair and mortal wounds recoiled in horror when he suddenly drew breath. Color flooded into bloodless limbs as they began to twitch, the wounds closed, leaving no trace, and the people flung themselves down beside him, covering him in warm cloaks, touching his damp hair, his fingers, any part of him that could bestow the Lady’s blessing. Shumadi, they whispered. Soon he learned what the word meant: twice-born, first among the talevé, the Lady’s mortal consorts. Born, dead, and reborn. And still, he did not remember what it was to die. In time, the other talevé in the Blue House of Sirilon realized he could not answer their questions about the hereafter. Even the curiosity in their eyes faded, as he was no different than they, and took no pains to remind them of things better left forgotten. Ritual would not let him forget. A shumadi walked before the other talevé, crowned like a prince, bearing the Lady’s triple wave Water rune on his mantle, dispensing the blessings expected of Her most holy consort. Questions brimmed on a

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thousand lips, brightening a thousand eyes that believed he possessed the key to the great mysteries of life and death that held them in terrified awe. My touch cannot cure anyone. I cannot restore your dead or dying, he wanted to tell them. Better you hire a physician than ask for my prayers. Death should leave visible signs. But the face in the looking glass was flawless, not the tattered ruin it had been before he went into the sea, and was crowned by a talevé’s foamwhite hair. Ordinary folk called him beautiful, a word he hardly would have used to describe himself. In his mind, he remained the thin, sandy-haired farmer’s son from Entippé whose parents despaired of ever finding him a proper bride. His mind rejected certain memories. Apart from a few recollections of his family, whom he not seen or contacted in a decade, and brief, stolen moments of joy with his lover in the slave quarters of Tajhaan, his life had begun on the shores of Sirilon. The Lady of the Waters was his mother and his consort, though not his greatest love, and to reach for anything beyond the moment She entered his life was to invite pain, and rage he could not answer. **** Spring warmed the air, sunlight banishing the early morning fog and stirring life in the gardens of the Blue House, which had lain neglected over the long winter. Talevé tended flower beds and fruit trees, clearing debris from the lily pond and dead leaves from the paths. Maintaining these spaces gave them something to do after the long winter, and for those who had no formal duties in the House of the Water, the work provided necessary diversion and a sense of purpose. Fresh strawberries, packed in ice for the trip downriver, arrived from the orchards of Emerrás. Like undiluted wine, the fruit was a rare treat, hoarded by the cooks for preserves and pastries. Even the priests thought twice before approaching the kitchen, and had to settle for the local strawberries, which were not as plump or juicy by comparison. Strawberries became late spring’s currency in the Blue House, worth a favor or afternoon tryst, yet almost impossible to obtain.

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“Like a distant lover,” said Adhial, fondly gazing at the healer Olveru, who pretended not to notice. “I think Emerrás sends us the gift to torment us.” “If you don’t want your share,” commented Dyas, “one of us will gladly take it. But stop pining like a lovesick boy and thank the Lady you get any at all.” Mindful of his audience, Adhial flushed bright red. For years, he had sighed over Olveru, who showed no interest in anyone; his persistence and constant disappointment had become the butt of jokes among the talevé. “You have no manners,” he muttered. Dyas grinned at him. “That is why I became a lawyer.” As shumadi, Tharril enjoyed no special privileges when it came to the strawberries or any other novelties sent to the Blue House. So he could not smother his surprise when his lover met him in his bedchamber and, closing the door behind them, uncovered a small porcelain dish of strawberries. “Where did you get these?” Tharril stared at the succulent fruits. Just obtaining one would have been a challenge, and that one would have sufficed for whatever game Erred meant to play. “The cooks cannot always watch their goods,” replied Erred. Deep scarlet, the strawberries were at their ripest, perfect for gorging. “Olenwë and Elentur tried that. How did you manage?” “That is my secret.” Erred’s mouth curved in a seductive smile. From the dish, he plucked a strawberry and teasingly rubbed the tip against Tharril’s lips. “Would you care for one, or do I have to eat them alone?” Only then did Tharril notice that under his woolen outer robe, Erred wore a shift that left almost nothing to the imagination. “How long have you been planning this?” he asked, staring at the hazy nipples visible through the thin silk. His throat went dry. “That, too, is my secret,” answered Erred. Not that Tharril really cared at this point. When Erred, still holding the dish, took him by the hand and led him to the bed, he did not resist. Kicking off his shoes, he lay down on the mattress and let Erred feed him a strawberry. Nothing could compare

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with the taste of fruit from the orchards of Emerrás, blessed with abundance by Sirrë, the Earth Mother, the city’s patron goddess. Tharril closed his eyes, savoring the morsel, even as he became increasingly aware of the warm body leaning against his. Erred’s breath feathered his cheek. “Do you want one?” asked Tharril. “What makes you think I have not already had one?” Erred laughed and plucked a second strawberry from the dish. “These are for your pleasure.” With the third strawberry, Erred changed tactics, placing the bulbous end between his teeth and, leaning in across Tharril’s chest, teasingly inviting him to take it from his lips. As Tharril opened his mouth to claim his prize, their lips met, tongues darting out to taste each other even as Tharril bit the strawberry in half. Fingers moved up his chest, lingering on the buttons, undoing them. Tharril swallowed the morsel he had been chewing and let his hands travel up Erred’s arms, pushing back the wide sleeves to caress bare skin, then down again to clasp his wrists. “Where did you learn to do that?” he asked. Erred hesitated a moment before answering, “In the same place I learned all the other arts of love.” Tharril tensed, wishing then that he had not asked. “In the house where you were first sold as a slave?” “I know what you think, but the akeshi broker and his tutors did not teach me everything.” Erred dropped a light kiss on the tip of his nose. “There were two other akeshi in the royal palace. They taught me things a common bed slave would not have learned.” “What things?” Tharril asked cautiously. In asking, he ventured into perilous territory; the akeshi in their master’s house had been spiteful, uncouth creatures, best left forgotten. . The only things they had taught Erred were jealousy and fear, and Tharril hated to think he might have endured the same in the palace of the High Prince of Tajhaan. Erred gave him a knowing smile. “They taught me to perform traditional Tajhaani dances, arrange flowers, and paint henna tattoos on the hands and feet,” he replied. “Did you think I meant sex?”

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“I remember the others demanding sex for simple favors.” “That is because our master was a vulgar man who allowed such behavior,” said Erred. Our master. Both he and Tharril remembered the man’s name. Both refused to utter it aloud. A man’s name is his legacy, his immortality. When it is dust, he will utterly die. “You never saw what it was like in the palace. In the household of a true nobleman, the slaves are often wellborn, and they are expected to be discreet and dignified. Hasir and Neshuru welcomed me as a brother and a friend. While I was with them I learned many useful things.” Tharril watched as Erred took a particularly red, juicy strawberry from the dish and rubbed it slowly across his lips, flicking his tongue over the tips, before sliding it into his mouth. Suddenly Tharril wanted that mouth, those lips and tongue, on him, and the rising heat in his groin told him exactly where he wanted it. “How useful?” he croaked. Still holding Tharril’s gaze, Erred uncovered a porcelain tureen next to the bed and daintily dipped his finger into the thick, clotted cream with which berries were usually served. “For one thing,” he purred, “they taught me how to properly play with one’s food.” There were moments when Tharril sensed that his lover initiated sex solely to please him, and that, if offered a choice, would prefer celibacy. Erred seemed to have no innate hunger for lovemaking. The contraband strawberries were props in a planned seduction, as anyone could see. Even without such aids, Tharril felt a certain emptiness in their encounters. He wondered if Erred knew how to be spontaneous, how to let go. Lips touched his. Which of the bed slave’s twenty-one different ways to kiss is this? he wondered. Is there anything we do together that you didn’t learn in Tajhaan? The only passion he felt was his own. While hard, he could bear it, but afterward he lay cold and disillusioned beside Erred, rehearsing a thousand speeches he would never make. As Erred drew back from the kiss, Tharril’s gaze focused on the cream dripping from his finger, and the tongue that darted out to lap up the white droplets. His groin twitched at the sight of Erred sucking his own finger into his mouth, moving it in and out like a miniature cock. Still watching, Tharril’s hands sought

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the laces of his leggings. Fingers closed around his wrist, stopping him. “Let me do that,” murmured Erred. Tharril felt a light touch ghost over his groin, barely touching the fabric or the bulge straining against it. Erred unlaced him, yet ignored his erect cock to undo the buttons of his tunic and draw it back over his shoulders to expose his chest. Tharril squirmed at the wet finger that painted circles around his left nipple, and groaned at the warm tongue that followed. In a moment of greater clarity, Tharril might have dwelt on who else Erred had done this with, yet in the closeness of the sunlit room, far from the barren vistas of Tajhaan, no other lovers existed. Reaching down, he gathered up the hem of Erred’s shift, caressing the bare skin he uncovered; Erred pulled away long enough to pull the garment over his head and toss it aside. Now that he knew the game, Tharril felt adventurous enough to improvise. Dipping his finger into the cream, he smeared it over Erred’s lips before kissing him. Sweet cream mingled with salt and the faint taste of strawberries. Tharril clasped Erred to him and rolled them over so he lay on top, pinning his lover to the mattress. He found the porcelain dish, reached for the last strawberry, and began to toy with Erred as he had been teased, stroking the scarlet tip around and over a hard nipple before bending to taste the path he had made. Erred gasped, pulling his head close, but Tharril refused to be led, or do anything that was not spontaneous. With his teeth, Tharril broke the skin of the strawberry and rubbed it over Erred’s lips, moistening it with juice, then withdrawing it when Erred tried to seize it with his teeth. Comprehension lit Erred’s eyes, and he smiled. They kissed again, their tongues lingering over the taste of summer. Tharril sat up and drew the strawberry tip over his own skin, circling his nipples and the hollow of his navel, winking at Erred as he popped it into his mouth. Everything he knew about lovemaking he had learned from Erred in the slave quarters they shared in Tajhaan. As Erred had been taught to give pleasure to the men to whom he was given, so he had tried to teach Tharril to do the same with the guards who abused him and survive.

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Now that they were both free men, Tharril had no reservations about taking what he had learned—those hateful lessons—improvising, and turning it back upon his teacher. Sliding down Erred’s body, parting his legs with firm hands, Tharril made it clear who was now the seducer. He nibbled at Erred’s inner thighs, his lips and tongue seeking the places he knew would bring his lover to ecstasy, following with his fingers until in his excitement he forgot everything but the salty taste of Erred’s skin and the shuddering gasps and hands clutching at his head, his shoulders, blindly urging him to continue. Some nights Tharril lay beside Erred and, as the sweat cooled on their bodies and their breathing returned to normal, asked yet again for his pledge. In his mind, there was no reason why they should not be joined in a Water-lover’s rite of marriage. Where he considered it a token of his commitment, he could not comprehend how Erred would regard it yet another form of bondage. I don’t want to own you, he thought. I want to give myself to you and have you do the same because I love you! And he had said it aloud, raising his voice to make Erred understand the depth of his feeling, but though his eyes grew soft Erred had answered that he could not give what he did not fully possess himself. All Tharril heard was that Erred was torn between two lovers, would always be, and not even the most tender words or passionate lovemaking in the world could change that. If he experienced a certain proprietary fulfillment in bringing his lover to orgasm, Tharril could not help it, for it was the one moment in which Erred was truly his. Erred’s bliss was as delicious to him as a few stolen strawberries, and just as rare.

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Chapter Two Hrill were not an unfamiliar presence in his world. Since acquiring his ki’iri spirit fifteen years ago, Erred occasionally slipped into dreams where his other body explored the ocean depths. Such visions were not uncommon among the talevé. They took him to grottos lit by shifting green and blue and gold light filtering down from above, and magical kelp forests. Language became not the variegated tongues of men, but the singular, primal music of clicks and whistles echoing through the deep. Alien and strange, Erred welcomed these forays as opportunities to reaffirm his bond with the Lady and maintain his grasp on a gift that, with age, was rapidly leaving him. Later, he could not pinpoint the exact moment when the dreams changed. It happened slowly, the joy of swimming free in a hrill’s body increasingly darkened by encroaching shadows. Predators inhabited this world, yes, and were an accepted element within it, but the language of the sea had no sounds to convey this new and ominous sense of danger. Erred said nothing, either to the priests or Tharril. Instead he turned inward in search of deeper meaning. Perhaps the Lady meant these dreams as a signal that his gift was receding, the ki’iri fading within him. A natural process, it was nothing to fear. Doubts returned as the dreams intensified. Looming shadows coalesced, becoming pain and wordless terror. The grottos darkened, clouding with red, and the kelp groves shook with the thrashing of hrill in mortal agony. Lying awake beside Tharril, who snored softly beside him, Erred tried to collect his thoughts. No mere dream, this, for the aftertaste of blood lingered on his tongue like rancid copper, and his throat hurt where a sharp object, possibly a hook, had pierced him.

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Talevé did not discuss their ki’iri experiences with each other, and for the eldest among them the withdrawal of the gift was an intensely personal matter. Erred knew encounters with the ki’iri were not homogenous, or entirely benign, but this went beyond normal, beyond the dream-state. Transformation was not supposed to inspire such fear or pain, and after a time Erred began to understand that what he saw was real. These were not the seas he knew, for no one in Shivar or the Seaward Islands would wreak such violence upon a sacred hrill. That humans were responsible, he felt certain. In certain places, hrill were hunted for their hides and meat—in Tajhaan, they were considered delicacies. The High Prince had banned hrill poaching eight years ago, as part of Tajhaan’s trade agreement with the city-states of Shivar, and the ambassadors gave assurances that people obeyed the law, but suddenly Erred was not so certain. Perhaps he had always carried a seed of doubt, which for years he managed to cover with his faith in Thanaj’s sincerity, but now those seeds, nurtured by the dream-state, sprouted and began to rear into something that filled his waking hours with increasing dread. Summer’s warmth could not banish the cold residue of his nightmares, and not even the succulent strawberries he had filched for Tharril’s pleasure could erase the taste of blood from his mouth. He carefully watched the other talevé who had the hrill gift, but saw no signs of unease among them. With the pain and dread came grief, as though something precious was leaving the world, sliding like sand from between his fingers. It urged him to speak, to confide in Madril or the ki’iri master, or even Tharril, but he remained silent. Madril would defer to Aglarin, a man who had never known the terror or joy of transformation himself, and who would tell him that these were merely the symptoms of a gift in withdrawal. And Tharril, what could he possibly do or say? To reveal all would simply give him yet another reason to hate his perceived rival. The hrill are part of you, he would say, and that man can’t even keep them safe. Forget him, Erred. If only it were so simple. ****

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Summer was generally a happy time in Sirilon, warm weather bringing festivals and trade fairs, even private excursions down to the beach for the talevé, who rarely left the Blue House save for ritual purposes. Where his brethren relished the season, summer made Tharril restless. Long before the Tajhaani biremes appeared in Sirilon’s harbor bearing ambassadors and trade goods, he began to brood, becoming short with his peers and spending less time with Erred than usual. High priest Madril excused him from his obligations in the House of the Water and instructed him to meditate, which he did not do. The galling irony of his situation was that the shumadi, who should have been the greatest zealot of all, was not a deeply religious man. For him prayer offered little solace. “You do not have to accompany me this time,” said Erred. “I know how uncomfortable you are with the ambassadors.” Erred had made the same offer every year for the past seven years, and each time Tharril’s response was the same. “I’ll be there,” he muttered. Meeting the Tajhaani ambassadors had become an annual ritual, odd when one considered how Tharril had never wanted to appear before the representatives of the High Prince in the first place. He relented only because Erred sought the reassurance of his company. Occasionally he wondered why he still bothered. As a prince, Erred could manage diplomatic matters on his own, and once his status as the shumadi and Erred’s lover had been established, Tharril had no further reason to be present. He knew it, Erred knew it, and so did the ambassadors. Although he could understand and still speak some Tajhaani, he had no desire to communicate with these ostentatious, oily-tongued men, and had little to say to them even if he did. Gifts arrived for him: ivory and precious stones, spices, and lengths of silk richer than anything a talevé of Sirilon would wear. Erred received similar gifts, which he showed Tharril before laying them aside without a further glance. “This is a waste,” said Tharril. “I don’t want any of these gaudy trinkets, and you never wear them.” Erred smoothed his fingers over the intricate silver

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arabesques of the box he had received from the ambassadors. “Exchanging gifts is part of diplomacy,” he explained. “Ambassadors from distant lands always brought rich things for the High Prince. He smiled and lavishly praised the gifts, but never looked twice at them once the ambassadors were gone. I imagine those things are still collecting dust somewhere in a royal storehouse.” “We’re not royalty, Erred.” “In a way, we are.” “Then why doesn’t the High Prince send gifts to all the talevé?” asked Tharril. “Have you ever considered that?” Erred pursed his lips together, as he often did when he was angry or irritated. “He sends gifts to the House of the Water.” “That’s not the same thing.” Letters also arrived, bearing salutations and news from the High Prince. Because neither Tharril nor Erred could read Tajhaani, one of the Blue House eunuchs was called in to translate. Erred always had his letters dictated to him in Tharril’s presence, whether Tharril cared to hear the contents or not. “There are no secrets between us,” said Erred. “If you were not here, you would always wonder what the letters said.” As for the letters addressed to him, Tharril had absolutely no desire to hear what Thanaj ked Muhal Dharu had to say to him, and ordered that the letters be taken away and burnt unread. “He should know well enough by now that I don’t want to talk to him.” Certain boundaries had always existed between the three men; their interactions took the form of cursory pleasantries and gifts delivered by intermediaries. Erred did not appear to desire greater contact, and Tharril would not have tolerated it. What Thanaj thought about the arrangement, Tharril neither knew nor cared so long as his overtures did not become inappropriate. **** When the red ships appeared in Sirilon’s harbor bearing the High Prince’s ambassadors and gifts, Erred steeled himself to meet them. From his wardrobe he drew out a talevé’s formal robes of blue and gray, laying them out upon the bed with the same detachment as though they were napkins to be folded and

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placed on the communal dining table. He bathed and arranged his hair, gazing once in the mirror to inspect the results. Messages and parcels preceded the ambassadors. Erred inspected the Tajhaani royal seal, yet did not break it or summon a eunuch to read the contents to him. Gifts of golden silk and lustrous pearls he laid aside with indifference, prompting Tharril’s curiosity. “Something is troubling you, Erred.” I cannot sleep for fear of the red dreams, and what they portend, he thought. The hrill are in torment. If Thanaj has knowledge of this, if he has gone back on his promise, I must know. “It is nothing,” replied Erred. “I am a little tired, but I will be fine.” The next thing he knew, he felt Tharril’s hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to go.” “Yes, I do, Tharril. If I refused, my absence would be noted. It might even be viewed as an insult.” The summons came an hour later. Escorted by priests, Erred and Tharril left the Blue House compound and walked the short distance to the House of the Water. In a corner of the temple, well away from the altars and public spaces, a private antechamber anticipated the arrival of the ambassadors, the prince of Sirilon, and other high-ranking nobles. Formal greetings were exchanged, with eunuchs on hand to translate. Since diplomatic relations had begun, learning Tajhaani had become a necessity among those who did business with eastern dignitaries and merchants. Most of the men present either spoke or understood the language, though with varying degrees of fluency; it was only the prince and the older priests who required translators. Beyond ritual salutations, the presence of the two talevé was purely ceremonial. On Thanaj’s behalf, the ambassadors had brought gifts to place before the Lady’s altar. The first time they had done this, a festival air accompanied the chests of silver and pearls into the House of the Water, a procession led by all eighteen talevé. Now it sufficed that Tharril, as the most holy shumadi, dedicated the offerings. There was no need for additional ceremony, not with the Lady’s own festival three weeks away.

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Erred knew how little Tharril enjoyed his given role in this pageant. Tharril never accepted the gifts that the ambassadors brought; he quietly distributed them among the other talevé, who had long envied him his fortune. He burned Thanaj’s letters unread, saying nothing when Erred looked at him. The old jealousies lingered, the old hatreds festered, yet Tharril, perhaps wishing to put a more mature façade on his feelings than he had, said nothing. Erred listened to the elaborate courtesies and diplomatic half-truths while feigning interest in the proceedings. In any court, whether Sirilon or Tajhaan, or even his own childhood home of Altarmë, no one ever said anything substantial in public. Or if they did, no one believed them. Certainly no one expected him to speak. At a natural break in the conversation, as Prince Carancil ordered wine and other refreshments served, Erred leaned forward in his chair, met the eyes of Ajmi, the senior ambassador, and asked, “How do the hrill fare in Tajhaan? The hunts continue to be curtailed?” Around him, Erred sensed confusion, from both the Tajhaani and his own people, who did not understand why he asked, who could not know why it was important. But in Ajmi’s eyes he saw something else, wariness swiftly replaced by the placid veil all princes and diplomats wore. “Of course, holy one,” replied the ambassador. “The High Prince made this solemn promise to his friends in Shivar, and to the most sacred Lady of the Waters.” “Your assurances are of great importance to the Lady,” explained Erred, “and to those of Her servants who bear the hrill gift.” Of course, Ajmi did not know what that gift entailed, and from the brief flicker of discomfort Erred’s words aroused, the true answer would not have been what Erred or anyone else wished to hear. Later, in the privacy of Erred’s bedchamber, Tharril asked him about it. “You’ve never mentioned the hrill to them before. Why now?” “I do not know,” replied Erred. “It seemed only that I should ask.”

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Not knowing what else to say, or how to explain, he lied, and it pained him to do so. They are dying, Tharril. Thanaj has lied to me, and it would give you too much satisfaction to know it. His dreams were the only proof—that, and the hints of untruth in Ajmi’s reply—but it was enough knowledge to sicken him. Several times he found himself composing a letter to Thanaj asking for the truth, only to stop and turn away in anguish. Some things could not be said in writing, and some he did not want to say at all. **** Tharril hated crowds. It had not always been so. Once a year, in the warm early summer, a trade fair had come to Entippé, full of noisy vendors and performers, throngs of villagers from miles around, and dust. Tharril had loved weaving through the crowds, watching the traveling jugglers and acrobats, ogling at the goods he could not afford to buy even when the merchants, wary of a boy whose lack of coin signaled a potential thief, shooed him away. It had been at just such a fair that he courted a girl from a neighboring village, coaxed her into spending the evening with him in the soft grasses among the crickets, and learned all he would ever know about women. Raiders from Tajhaan had come not long after, stalking the unwary and bearing them across the mountains, across a desert Tharril remembered only as an unending torment of scorching sands, pain, and fear that tasted of his own blood. Occasional snatches of memory found him, images of dead captives lying headless in the sand where they had fallen, or strange, uncouth men who wanted him in unnatural ways. Crowds meant the slave market. Tajhaan was the first city Tharril had ever seen, so large and full of people it overpowered him. The lower city was a sprawl of shabby tenements and revolting smells, the noise it produced an incomprehensible jabbering of voices. Rough hands had shoved him forward, hauling him onto a platform where they turned him this way and that for a crowd that had watched with rabid eyes. Terror hammered in his breast, and his gorge rose in disgust for the grimy hands in his mouth, inspecting his gums, pulling his hair to check for lice, prodding the bruises they had made.

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And the crowd watched. Just as they watched now. A different crowd in a land where slavery was unknown, yet the scrutiny was the same, and the urge to flee no less. No longer a slave on the auction block, he was now the Lady’s most holy consort, arrayed like a prince and placed at the head of the procession, where the priests expected him to smile at the throngs of worshippers clamoring to see him. Now he was an object of desire, veneration, and no one would dare touch him. Had he been an ordinary talevé, Tharril might have enjoyed the festival. The feast day of a patron deity was no small affair. The streets of Sirilon swarmed with paper maché effigies of sea creatures borne on the shoulders of the faithful, accompanied by gaily colored streamers and dancers swirling to the music of trilling pipes. Only if he had been an onlooker, permitted to make his offerings unobserved, it would have been an unparalleled experience. At a shrine overlooking the harbor, Tharril led his brethren in dedicating the sea’s finest gifts of shells, salt, and pearls to the Lady. As shumadi, he was privy to knowledge withheld from other talevé, and had learned that, many centuries ago, Sirilon had sacrificed handsome young men to the sea, sending them down to the deep as naked as the day they were born, bound with chains decked with flowers and shells. And then, after many centuries of this tradition, the Lady had returned their gift, sending the spirits of Her precious sacrifices back to Her faithful as the talevé, bridegrooms clad in white hair and unearthly beauty. Such legends Tharril knew from his own village. The earth deities also demanded their due in rituals that still recalled ancient bloodletting. Now, from the relative quiet and security of the Blue House, he could still hear the muted sounds of the festival in the city below. The day before, the talevé had decorated the atrium and colonnade, weaving garlands from flowers that grew on the temple grounds, and tonight, free of their ceremonial constraints, they would celebrate the Lady’s bounty in song, dance, and starlit trysts.

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Tharril removed his silver coronet, rubbing pinched temples. “Is there wine?” he asked. On this day, talevé were permitted to drink undiluted alcohol. At twilight, music would drift into the compound from the House of the Water. Magic filled the air. On such a night, Erred might dance, as he had once danced for Tharril in Tajhaan long ago. Behind him, in a faint, quavering voice, he heard his name. Turning, he saw Erred—gray-faced, his eyes rolling back in his head—slump into the arms of Olenwë, standing beside him. Olveru reached his side before Tharril fully comprehended what had happened. The healer shouted for the attendant priests to fetch Haeran, the Blue House physician. “He is cold, clammy.” Olveru undid Erred’s collar in search of a pulse. “He has not fasted, and the day is not hot enough for sunstroke. I do not understand. He should not have fainted.” Around them, talevé, priests, and eunuchs milled about, projecting intense confusion and concern. Illness did not exist among the Lady’s chosen. Weakness came only during times of ritual purification or ki’iri transformation, or at the very end, when the Lady decided that a talevé’s time to rejoin Her had come. Tharril knelt at Erred’s side. It’s too soon for him to die, he thought. Taking his lover’s hand in his own, he tried to banish the cold with his own warmth. It gave him something to do where he otherwise would have sat helpless, letting despair gnaw at his nerves. “There were so many people pressing around us, it must have overwhelmed him.” Madril came marching down the colonnade, his robes flapping behind him, the physician Haeran trailing in his wake. Tharril eased Erred from Olenwë’s arms, holding him close as his body began to spasm uncontrollably. Only once before had Tharril seen this, in the waterless desert where his lover’s ki’iri gift could not be released. A manifestation brought pain when suppressed, but no talevé who knew how to yield to the ki’iri spirit within him would do such a thing. Five minutes later, Haeran reached the same conclusion. “This is not the ki’iri,” he said.

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All anyone could do was move Erred upstairs, put him to bed, and keep him comfortable. Meanwhile, the priests urged the residents of the Blue House to repair downstairs and celebrate the Lady’s feast-day. Distant music drifted over the compound walls, and through the open window Tharril heard revelries in the garden below, but the joy seemed muted; his brethren did not know whether to abandon themselves to pleasure or join him in what they all feared was a death watch. “You will not die,” he said, murmuring into Erred’s tangled hair, against his pale cheek. “Thirty-three is far too young to die.” Once, when he went to the window to take some air, he was surprised to find Dyas looking up at him. Dyas mouthed a query, which Tharril, not wanting to wake Erred, answered through gestures. During their exchange, a handful of other talevé took note and, in their mutual concern, joined Dyas under the window. Tharril banished them with a wave and smile, and retreated inside. Not long after, one of the eunuchs entered with a plate of food. “Most holy one,” he said softly, “your brothers sent this with instructions that you are to enjoy it.” Tharril expressed his thanks, but worry blunted his appetite, and the covered plate remained untouched and all but forgotten on a corner table. Erred woke near midnight, twisting in his blankets, thrashing his way toward consciousness. Still in his festival robes, Tharril lay atop the covers beside him, one arm flung across his middle. At Erred’s first, frenzied movement, he stirred and, perceiving the signs of a fever dream, tried to soothe him with caresses and nonsense words, the way his mother had used to do. Olveru, who sat nearby, rose and approached the bed. “Perhaps now we will learn what ails him.” Weakly opening his eyes, Erred tried to focus his gaze and failed. His eyelids fluttered, and he turned his head this way and that. “The hrill—” “What is it?” asked Tharril. “Do you need to go out?” “They are dying,” Erred whispered brokenly. “A sea of red. Pain. They are dying.”

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Tharril stroked his face, smoothing away sweat-damp tendrils of hair, and tears as they leaked from the corners of Erred’s eyes. “No, you were dreaming. It was only a dream.” But the tale that tumbled in fragments from his lips suggested no mere dream. Tharril listened in horror, waving Olveru silent when the healer would have pressed Erred for more details. All those sleepless nights, the inexplicable apprehension at meeting the Tajhaani ambassadors where no hesitation had existed before: there had been a reason, and Erred, preferring to suffer in silence, had told no one. Not even me? You couldn’t even confide in me? Tharril choked back his grief, along with the bitterness that attended it. Do you love pain so much then that you would bear it alone? When Erred finished, Olveru went to the door, summoned a eunuch, and sent for Madril. “Go to his house and wake him if you must,” he said, “but tell him it is urgent. Tell him Erred has awakened.” Returning to the bed, he sat down on the mattress beside Erred. “You should have told one of us the moment these dreams started.” “I did not know what to say. I thought Aglarin would have told me it was the ki’iri withdrawing.” “No withdrawal is like this,” said Olveru. “You know that.” Erred closed his eyes. “I was afraid.” “Of what?” asked Tharril. “I did not trust what I saw, or what I felt, even when the ambassador would not answer my question. I wanted to believe—” His explanation trailed away, helpless, despairing. You wanted to believe in the High Prince. Tharril offered Erred water from the cup Olveru brought him. Now was not the time to voice his roiling emotions aloud. You wanted to go on believing that he could do no wrong. He knows what he’s doing. He knows you’re a hrill, and still he lets them die. There was no need to speak. In Erred’s anguish, Tharril could see he understood. “Today I was so close to the water,” continued Erred. “I felt them there. I could hear them. I did not expect it to be so strong, but it was. It was too much.”

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The high priest came in, wearing his exhaustion like a rumpled robe. He had apparently remained in the Blue House, even though it was long past the time when he would have retired for the night. Erred turned his head on the pillow, gazed up at him. “I must go,” he said. “The Lady commands it.” Frowning, Madril peered down at him, then at Tharril and Olveru. “What does he mean?” Olveru provided a quick summary. “These dreams suggest that the Tajhaani have not kept their bargain.” “That doesn’t surprise me,” muttered Tharril. No one remarked upon his comment. Madril claimed the chair Olveru had vacated and sat quietly for some moments, thoughtfully rubbing his jaw. “The truth of these visions cannot be confirmed,” he finally said. “What Erred saw may be portents of a future time, under a different prince who does not honor the current trade agreement.” “Erred tried to question the senior ambassador,” replied Olveru. “Apparently the response he received was less than encouraging.” Tharril nodded. “I was there when Erred asked about the hrill,” he added. “The man didn’t want to answer the question at all.” Beside him, he felt Erred clutch at his arm. “I must go to them. Tharril, please tell them, make them understand. The Lady orders me to go.” Madril, rising from the chair, came over to the bed. “You are in no condition to go anywhere, Erred,” he said, “and the House of the Water is not at liberty to allow a talevé to travel abroad to a foreign and potentially dangerous land on the basis of a mere dream, Lady-sent or not.” Tharril reached for Erred’s hand, gently squeezing his fingers in reassurance. It’ll be all right. We’ll find a way to help you. “And what happens if the dreams don’t stop, if they get worse?” he asked Madril. “What is Erred to do then?” “There are meditations which might help. I will appoint Aglarin and another senior priest to instruct Erred and monitor his condition,” said Madril. “Olveru, you will assist them. As for the content of these dreams, I will make discreet inquiries of

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our ambassadors and priests abroad. For now, that is all the House of the Water can do.” When the high priest, satisfied that the matter was resolved, left the room, Olveru slipped out with him. “I will prepare something to help Erred sleep,” he told Tharril. “I will return shortly.” Tharril watched them leave. Instinct warned that no sleeping draught would help against such powerful visions, if they were indeed as potent as Erred described, yet hope kept him from voicing his doubts. “I am afraid,” whispered Erred. “Nothing is going to happen to you,” said Tharril. His fingertips ghosted across Erred’s cheek, then he bent and pressed his lips to his lover’s forehead. “You’re safe here. The priests will help you, and I will stay right by your side.” “I do not know that there is anything any of you can do. The Lady will have what She wills.” Erred closed his eyes, shuddering. “And I am afraid of what She wills.”

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Chapter Three They did not understand, those who advised him to meditate and to let Prince Carancil and his ambassadors deal with the situation. The dreams had not come to them. The Lady had not spoken to those with the authority to affect a change in Tajhaan, only to one frail talevé who could not even leave the Blue House to visit the hrill in the harbor below. The moment he collapsed in the garden colonnade, Erred could no longer keep his secret. All the priests and talevé knew his torment. Tharril knew. They tried to comfort him, yet were helpless against what they could not see or touch. Now when he entered a room, he averted his eyes so he would not have to see their sympathy cloaked in awkwardness. Daro, who as a senu could speak directly to the hrill, received permission to go down to the harbor and communicate with the pods that congregated there. That afternoon, he returned bearing little to show for his efforts. “They’re in no danger,” he said. “I tried to ask if they’d ever spoken with other hrill from foreign waters, but they don’t range far enough for that. I’m not even certain they understood my questions.” Erred acknowledged whatever efforts his brethren made, never telling them what they already knew: it was the hrill in Tajhaan who cried out to him. Tharril confided that he and the other talevé tried because they needed to feel useful. “It’s hardest for Daro and the others who have the hrill gift,” he explained. “They don’t have the dreams, and they feel guilty for it. They don’t say so, of course, but anyone can see it. They feel as though they should be able to do something. Everyone does.” “Why is the Lady sending these visions to me alone?” asked Erred. “She compels me to go to the hrill, to stop their torment, yet surely She knows I can do nothing?”

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Tharril shook his head. “I don’t know, Erred. I wish I did. I wish there was something I could do.” Turning aside, he laughed harshly. “You’d think a shumadi would be able to do something. That I could just wave my hand, say a few words, and this would all go away, but I can’t. I can’t, and I hate it.” Even with the prayers and support of the talevé, with Olveru’s potions and Aglarin’s meditations, the dreams did not cease. They merely changed, became more urgent, taking him from the familiar grottoes and kelp forests to a place of turquoise waters and lush estuaries, a place he knew from memory: the Tajhaani port city of Akkil. More than ever, the Lady’s will was clear. He must go to Tajhaan. Yet there are no hrill in those waters, he thought. They have either been hunted or driven away. “And what will you do when you get there?” asked Tharril. “Gods, what could you possibly do? You are only one man, one talevé in a land that doesn’t care how sacred you are.” Such things he already knew. “Do you honestly think I would stand by and let you go after what those people did to you? No, Erred, you can’t go.” Tharril was the last person who should have mentioned such a thing. But then, Tharril could never seem to remember tact when he was agitated. “You speak as though I have a choice,” said Erred. “None of us do.” Caged within the walls of the Blue House, within in his own body, he could not rest, or compose his nerves long enough to meditate. Aglarin arranged for him to bathe in the sea, where a transformation might perhaps ease his discomfort, but the hrill would not emerge. After an hour, Erred waded out of the surf, shivering and dejected, wondering if his gift truly had left him. But for the dreams, it would not have surprised him. It might even have felt natural. When he could, Erred attended to his duties in the House of the Water. On most days, he worked in the scriptorium, transcribing ancient manuscripts. Sunlight slanting through the tall windows warmed his cheek and shoulder, glaring off the creamy vellum and forcing him to squint over the letters his pen

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formed. He shifted position, turning the page to shield it with his left arm as he finished the paragraph. ‘And thus unto Her most favored creatures the blessed goddess gave dominion over all the seas, and unto those mortals whom She favored brotherhood with those creatures and the gift of speaking with them thereof.’ Erred did not always read what he wrote beyond making certain that he transcribed every word, symbol or mistake. Authenticity was far more important than grammatical correctness, and from where he sat, he heard Nerret, the priest who supervised their work, argue as much with novices who apparently thought otherwise. On occasion, he read a page for its substance, concealing those idle moments under the pretense of flexing his fingers or stretching cramped back or shoulder muscles. Copying manuscripts was not merely the work of the hands but the entire body. These surreptitious perusals often informed his reading, leading him to devotional texts he might not have discovered otherwise. When he skimmed over the completed page, it surprised him that for days he had been writing about the hrill and had not even realized it. Even here, he thought, I cannot escape. He stared at the page, letting his gaze lose its focus and blur the words. Why does the Lady not reveal Her power to the Tajhaani and teach them to revere Her sacred hrill? She is greater than all their gods, greater than ten thousand of their warriors and priests. She does not need me, or any mortal, to see Her will done. Gathering up his sheaf of finished pages, Erred carried them past a dozen similar work stations to the rear of the scriptorium where Ninion sat mixing pigments. Literate talevé who could write in a fine hand were often put to work at transcribing manuscripts, as it was one of the few duties they were allowed to carry out in the House of the Water. Even so, it was rare to find one talented enough to produce the exquisite illuminated capitals and borders with which many of the books were decorated. Ninion gestured to a shelf above his workspace. “Put them there, Erred. My hands are not clean.” In one hand he held a small mortar stained red from the madder he worked with the

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pestle in the other. Pigment stained his hands and the white apron he wore over the priestly blue-gray robes all talevé were obliged to wear in public. “It is a text about the hrill,” said Erred. Glancing at the manuscript, Ninion nodded sympathetically. “Perhaps it would ease your mind to go out and get a little air,” he said. “And when you return, you might see about finding a different text to copy. I am sure Nerret will understand.” Erred made his excuses to Nerret, who grunted his assent, and left the scriptorium. As a talevé, he took care to avoid the public spaces of the temple, where worshippers might accost him in search of the Lady’s blessing, but the House of the Water occupied a vast area overlooking the city, and within its labyrinthine grounds he had access to secluded shrines, gardens, and a library stocked with rare and valuable books. Normally Erred would have pulled a volume from the shelf and read for pleasure. Now, his eyes strained from hours transcribing fading text and his nerves unsettled, he sat down in one of the leather chairs and stared into space. Time slipped away. He might have been sitting for an hour or only a few minutes when he heard the voice at his elbow. “Erred, there is nothing in the law codes that says you cannot go.” It took him a moment to realize someone was actually standing beside him, and that he had not imagined what he heard. “Thank you, Dyas,” he said, “but I do not think the priests will allow—” “It doesn’t matter what they think, and you should hear me out before you refuse my help.” Had he not been so wracked by uncertainty, Erred might have laughed at the other man’s assertion. “Are you so certain you can help me, then?” “It may be that I can.” Setting a heavy tome on the table before him, Dyas claimed the seat beside Erred. “This is a volume from the Talimo Codices, which documents all the laws pertaining to the House of the Water, the talevé, the requirements for priesthood, definitions of blasphemy and so forth. They were written a thousand years ago and haven’t been altered since,” he

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explained. “Since I assist the House of the Water in legal matters, I’m quite familiar with the Codices, and I’ve spent the last week checking the Articles of the Blue House. Article IX states that a talevé cannot be compelled to stay in the Blue House.” “Go on,” said Erred. Dyas set his hand on the book, yet did not open it. “The priests keep us sequestered for our own safety. Over the centuries it’s become a tradition, but there’s a clearly defined difference between tradition and law. The law clearly states that a talevé may come and go as he pleases.” Erred gave the volume a cursory glance. Truly the book looked a thousand years old, though he knew it had would have been copied and recopied many times over the centuries. “Are you certain about this?” “Yes,” said Dyas. “Our rights and restrictions are set out in meticulous detail. Article IX hasn’t been rescinded, which means it can still be invoked.” For the first time in many weeks, Erred felt hope. Even so, he knew from prior experience how some laws were nothing more than ink marks on a page. In Tajhaan, his status as an aktiri, a prince’s bed companion, officially protected him from unwanted advances, but on more than one occasion political necessity had forced him to lie with men other than Thanaj, men toward whom he had been largely indifferent. “How would I go about invoking this right without being ignored or refused by the priests?” “According to the Codices you need twenty witnesses,” answered Dyas. “If you are serious about leaving, you could state your intentions and invoke the article during the evening prayers. Madril and several other priests would hear you, and all the talevé. That would give you more than the requisite twenty witnesses.” Still staring at the book, tempted to pull it to him and open it, Erred did not know what to think. Dyas was an agreeable young man, as well as an extremely shrewd, intelligent lawyer, yet Erred also knew that at one time he had been infatuated with Tharril. Perhaps he still was. “You are going to so much trouble for me,” he said softly.

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“I know how desperately you want to go to Tajhaan.” Erred gave an ironic little laugh. “The Lady bids me to go, but that does not mean I wish it.” “A long time ago, Tharril told us that in Tajhaan—” Dyas stopped, shook his head. “I’m sorry, that’s thoughtless of me. I know you don’t want to leave Sirilon for this foreign land. I know you have a history there. I’d be apprehensive, too, in your position.” “Do you have a personal stake in this, Dyas?” Dyas regarded him, and the question, in stunned silence. “If you mean Tharril, he will probably insist on going with you,” he finally said. “I gain nothing from it.” “The priests would never allow a shumadi to leave the Blue House.” “I doubt very much they would be able to stop him,” replied Dyas. “He’s as stubborn as the bull whose spirit he shares, and the moment he learns of the Articles, I suspect he will try to turn them to his advantage.” Erred leaned forward, took the volume in both hands, and set it on his lap. Among the dog-eared pages, he found a scrap of folded parchment on which several lines of text had been written. “‘Article IX: Pertaining to Restrictions on the Movements of the Lady’s Servants,’” he read aloud. Skimming over the remainder, he saw that Dyas had transcribed the entire passage for him. “You have gone to a great deal of effort.” “Yes, and I know you’re wondering why I would do this for you,” said Dyas. “From your question, it’s clear you either consider me a rival for Tharril, or you think I consider myself one. I won’t lie to you, Erred. I was young, and infatuated for the first time in my life. Tharril knows that. He has long forgiven my foolish behavior, my lovesick sighs and adoring puppy glances—” “Considering that you have a wolf spirit, that is more than mere metaphor,” observed Erred. Dyas laughed. “Yes, but all that has passed. There is nothing between Tharril and me. I am doing this for you simply because it is my duty. You are a talevé and you are in agony. No one else seems able to do anything for you. If you’re right and the Lady has ordered you to go to Tajhaan, this may be your

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only chance of getting there.” **** Near the altar, the high priest stood, the devotional text hanging limp from his hands as he stared goggle-eyed at Erred. “You cannot be serious.” Erred ignored the curious gazes and murmured comments from the priests and talevé around him. The atrium shrine should not be contaminated by confrontations or legal matters, but necessity drove him to it—he needed the witnesses. “I am perfectly serious. The Articles of the Blue House clearly state my right to leave, and the Lady commands that I do so. If you do not believe me, read for yourself.” Several times as he skimmed the proffered scrap of parchment, Madril opened his mouth, his jaw working as though chewing on the words he read. Finally he spoke, “You cannot do this.” “You do not want me to do it, but you know full well that I can, and that I must.” Erred gestured toward the congregation. “I have more than twenty witnesses here, more than what is required. I am invoking my right to leave.” At once, he sensed Tharril’s presence beside him, felt firm hands on his shoulders. “Then I invoke the same right. If Erred leaves, I will go with him.” Erred avoided his gaze. “No,” he said harshly. One hand fell about his middle, hugging him close. “You are not going without me, Erred. I won’t let you.” Madril pursed his lips tightly. “A shumadi cannot be permitted to leave the Blue House. Nor can a talevé. You are both sacred consorts of the Lady, but a shumadi is doubly so,” he said. “Our tradition—” “Tradition is not law,” replied Erred. Clearing his throat, Tharril removed his hands and stepped forward. “Dyas, you’re the lawyer. Do these Articles say anything about shumadi?” “No, there are no special restrictions.” Dyas rendered his answer in a voice so innocent it suggested the speaker might never have heard of the Articles, much less suggested them as a solution. His charade was so absurd Erred had to suppress a smile. “As far as I know, you can leave of your own free will.”

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Madril glared at him. “Spare us your playacting. I should have known you would be behind this legal maneuvering.” He waved the scrap of parchment in his hand. “I recognize your handwriting.” “You make it sound criminal,” said Dyas. “You are setting a dangerous precedent.” Dyas waited, appearing to measure his words, then replied, “No, I believe it is simply more convenient for you to withhold the information as you have been doing. I doubt very much that most talevé would ever want to leave the Blue House, but for those who must—” He glanced briefly at Erred and Tharril. “They should know that they have the right to do so.” At this point, Erred felt compelled to intervene. “I appreciate your efforts on my behalf, Dyas.” Then, turning to Madril, he continued, “I will go alone to Tajhaan. I fully accept whatever consequences arise from my action, whether I succeed, am taken captive, or worse. I have no other choice.” Tharril opened his mouth to speak, to protest, until Erred silenced him with a gesture. “We will discuss this in private. In the meantime I intend to leave as soon as arrangements can be made. I expect that they will be.” Even as the words fell from his lips Erred heard the haughtiness in his announcement and inwardly cringed, for he had not been in the habit of making demands since his days in Altarmë. He sensed as well as saw Madril’s displeasure at being so ordered, but he did not apologize. His need meant he could no longer afford to be patient. Upstairs in the candlelit twilight of his bedchamber he did his best to dissuade Tharril from the course his lover insisted on taking, knowing even then that his pleas would make no difference. “You cannot come with me.” Reaching for Tharril’s hands, he kissed them, one then the other. “I must take this journey alone.” Tharril grasped his wrists, and turned his hands over to kiss his palms. “Last time I was forbidden to go. I had no idea then that I had the right to insist.” His lips lingered on Erred’s wrists, his thumbs drawing erotic circles over the pulse points. “Now I do, and anyone who thinks I am going to sit here passively while you go into danger is a fool.”

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Erred let Tharril pull him close. For several long moments they clung to each other, listening to their mingled heartbeats in the rapidly falling darkness. “I do not deserve you,” murmured Erred. A hand gently brushed his hair, and in an exhalation of warm breath against his scalp, he heard Tharril say, “Then this time I will try to be worthy of you.”

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Chapter Four Two days later, Erred discreetly left the House of the Water for the royal palace, and in the outer court met with a representative from the Tajhaani embassy. Shanju ked Tarkkali had lived in Sirilon for six years and could thus act as a liaison between Shivar and the authorities in Akkil. Omitting the precise motive behind his journey, Erred made inquiries and began to negotiate the terms of his trip. In this, he relied on advice from several talevé, whose prior lives among the wharves and merchant quarters offered valuable information. Although Shanju proved reliable in securing a ship, crew, and several Shivarian guards, Erred took care not to place too much trust in him. Oily smiles and effusive compliments might sway locals who had no experience with men of the east, but Erred knew how duplicitous the Tajhaani could be with those they considered inferior. “In fair weather it may take as little as three weeks to reach Akkil,” said Shanju. “Now for lodging and food, and the proper maintenance of staff, you will want to bring coin. Shivar maintains but a small embassy in this city. Perhaps they will not be able to support so many.” Erred did not need his subtle hints to know he might have to pay considerable bribes to accomplish his goals, when and however the Lady revealed them. From the House of the Water he received only enough money to hire a ship and crew and provision them for a month, and enough to make the voyage to Akkil, but not to find lodging once he arrived or make the return trip. “You may have the right to leave,” said Madril, “but that does not mean we have to provide for you more than what is reasonable. I am not unsympathetic, but at this point we do not

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even know what you are to do in Tajhaan outside of your claims that the Lady has bidden you to go.” “Do you doubt that my visions are accurate?” As expected, the answer he received was noncommittal. “Unfortunately they are not very concrete. I will try to obtain more funds, but you must understand that the House of the Water will only grant you so much.” To augment the pittance Madril secured for him, Erred brought out his silks and jewels, mementoes of a life now past, and selected items to take to the Tajhaani embassy. “I am told there is a market for eastern luxuries,” he told Shanju. “You should have no trouble obtaining a fair price for such finery.” Shanju stared at the glittering gems and shimmering, embroidered silks. “These are the robes of an aktiri, and these— ” He held aloft a gossamer-fine shift winking with tiny crystals. “Only an akesh of the highest status would wear a garment so revealing. It is not something I would expect to find here in Shivar, where men do not keep bed-slaves.” “If you must know, I was once an aktiri to the High Prince. I brought these and other items with me when I left Tajhaan.” Whatever his own people might think, Erred kept firmly in mind that to be a Tajhaani prince’s bed-companion was to hold a position of honor. Shanju would not question or judge him, or think the business unusual. “I know you have agents who can wheedle an old man out of his false teeth. Have them obtain the best possible price for these, and be sure you keep accurate records. I will want to see the receipts.” Shanju gazed again at the finery piled before him. “It is a shame to part with such beauty.” “We cannot eat silks or pearls, and they will not provide us shelter,” replied Erred. “I have other tokens of my time in Tajhaan. I can afford to part with these.” Four days later Shanju reported that he had sold one of the silk robes and a pair of earrings to a kinswoman of Prince Carancil. The receipt he produced indicated the sale had brought a handsome sum. “There is considerable interest,” he said, “if you wish to sell more.” Parting with those two items, both gifts from Thanaj, had been difficult enough, yet for insurance in case of a delay or

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unforeseen hardship Erred handed over a pale green robe embroidered with silver lotus blossoms. Shanju’s agents possessed enough tact not to mention that the flowing garments were worn only by an akesh or aktiri, or what those terms meant. Hopefully the ladies would not wear their exotic new apparel in public. What private time he had, Erred spent on his knees before his private shrine. Anointing the silver votive statue with water from its reflecting basin, he prayed for guidance, beseeching the Lady for a sign that would show him what to do once he reached Akkil. Faith assured him that the goddess would give him further instruction, but as time passed and his dreams did not change, Erred began to doubt. Am I making a mistake? There had been a time, long ago in Tajhaan, when he believed the Lady had turned away from Him, letting his prayers ring hollow, yet surely that would not happen again. What She revealed to him, he heeded. He obeyed to the best of his ability, though now he wondered if perhaps he had misinterpreted Her visions. Swiftly he chided himself for his lack of faith. Remember the ambassadors, and how they would not answer your questions. The hrill are suffering; you have seen it, felt it. You are meant to go to Tajhaan. The rest will come. Erred did not confide his doubts to Tharril. It was not necessary, for somehow his lover’s presence kept the red dreams at bay, and reassured him where prayer and meditation alone could not. Tharril, always passionate and unpredictable in bed, had become unusually tender, prolonging their lovemaking as though they were soon to part. “It will be all right.” His mouth found a sensitive spot along Erred’s throat and nibbled, sending frissons of delight coursing along Erred’s nerves to his groin. “This time we’re going as free men, under the Lady’s protection.” Such a statement was the last thing Erred expected to hear from him. “Since when did you become religious?” Tharril dropped kisses along his shoulder, as one hand slid down his back to caress his buttocks. “I know how to show respect to the gods when necessary.” Squirming closer, Erred rubbed his erect cock against

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Tharril’s belly. “But there is a part of you that does not believe we will be safe.” He leaned in, captured Tharril’s earlobe between his lips, and suckled softly on it. “You would not have insisted on coming with me if you did.” “I also know when not to rely on the gods,” growled Tharril. When coupled with his hands and mouth, it was a delicious, feral sound. “Lie back. I want to suck on your nipples.” After several sleepless nights, the day of their departure came. Erred and Tharril wrapped themselves in hooded cloaks and departed the Blue House in the first gray haze of dawn, just as the servants began to stir. A carriage took them and their baggage down to the dock, where the ship, a caravel named Albatross, awaited them. Shanju met them on the gangplank, smiling effusively as he presented the captain, a gruff old salt who regarded the hooded talevé with superstitious curiosity. “Come aboard and we will be on our way,” said Shanju. The captain barked orders at the crew the moment his passengers set foot on the deck. Clearly he wanted the talevé confined below where they would not be a distraction, but Erred was in no hurry to see the cabin where he and Tharril would spend most of the next few weeks. As Albatross lifted anchor, she unfurled her sails to catch a fortuitous wind, and moved out toward deeper water. Erred went to the stern to watch the city and the House of the Water on it high promontory gradually recede into the mist. Tharril found him there long after Albatross passed out of the harbor and rounded a bend in the coastline. Sirilon was no longer visible. “Do you want to come below?” “In a while,” replied Erred. His gaze returned to the cliffs and the surf crashing on the pebbled shores. “Akkil is a very different place from Sirilon. I wonder now if we will ever return here.” Tharril did not answer. Below deck, they shared a narrow cabin that provided just enough space to sleep, dress, and wash, though when they both stood and tried to move, they could not do so without bumping into each other. Twenty sailors slept on the floor or in hammocks in the hold—these were joined by the ten guards

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Shanju had hired. Shanju had his own cabin, as did the priest, a dour, unimaginative man named Amerel. Almost immediately, Amerel complained about the accommodations. “To house the Lady’s servants in such mean fashion,” he sniffed. “The captain should have been courteous enough to offer his quarters.” An onlooker would have assumed Amerel desired better lodgings for the talevé, but Erred recognized the superior tone and knew he meant no such thing. “Your quarters are quite luxurious,” he said lightly, “compared with our own.” Had it been up to Tharril, Amerel would have been sleeping on burlap sacks along with the crew and guards. Erred, mindful of the close quarters they all shared, urged a more subtle course. In their cabin, he brought out a little box and opened it, revealing the herbs Olveru had provided to counter seasickness. “You and I will share these,” he told Tharril, keeping his voice low. “If he is not already accustomed to the sea, Amerel had better hope he has a strong stomach.” Tharril sputtered with thinly concealed laughter. “I didn’t think you had it in you.” Within half a day, Amerel was bent double in the ship’s privy. The smell of excrement permeated the lower deck, prompting the crew to open several portholes. Several guards also succumbed but recovered far more quickly. Even with the herbs, it took a few days to adjust to life aboard ship. Three times a day, Erred and Tharril took exercise on deck, watching the waves, drinking in the breeze that fluttered the sails and bore them east. Aside from small, reverential gestures and anonymous gifts of little luxuries, the crew maintained a respectful distance. Hrill and dolphins followed the ship’s wake. Erred contemplated their movements, the sleek, dark forms weaving in and out of the spume. Unlike Daro, he did not have a senu’s innate talent for speaking to the hrill, so he could not call out to them, could not ask what they knew. But when the hrill abruptly vanished, leaving Albatross unaccompanied, Erred knew they had entered foreign waters where men did not respect the sacred creatures. Summer in the eastern lands was harsh, the blinding sun

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bleaching stone and sand, stark contrast to a sea that offered tantalizing flashes of turquoise and green. On two occasions, Albatross dropped anchor in inlets that led to freshwater springs. That night, the passengers and crew ate fresh mussels from a nearby tide pool and slept wrapped in blankets around a fire fed by driftwood. “This is a quiet place.” Tharril turned his face toward the water, its rich blue becoming one with the night sky. Out beyond the rolling surf, the ship’s anchor light, a lantern hanging from a hook on the stern, rocked softly with the current. “Too bad we can’t stay.” In such narrow quarters, under the scrutiny of men who neither knew nor were able to comprehend the permissive lives talevé led, they took special care not to reveal too much intimacy, but Erred read in his wistful tone the longing for privacy they both felt, a shared fantasy of a day alone among the sand and water, being able to make love in the Lady’s own element. The journey continued—searing, cloudless days tempered by cool nights. On the starboard side, the sea gave way to the hazy smear of land on the horizon. “That is the island of Arrin,” explained Shanju. “It will not be long before we reach our destination.” As the days passed, Tharril became pensive, watching the coastline. “Somewhere out there,” he said quietly, “I once died.” Erred laid a hand on his shoulder. “We are not going to that place, so put it out of your mind. Akkil stands on the border between two kingdoms. It is not like any city you have ever seen.” “It is far enough from home that I will never like it.” A day later, Akkil rose out of the sea, its temples and palaces and whitewashed tenements blindingly white against the blue water and the sterile expanse of the desert stretching into the distance beyond. As the ship glided into the first available mooring and dropped anchor, Erred stood with Tharril in the shade of the forecastle. Already he could hear the dockside traffic, voices carrying down to the water in half a dozen languages. Lady, show me what I must do. Guide my path.

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Shanju joined them on deck. “It would be wise to cover your heads,” he said. “I have brought these for you.” Lengths of russet-colored fabric hung from his hands. “There are laws which forbid the sale of Shivarian slaves, but the unscrupulous will always find ways around such measures.” Erred took one of the cloths and helped Tharril roll and bind his hair before attending to his own. “So once again your people have lied to us.” “Lied, no,” answered Shanju, “but here in Tajhaan there are many ways around the truth.” “I am accustomed to native duplicity. Do not mince words.” “Raiders do not go into your lands now. The mountain passes are guarded, and your own people keep the borders secure. But within Tajhaan there is already a sizeable population of Shivarian slaves. Without a fresh supply, traders must turn their minds to other ways to increase their profit.” Tharril glared at him. “What he means, Erred, is that they breed their slaves like animals and then sell the children. You disgust me, Shanju.” The loathing in his voice made Shanju flinch, yet within half a moment the man recovered his poise, for when he spoke again the old honey was there. “Civilization cannot exist without slaves,” he said. “It has always been thus in our land.” “Are you calling Shivar uncivilized?” Shanju smiled tightly. “While your people may be civil enough, yours is no great land, merely a sprawl of fragile citystates held together by common language and beliefs.” “That is enough, both of you.” Erred took one of the russet scarves and began to gather his hair under it. “This is neither the time nor the place to argue. Shanju, is the embassy far from here?” The Shivarian embassy was a modest, two-story building situated in a middle class neighborhood four blocks from the waterfront. According to Shanju, a dignitary and three priests lived there with half a dozen servants, one of whom scurried to the gate when Shanju rang the bell. Erred did not know where the household had acquired its slaves, but this one had not been selected for his intelligence. He maintained the same blank

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expression throughout, then scuttled away to find the steward without remembering to admit or apologize to the new arrivals. Certainly the steward’s horror at finding guests still standing on the street with their baggage confirmed Erred’s initial assessment. Keys rattled in the man’s hand, profuse apologies tumbling from his lips as he pulled open the gate. “Forgive the rude welcome,” he blurted in Tajhaani. “We had no idea visitors from Shivar would be coming.” “These ahiri and this priest have just arrived from Sirilon,” said Shanju. “They and their guards will require suitable lodging. Of course, I will also be staying with them.” Even with the local term for talevé to help him, the Tajhaani steward obviously had no idea who the two young men were other than that they were evidently of high rank. “Yes, of course, although our establishment is so dreadfully small,” he replied, in a tone implying that it could become larger and more comfortable for the correct price. Shanju favored him with the same tight-lipped smile he had used with Tharril. “Rest assured that we have come prepared. We have had a long journey and the traffic around the waterfront is horrendous. Our only comfort was the thought of the marvelous hospitality for which the embassy is so famous.” Amerel, who could not follow the conversation, grew visibly irritable. “Are these simpletons going to let us in or not?” he muttered. Erred waved him silent. Beside him, Tharril wore a look of intense concentration. Never fluent in the language, he clearly struggled to understand all that was said. Glowing from Shanju’s effusive praise, the steward ushered the visitors inside. An archway lined with green and blue tiles led into a central courtyard dominated by a fountain. From here, doors opened onto an atrium floored with mosaics. Two men entered from a door on the far end of the atrium. Their fair features indicated Shivarian birth, yet their raiment, like their surroundings, was Tajhaani. Amerel drew a sharp breath at the sight. “Anuro,” said one, addressing the steward, “Samo tells us we have visitors.”

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The steward made a neat little bow. “Yes, these men have come all the way from Sirilon.” Next the man turned to the newcomers, addressing Amerel and the talevé. “I see one of you is a priest of the Water.” Amerel straightened at the acknowledgment, yet his voice was as frosty as his countenance. “We were told that we would find kindred priests here.” “Indeed,” replied the second man, “we are both priests of the Water.” While Erred had not expected to find them wearing the Lady’s regimental blue-gray robes in the warm climate, it disconcerted him to see how thoroughly the men had absorbed the local culture, right down to the kohl smudging their eyes. Only when Erred removed the russet scarf and let his white hair spill free did the priests acknowledge him. Their eyes widened, and they made the ritual salutation. “We had no idea Sirilon intended to send a talevé here,” answered the first man, nearly stammering, as the other frantically gestured to Anuro to bring refreshments and have the servants prepare suitable rooms. “As we indicated in our letters to Madril, we are not yet ready to establish a House of the Water in Tajhaan.” If his first impression told him anything, Erred doubted these priests were working very hard toward that goal. Then again, the missions to Tajhaan had been Prince Carancil’s idea, and found little support among a priesthood who felt the worship of the Lady of the Waters should remain exclusive to Shivar. Had circumstances been different, the embassy might not have been in its present condition. “That is not the reason for our visit,” replied Erred. “We do not intend to stay long, perhaps only a month or two.” “Of course, Lord Keturil will want to meet you,” said the second priest. “But unfortunately he is not in the city at this time.” From Shanju, Erred already knew that Shinias né Keturil was the Shivarian liaison in Akkil. “Is he away on diplomatic business?” The discomfort his question generated told him enough. He would not have been surprised to learn the man was away on a pleasure trip. For now he let the matter rest. “Perhaps we will

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have the opportunity to meet Lord Keturil before we depart.” “The High Prince should be in residence,” said Shanju, “if you are interested.” Erred noted how Tharril glared at him. It did not surprise him. “Thank you, but we do not intend to approach him at this time. This is an unofficial visit.” Servants brought out cool drinks and trays bearing sliced fruit and flat bread, while others carried baggage upstairs. As their guests sat down on the couches around the atrium’s tiled pool and refreshed themselves, the priests were visibly selfconscious, pressing for information neither Shanju nor Erred saw fit to provide. Tharril, his hair still concealed under his scarf, concentrated on his meal to conceal his unease. Amerel did the same, though that did not prevent him from throwing the occasional venomous glance toward their hosts. The two priests were Sartel and Talian. A third priest, an elderly man named Bennar, appeared and, like his companions, greeted Erred with surprise. Behind him came an indolent creature whose presence no one expected. Clad in bright, swirling robes, gold hoops swinging from his ears, he regarded the newcomers with open curiosity. “I am Thamar,” he said, moistening carmine-reddened lips with the tip of his tongue. That an akesh dwelt in the embassy was not so much a surprise as the fact that he was male. Erred could see the awkwardness Thamar’s presence created. All three priests avoided his gaze, even as Sartel tried to banish Thamar with a gesture. When Erred failed to respond to his overtures, the young man coyly sidled up to Tharril and purred, “The embassy knows how to honor guests. I am always available, and for a little extra—” “Get your hands off me, you vile creature!” His hand flying to the cheek where Tharril had slapped him, Thamar recoiled from the couch and scurried in disgrace from the atrium. Red-faced, Tharril glared at the priests. “I don’t want to see him around here again.” Amerel nodded his agreement. “It is obscene.” Sartel cleared his throat. “While we apologize for the

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insult, Thamar is—” “Perhaps you had better do as the shumadi says,” Erred said softly. Three pairs of eyes focused on Tharril. “You are also a talevé?” asked Bennar. “Most holy one,” began Sartel, “we had no idea that a twice-born servant of the Lady had come among us. You were not announced, and there was no—” Still angry, Tharril maintained his icy silence, leaving Erred to explain. “Tharril does not stand on ceremony, and does not think much of Tajhaani ways. We have no wish to cause dissention in your household, but if that creature is going to share the same lodging he will have to change his demeanor. Judging from what I have just seen, I sincerely hope you did not pay too much for that little bakti.” Sartel blanched. “Do you know what that word means, holy one?” “I know perfectly well. I speak fluent Tajhaani, and I am familiar with its customs,” said Erred. “I also suspect there are things you have neglected to mention in your reports to high priest Madril and Prince Carancil.” At this, Sartel nodded slowly. “That is true. However, you must understand that the native ways are—how shall I phrase it?—enticing. It is said that anyone who comes to Tajhaan and stays more than a few months is eventually absorbed by the culture.” “And Thamar?” asked Erred. Sartel’s explanation neither surprised nor offended him; in fact, it made perfect sense. “In our experience, it proved more troublesome to have a woman about. The one who came before Thamar made demands and behaved as though she were the lady of the house. She expected to become Lord Keturil’s concubine, even though he has a wife at home and had explained to her many times that in Shivar men do not marry more than one woman at a time.” The other two priests nodded their agreement. “Indeed,” added Bennar, “and we do not expect our superiors in Sirilon to understand. In the beginning we clung to our old ways, even to our native dress, but in time we saw how difficult it was to do

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business or sway potential converts. Our stubbornness was viewed as a form of disrespect. Some ways we have adopted out of necessity, while others are simply more practical or appealing.” “I do not see how this vile creature could possibly be practical,” commented Amerel. Sartel offered him a tolerant look. “If Thamar offends you, you need not have any dealings with him. Of course, we apologize for the inconvenience and the misunderstanding, but this is how things are done in Tajhaan. Thamar may be vain and somewhat forward, but he is harmless.” A servant approached with word that the guest quarters were ready. Sartel stood, indicating with a nod and gesture that the visitors should follow. “Your guards will lodge downstairs with the rest of the staff. Your accommodations are upstairs near our own. The rooms are not large, for the rare occasions when we do have guests we have made sure that they are comfortable.” Comfort in the Shivarian embassy meant inlaid wood and rich fabrics, what one would find in any middle or upper-class Tajhaani household. Erred promptly began to unpack his belongings, shifting aside folded garments in search of a muslinwrapped bundle. The Lady’s silver figurine had followed him since he obtained Her from his first master ten years ago. Despite its origin, and his indifferent feelings toward the man who had given it to him, Erred felt that over the years his prayers and devotions imbued it with a potency no other votive possessed. In a corner he found a little table, removed the brass bowl of flowers, and laid down the fringed cloth he had brought with him. Upon this he set the votive and the silver basin that went with it. Later he would pray and seek guidance, but now he simply wanted to rest. Although his body craved deep, replenishing sleep, Erred lingered over the sounds and smells that drifted toward him in the warm air. Someone in the kitchen below or in one of the nearby tenements was roasting lamb. He smelled wood smoke mingled with fennel and coriander, and the fragrance of incense sticks burning on scores of family altars throughout the neighborhood. Voices carried up from the street: women

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scolding their children or wayward husbands, haggling vendors trying to unload merchandise imported from abroad. He did not judge Sartel or the other priests as harshly as others might, for he knew all too well how easily Tajhaan assimilated those who settled within its borders. At sunset, a servant brought food and clean linens. Erred ate a modest supper and washed before sorting through the rest of his belongings. Shivarian clothing was not altogether suitable for the warm climate. Tomorrow he would send Shanju to the local bazaar to obtain more comfortable, less conspicuous garments for him and Tharril to wear about the embassy. Tharril visited as dusk settled over the city. “This place isn’t what I was expecting.” “No,” agreed Erred, “but I am not surprised either. The priests have adjusted in the best way they could. In their place I might have done something similar.” Tharril grimaced. “I know, but….” He drew an audible sigh. “It isn’t easy.” “When you volunteered to come with me, you knew what you would encounter. Even if the embassy and the priests were as you expected, you should have realized that you would hear the language again, and face the customs.” As the room had no chairs, only a cushioned stool which Tharril currently occupied, Erred sat down on the edge of the bed. “It was for this very reason I did not want you to come.” Tharril was chastened enough to look sheepish. “I am not going to get any sympathy from you at all, am I?” “Did you expect it?” “You know I couldn’t let you go alone.” “Yes, but I must be honest with you,” replied Erred. “This is a diplomatic mission, yet you have had no training in diplomacy and should not be in this position.” At this Tharril shrugged. “I don’t see why that should matter when this is an unofficial visit.” His frown deepened. “You meant what you said back there, didn’t you? You don’t intend to approach the High Prince, do you?” Will you ever learn not to be jealous? Erred could only shake his head. “I have no desire to involve him in this matter. If I have no choice, if the Lady gives me a sign and forces me to

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go to him, then you must understand that it is not personal. You cannot make a scene with him like the one you made this afternoon. You do not have to like Akkil or the people you meet here. That does not mean you cannot be polite.” Whether Tharril could learn to set aside his roiling passions, Erred did not know, and Tharril offered no assurances before taking his leave. I should have tried harder to persuade him to stay behind. Putting out the lights, Erred knelt on the carpet before his shrine, dipped his fingers into the basin, and anointed the statuette with droplets of water. “Hail, radiant goddess and sacred love, bringer of life.” The opening salutation of the evening litany came easily to his lips. “Attend the prayer of this mortal supplicant.” From the required prayers, he found it easy to slip into a meditative state, often doing so as a means of relaxing before bed. Centering his breathing, he waited until he was completely calm before opening his eyes to focus on the Lady’s image. Oftentimes he let his vision blur and his mind empty, a technique he had learned perforce many years before. Meditation, when done properly, could blunt painful memories and induce tranquility, but it could also bring waking visions. Faint light from the courtyard below caught the Lady’s silver surface. Her curves, limned by torchlight, began to waver and lose focus. In the silence, punctuated by his soft breathing, Erred heard water rippling in the votive basin, bubbling like the flow of the stream. Water was Her voice, Her formless body, and Her elemental power, capable of both nurturing life and destroying it. When the water changed, clouding with red, he caught his breath and held it. Blood filled his mouth, his nostrils, and within the basin images began to appear. Panic rose in his breast, threatening to overwhelm him as his breath grew more labored, as he found he could not tear his gaze from the horror he saw in the water. This cannot be. Tears spilled down his cheeks. Oh, Lady, I cannot. At last, he wrenched his gaze away and, squeezing his eyes shut, seized the cushion on which he had been kneeling, pressing

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it into his face to muffle the scream he did not want Tharril to hear.

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Chapter Five Tharril could not rest. As the fifth of eight children, he had grown up without luxuries, wearing the castoffs his older brothers handed down to him, and sleeping on a straw mattress with two or three other siblings. Even as a talevé, he lived in austere comfort, preferring little or no personal decoration, as this would have served as a constant reminder of his unusual status. Life aboard the ship had been cramped but not unpleasant. Only now, in the Shivarian embassy, did his misgivings translate to actual discomfort. His bed, piled with silk cushions, linens, and soft sheepskins, was too luxurious, and when he lay down he could not avoid the gilt stars spangling the room’s sky-blue ceiling. Plain candles were not enough for the priests, it seemed, and even the soap in the bathroom was lavishly scented. Tharril struggled to remember enough Tajhaani to tell the servants to bring whatever soap they used in the kitchens. After a restless night, Tharril woke to find new clothes laid out for him. Even when a servant explained in halting Shivarian that Shanju had purchased them in the bazaar so he might be more comfortable in the warm climate, Tharril did not touch them, and went down to breakfast in the garments he had brought with him. Seeing Erred already in native dress disconcerted him. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have packed anything at all,” he said. Erred gave him a freezing look. “If you wish to be uncomfortable and out of place, that is your choice.” More troubling than Erred’s lack of sympathy was his brooding silence and refusal to take food. For Erred to fast two or three times a year was not unusual, but when it was accompanied by red-rimmed eyes and obvious distress, Tharril felt compelled to speak.

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“Something is wrong,” he said. Erred gazed down at his hands, which were folded neatly in his lap. “I am fasting so the Lady might send me guidance. It is…difficult.” Instinct warned Tharril that there was more, but Sartel interrupted just as he started to inquire. “Yesterday you did not explain your reasons for coming to Akkil,” said the priest. “Perhaps you might tell us now?” “There have been signs that all is not well with the hrill in these waters.” Erred sounded weak, preoccupied. “We know that hrill continue to be hunted, despite the laws.” Sartel nodded heavily. “It is true.” “Then why didn’t you send word to Sirilon?” asked Tharril. “Because there is a difference between the priests and ambassadors who have been sent here. Our goals are not the same.” Sartel placed both hands on the table around which they all sat. A deeply pragmatic man, he was not only tolerant of foreign customs but willing to discuss the shortcomings of his own priesthood. “Our instructions have been to convert as many people to the Lady’s worship as will listen, and to educate them about the hrill, but diplomatic necessities are often at odds with our mission. Our ambassadors must maintain good relations with those in power. Most of the city-states of Shivar are keenly interested in trade with the east, and are willing to overlook a bit of unpleasantness in order to secure it. “Before you ask, the High Prince has passed laws and even ordered the local authorities to enforce the laws. This accomplishes nothing. A few arrests are made and a few vendors are shut down each year. It is all show. With some well-placed bribes, those same vendors are back in business within a day or two. Thanaj could pass a hundred laws, and even execute some of the worst offenders to make his point, but as long as the market for hrill remains there is no incentive for the practice to stop.” “Hrill are sacred,” said Tharril. “That is reason enough.” “Not here,” replied Sartel. “Believe me, I share your outrage.” He nodded toward Erred, then Amerel, who listened in disdainful silence. “We would like nothing better than to see these godless practices stop, but we have not the power to make

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it so. The people of the east do not even recognize the humanity of those they take into slavery. Convincing them that the sea creatures they have long prized as a delicacy are sacred and therefore taboo is asking more than they are willing to give. And yes, I realize my remarks smack of hypocrisy. We do employ slaves here in the embassy, but they are paid for their services and understand that they may leave whenever they wish.” Tharril had no interest in the household slaves, and had pushed the matter out of his mind. To dwell on them would bring associations he would rather not contemplate. “So the prince of Sirilon and others in Shivar know about the hrill?” “I am afraid they do. We have been told not to get involved, lest we undo whatever small progress we have made here. I am passing this information along to you so you understand our position and do not try to interfere.” Tharril waited for Erred to say something, but his lover remained oddly silent, lost in his own thoughts. “I find it difficult to accept that the Lady tolerates such hypocrisy.” “The only explanation I can offer is that perhaps such human concerns are too mundane for Her,” said Sartel. “I can tell you that hypocrisy exists everywhere, no more so than in the priesthood.” At this, Amerel interjected, “There is no hypocrisy among the Lady’s priests but what exists in this house.” Sartel frowned, yet pointedly ignored both the comment and speaker. “It was not until we came to this land that we saw our own practices more clearly,” he told Tharril. “I have never had much to do with the talevé, but I imagine you are kept ignorant of the inner workings of the House of the Water, and have no say in making decisions.” Tharril’s wounded pride wanted to argue that as a shumadi he had more authority than most. Common sense made him clench his teeth and remain silent. As little as he liked it, Sartel was right: he had no more power in the House of the Water than any other talevé. His only function was to act as a living talisman whose public appearances were carefully orchestrated to bring attention and increased revenue to the temple. Finding the law code that allowed him and Erred to travel freely had been a stroke of good fortune, yet he had no doubt that by the time they

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returned to Sirilon the priests would have rewritten the law to keep the talevé where they belonged. Only when Sartel and Amerel withdrew could he approach Erred with more private concerns. “I can tell something is troubling you.” “I did not sleep well last night,” said Erred. His voice was almost inaudible. “It is not the best way to begin a fast, and now with this new information I no longer know what to think.” Sighing, he shook his head sadly. “I wonder now if anything I do will be enough.” Tharril reached for his hand, trying not to betray any reaction when he realized how cold Erred was. Like that day more than a month ago when Erred collapsed in the Blue House garden. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I don’t know that there’s anything you can do,” he replied. “You’re not responsible for what has been happening.” “The Lady spoke to me, Tharril.” “The hrill aren’t your burden.” They spent the day confined to the embassy, conversing with the priests and exploring the downstairs rooms. Beyond that, Tharril did not know what else they might possibly do in Akkil, as leaving the embassy presented its own hazards. And no matter how eloquent or fervent his assurances, Erred refused to relinquish his overblown sense of responsibility for the hrill. The Lady had spoken to him through visions, charged him with going to Tajhaan, and that was the end of it. With these pressing concerns, Tharril went to bed filled with doubt. As he lay awake in the darkness staring at the starry ceiling, the door creaked open to admit someone who crept through the shadows toward his bed. Tharril tensed, squinting to try to identify the stranger. “Who is it?” he whispered. “It is only me, Tharril.” Tharril relaxed at the familiar voice, and drew back the coverlet so Erred could climb into bed beside him. The mattress creaked, and his hands encountered bare flesh, a mystery he could not comprehend after Erred’s earlier weakness and brooding. Surely his lover had not come to his bed with seduction in mind?

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“In Akkil,” Erred whispered hotly in his ear, “naked young men dance the bull.” Before Tharril could ask what that meant, Erred kissed him full on the lips, his tongue drawing forth responses Tharril had not intended to give. When Tharril wrapped an arm around his waist, and let his other hand slide up Erred’s arm, the skin felt curiously alive, every hair standing on end and crackling with static. “This feels magical,” he murmured. Erred’s tongue explored the curve of his ear. “It should. I have just come from my devotions.” Tharril pulled him closer, running his hand through hair that clung to his touch. “I thought you weren’t feeling well.” “I am fine now,” said Erred, “very much at peace.” One hand moved down Tharril’s chest, caressing. “You are already undressed.” “So are you.” Tharril planted kisses along the sensitive curve of Erred’s jaw, lightly licking the salty skin there until Erred squirmed. “What is this about dancing the bull?” The fingers playing with his nipples did such a fine job of distracting him that Tharril nearly forgot the question. “Bull dancing is a popular sport here. Naked young men leap over the horns and land on the bull’s back. It is very dangerous and—” Erred slid out from Tharril’s grasp, letting his tongue follow the path his fingers had taken. “It is very erotic.” Erred knew how to suck a man’s nipples into exquisite hardness. Tharril groaned at the expert stimulation. “Have you seen it?” “Of course I have.” Tharril realized this was a local custom he would not have minded observing. “The dancers…do they toy with the bull?” Erred’s tongue painted circles around his left nipple, and sent jolts of arousal to his groin. “That is part of the excitement.” “So are you going to jump over my horns onto my back?” The hand that dipped below his waist and began to explore his inner thighs provided answer enough. “Sometimes dancers are impaled on the horns and injured,” said Erred. “The way I do it will be much better, much more…enjoyable.”

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“You want to ride me?” When they made love, Tharril rarely took his partner from below. Even rarer still did Erred penetrate him. Crawling up his chest, Erred kissed him deeply. “We will do it any way you want,” he purred. Tharril let him straddle his thighs. Their cocks brushed together until Erred moved down to let Tharril’s erection tease the warm cleft between his buttocks. Groaning, Tharril clasped Erred’s waist with one hand, while with the other he sought out his lover’s nipples and pinched them gently. He heard a soft moan, and saw a shadowy head thrown back in passion. Tharril regretted the lack of candlelight or a full moon, for now he would not be able to watch Erred’s ecstasy. “Do we need oil?” he asked huskily. Fingers guided his. Tharril breached the opening, feeling slick heat. Erred had come prepared. Of course. Reaching around, he fisted his lover’s cock, wanting to give him pleasure before taking his own. Erred kissed him fiercely, letting Tharril swallow his cries of pleasure. So intent was Tharril on the heat of his lover’s mouth, and the cock in his hand, he did not notice Erred’s slight movement until he was fully sheathed. As always, Erred knew how to move, how to squeeze his muscles to milk a man’s cock. Tharril bit his lip to keep from crying out and waking the rest of the embassy. His hand fell away, his hips bucked, harder and faster as his orgasm built. Wetness landed on his belly, but he did not register it until after he came. Too often, Erred took care of his own needs. Tharril regretted this habit, as it deprived him of the added pleasure he found in bringing his lover to ecstasy, yet said nothing. Erred did not always realize what he was doing until afterward. They lay close in the darkness, wrapped in tangled sheets, kissing and caressing with drowsy passion. “It is all right now, love,” murmured Erred. “All that has been done will be undone.” Tharril puzzled over the cryptic remark, then laid it aside as just one more of Erred’s many spiritual utterances as sleep finally claimed him.

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**** Both guards looked uncomfortable, their eyes darting between him, each other, and the unfamiliar tenements hugging the street. “Holy one,” began Tul, the younger, “are you sure you don’t—?” Erred waved him silent. Twice before Tul and his companion had asked if he would not prefer more guards when venturing out, but Erred had made his decision long before entering their quarters in the predawn light and rousing them. Now all he wanted was compliance so he could focus on the task at hand. It had been surprisingly difficult to leave Tharril’s bed and return to his own room to bathe and dress. Tharril slept so soundly, his face so youthful and serene that Erred had to swallow the urge to climb back in beside him. This must be done, he thought, and in this way. If I could explain, I would, but now I must trust you to understand that I am not being selfish, or cruel. I do this because I love you. With the russet scarf, he bound his hair, but donned the blue-gray robes of the House of the Water. The Lady had ordained this path for him, and he would follow it dressed as a priest, for a priest he was. The air carried the sharp tang of brine and pitch, mingled with the leavings of a hundred privies and wood smoke. After a while the nose grew accustomed to the more objectionable odors, leaving the salt and wind and sand from the vast horizon of ocean at the end of the long street. So powerful was the Lady’s living essence that Erred felt each breath burn his lungs, and with it, each trembling heartbeat. At the end of the next block he reached the dockside. Sunrise colored the eastern sky rose and pearl, like the inside of a shell. Masts bobbed up and down in the calm water of the harbor, yet even at this early hour ships were coming and going, fishing vessels and merchant galleys alike. Carts moved along the narrow thoroughfare separating the first block of tenements and warehouses from the waterfront. Erred, signaling his guards to stop, paused and slowly looked about. After a few moments his gaze fell upon a gangplank down which several men walked, carrying a heavy net

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between them. It might have been a scene from Sirilon or anywhere in the Seaward Islands but for the bodies entangled in the net and dripping blood on the planks. Crossing the thoroughfare, his eyes never leaving the net or its contents, Erred approached the dock. Already he felt a familiar shiver run through his skin, the shock of his gift emerging where he had believed it extinct. Nausea burning in the pit of his belly turned to adrenaline, becoming power. “Stop!” he shouted. As the men turned toward the source of the cry, Erred tore the scarf from his head, letting his hair spill over his shoulders. The potency of his being flooded his limbs, echoed by the ki’iri spirit that gave him his air of semi-divinity, and he knew that if he lifted his hand to look at it, he would see patches of dark hrill hide erupting there. “You do blasphemy!” he cried in Tajhaani, ignoring his guards when they urged him back. “They are sacred to the Lady of the Waters!” Sailors and dock workers stared at him, slack-jawed, their eyes narrowing in suspicion. Blood-tainted air carried their thoughts to him: who was he, this white-haired demon who shouted at them in the name of his strange goddess, interfering with their honest commerce? Drawing closer, he pulled at the net to loosen it, as though by his actions he could somehow breathe life back into these bludgeoned hrill and set them free. From his periphery he sensed motion, men circling around behind him, and heard his guards call out a warning. It did not register. In the next moment something heavy struck the back of his head. The world wavered, filled with the metallic taste of blood, and went out. **** Tharril woke to an empty bed. This was not unusual, for Erred often left his side early to attend to his personal devotions, but when Tharril found his lover’s room unoccupied, then learned from the servants that Erred had left the embassy a half-hour before, he grew alarmed. “How could you let him go?” he asked, grasping the young man’s shoulder. Because he forgot to translate his question, the

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servant gaped at him, shaking his head to show he did not understand. Tharril saw only the failure to provide an answer, a sure sign the embassy’s slaves lacked basic intelligence, and opened his mouth to repeat his demand. Even as he spoke the front gate clanged open, commotion filling the courtyard as two guards stumbled in, dazed and bleeding from a dozen wounds. Out of breath, they sagged to their knees and gulped down air as the other guards emerged from their quarters to see what was wrong. Tharril shoved his way through a gathering crowd that now included priests and servants. “Erred was with you,” he said to the spent guards. “Where is he now?” “The waterfront,” gasped one. Blood streamed from a gash above his right eyebrow. “There were too many of them. We need help.” Panic gripped Tharril, settling in his gut, as he realized Erred was in mortal danger if his guards had returned so badly beaten. “You left him there?” Tharril seized the second guard, a young man with a swelling lip, and shook him. “All of you—get your weapons!” Talian gently touched his elbow. “Most holy one, perhaps you should—” “Unless you plan on coming, shut up!” The younger guard was able to lead them the six blocks to the waterfront. Along the way, he told the story in wheezing breaths. Tharril could not believe what he heard. Not only had Erred ignored common sense in taking only two guards who were ill-prepared to defend him from a mob, but he had confronted twenty or thirty men whose reaction to his harangue had been violence. Gods, what were you thinking? Tharril did not know if he would ever be able to ask, did not know what he would find at the end of the street, and dreaded finding out. When Tul, the young guard, pointed toward one of the docks, Tharril saw nothing except a ship riding calmly at anchor, its crew engaged in various tasks. Early morning traffic moved along the thoroughfare. Then his gaze fell on a boy sluicing the pavement with a bucket of seawater. Diluted blood sloshed against the stones, spilling through the gaps between the street

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and the wooden dock. Whether the blood came from processed fish or a human being, Tharril could not tell until he came close enough to see the shreds of blue-gray fabric and strands of hair flowing into the sea with the blood. Lifting his head, the boy saw him advance with eight armed men at his back, and dropped the bucket. Tharril saw the boy turn to flee. “Get him!” Shouts and hostile looks came from the ship’s deck, and three came down the gangplank. At Tul’s insistence that these were the men who participated in the attack, Tharril ordered the guards to draw their weapons. At once, the sailors withdrew, yet not before they glared at him, taking in his white hair, and made the sign against evil. The boy struggled against the guard holding him. Tharril pointed to the blood and torn fabric. “Where is he?” There was no response. Tharril tried again, this time more emphatically, but after a moment realized the boy could not understand him. In broken Tajhaani, he rephrased the question. Comprehension came with a horrific gesture: the boy drew his finger across his throat. Tharril backhanded him hard enough to draw blood, then, seizing a dagger from Tul, pressed it against the boy’s carotid artery. More shouts reached him from the ship, and now elsewhere on the street. “Unless you want to meet the same fate,” he hissed, “you tell me where!” Truly frightened now, the boy did more than reply. He led Tharril and the guards down the streets to a pier where the local warehouses dumped their refuse, then fled the moment his minder relaxed his grip. Among the rotting fish heads, household waste, old rags and other unidentifiable garbage, Tharril saw a white hand spattered with blood. The scene came into focus, allowing him to discern Erred lying like a child’s broken doll at the edge of the heap, his robes torn, stained dark with blood, and his hair matted with filth and yet more blood where handfuls had been ripped from his scalp. Wounds on his hands and along his arms told Tharril that he had tried to shield his face from the many blows, but in the end a fist had found his jaw and lip, leaving them black with

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swelling bruises. A knife had sliced open his cheek, not once but twice, or was it more? With so much blood, it was hard to tell. Rage and despair displaced panic. So beautiful and precious, sacred to the Lady, yet beaten worse than a common criminal and thrown away with the day’s trash, Erred deserved better than this. Gasping for air, gagging against the stench, Tharril howled his loss into the morning air. He did not care who heard, or how many came running, for at that moment his anger wanted nothing less than to run back to the ship with its guilty faces and tear those men limb from limb. If he had to channel the ki’iri within him to do it, he would. Let them try to club a rampaging bull as easily as they did a hrill! He would gore his share of them before he was brought down. Already he felt the breath flaring, snorting from his nostrils, sensed his vision sharpening, turning to red. His fingers went to his collar to loosen it, to tear off his clothing to facilitate the transformation. And then, a hand closed on his wrist, a voice in his ear brought him back to his present reality. “Most holy one,” said a guard, “he is alive.” Tharril gazed at Erred’s wrist hanging limply in Chelan’s hand. “That isn’t possible.” “Feel for yourself, sir. He has a pulse.” Yet there it was. Faint warmth lingered in Erred’s wrist, and even fainter still, signs of life. Catching his breath in disbelief, Tharril glanced around. The locals, sailors, and workers from the nearby warehouses, drawn by his screams, were milling about, staring at his white hair and muttering. The guards took a defensive stance around him against the growing hostility and peril. “We must go, holy one,” said Lais, the guard at his left. Tharril needed no warning. “Get a board, something to carry him.” The midden offered no resources, and the locals were unlikely to help. With nothing else to hand, Chelan stripped off his cloak, offering it as a makeshift stretcher. Lais bent forward to inspect Erred’s injuries before letting anyone move him. “Chelan, Tal, apply pressure to the wounds on his face and arms. There are some broken ribs, and his arm is fractured, but I don’t

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feel any damage to his neck or back. He has a lump on the back of his head. The skin isn’t broken, and I don’t feel any shifting. We can use some of this old wood to splint his arm and strips of cloth to bind his chest. It should be all right to move him.” Lais fashioned a crude arm splint and bound Erred’s ribs. Three men carefully moved Erred onto the cloak and wrapped him in it. Nomel, the strongest among them, lifted Erred in both arms to carry him. Afterward, Tharril recalled nothing of the hurried flight from the waterfront back to the embassy, only the horrified reactions of the four priests who rushed forward to receive what they believed was a corpse. Tharril found their lamentations intolerable. “Stop it!” he snapped. “He isn’t dead.” Seeing he would receive no assistance from the priests, Tharril barked orders at the servants, who hung back in stunned shock. He limited his commands to Tajhaani words he knew, which were fortunately kitchen items such as hot water which the staff could easily obtain. Then he called for Shanju. “I need a physician.” Shanju nodded. “I will find someone reputable,” he said. At Tharril’s command, Nomel carried Erred into the atrium and laid him on one of the cushioned couches. Servants moved in and out, carrying linens, clean garments, and basins of steaming water. The priests, somewhat composed now that they realized Erred was still alive, went to work sponging away the filth and blood, peeling away the shreds of his clothing to reveal deep bruises. Talian touched his side, eliciting a moan. The sound brought the atrium to a standstill. Tharril rushed to the couch, prepared to find Erred staring up at him, ready to explain all that had happened, but the moan proved to be nothing more than an unconscious reaction to stimuli. Lais assisted the priests in making a thorough assessment of Erred’s injuries. “His right wrist is broken, and some of his fingers. Some of these bruises are very deep. I wouldn’t be surprised to find fractures under them. He has lost a great deal of blood.” Tharril felt nauseous, hearing his lover’s trauma reduced to such clinical descriptions. Helpless to do more than give orders and wait for Shanju to return with the physician, he paced the

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courtyard, gulping deep breaths to try to compose his nerves. “Why did he do it?” he muttered. “Why would he go out and do something so stupid?” “Holy one,” said Amerel. The priest motioned to the gate, where Shanju entered with a small, unfamiliar man. “The physician is here.” Unable to communicate his needs fluently, Tharril addressed the physician through Shanju. Throughout the exchange the man stared at Tharril’s white hair while expressing strong reservations about treating Erred. “Jhumo says there has been talk of a demon who tried to attack men on the dock,” said Shanju, translating the physician’s emphatic refusals. “If this is the same creature, he will not traffic with evil spirits.” Frustration urged Tharril to seize the man by the throat and shake him. Instead, he gestured to the battered body on the couch. “Does he look like a demon to you? Shanju, this doctor either wants the money or not. If not, send him away and find somebody else, somebody who won’t cause any problems.” Shanju shook his head. “Jhumo ked Arhanji is a skilled doctor, the best to be had under the circumstances. Anyone else and you risk a charlatan.” “He either wants the job or he doesn’t,” snapped Tharril. “Since he’s still here, I assume he does.” Jhumo screwed up his face and made disgruntled noises, but shooed the priests away from the couch so he could inspect the patient. Still muttering, he issued orders to the servants—Tharril understood the words for hot water, wine, and cloth. As they waited for the servants to return with the requested items, Jhumo addressed the priests, gesturing to Erred’s hair as he spoke. Shanju translated for Tharril. “He says to cut it to make treating his wounds easier.” Talevé rarely cut their hair, and when they did it was an occasion imbued with great ritual significance. When they heard the physician’s advice, the priests demurred, and Tharril empathized with their indecision. His mind could not grasp the possibility of an Erred without his long, abundant hair. “Must he cut all of it?” Shanju relayed the question, to which Jhumo responded.

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“Cut it to his ears. That will suffice.” As Talian and Bennar spread Erred’s hair over the pillows, combing out tangles with nervous fingers, Sartel fetched a pair of shears from the kitchen. Meanwhile, Jhumo went to work on the right side of Erred’s face, cleaning the gashes with wine and hot water. From the leather bag he had brought with him, he produced fine silk thread and a needle which he sterilized by heating it over the fire in the kitchen hearth. Tharril could barely watch the procedure. Sitting on a nearby couch, he focused his gaze on the hanks of hair scattered on the ground which the priests were gathering these up for ritual burning. It will grow back, he thought. Still, he could not dispel the feeling that something precious had been lost. He clenched and unclenched his fists, concentrating on breathing and remaining calm. More than an hour had passed since they had found Erred by the waterfront, yet the bull in him continued to rage. Probably the best thing would have been to leave the atrium, to flee the sight and smell of blood, but he could not do that to Erred. No matter that trauma and painkillers had rendered his lover senseless, he could not simply get up and leave. “Jhumo says there will be scars,” said Shanju. Looking up, chancing a glance at the couch, Tharril saw the physician cleaning the sutures and coating them with a thin layer of honey. “It cannot be helped,” said Jhumo. “Keep the stitches clean with warm wine or honey twice a day for three weeks and there will be no discoloration or pus. In six weeks the stitches can be removed, or sooner if the wound heals well.” Next the physician turned his attention to the other injuries, cleaning and binding shallower gashes, setting broken bones and fractures, and applying a poultice to the deepest bruises. Last of all, he examined the torn scalp and lump where Erred had been struck from behind. He cleaned the abrasions, but did nothing with the bruised lump except apply a cool compress. “There is no fracture or serious damage,” he said. “In the next day or two there might be fever. It sometimes happens with those who are struck in the head, but it will pass.” For the night Erred would remain downstairs on a pallet near the servant quarters, where the household staff could watch him in shifts. Tomorrow, if all went well, he could be moved to

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his bed upstairs. Jhumo prescribed painkillers, a bland diet, and plenty of rest before collecting his fee and departing. By then it was late afternoon. When the servants brought trays of food and drink into the atrium, Tharril realized he had not eaten all day. Despite the weakness he felt, he did not think he could stomach anything, even when the priests urged him to take a little bread to maintain his strength. What he needed now was to get out of the atrium with its unpleasant associations and lingering sickroom smells, and to find some quiet where he could think. Leaving the embassy was not an option. His own bedchamber offered little comfort, only reinforced the surreal quality of events. Less than a day ago he and Erred had been together in this very room, making love in this same bed. Erred had been whole and beautiful, not the battered, half-dead being who lay on a pallet downstairs. Whatever peace he thought to find here, it eluded him. In this mood, Tharril went into Erred’s bedchamber. Facing west, its view of the horizon partly obscured by the three-story tenement standing next door to the embassy, enough fading daylight spilled through the latticed screens to bathe the room in veils of gold and scarlet. Tharril stood silently on the threshold, trembling with the need to do something, with the rage that caught in his throat strangling whatever tears he wanted to shed. Limned with gold, the silver votive statue beckoned from the corner. Breathing hard now, Tharril fixed his gaze on it. “You tormented him with dreams,” he said raggedly. “You told him to come here. He has suffered enough for You, and still You demand more.” His chaotic emotions told him to upend the statue, to sweep it from its makeshift altar and smash it. Whatever shreds of faith, residual fear, and respect he had left stayed his hand. The Lady’s will could not be questioned or subverted. He could not commit sacrilege, no matter how hard he yearned to do so. Erred would have told him to let the matter lie, to let the Lady seek vengeance in Her own way and time, but Tharril was not content to remain impotent. Perhaps he could not touch the Lady, yet there were others who deserved punishment who would feel his wrath, whether through prayer or the physical

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contact he understood and craved so badly. A shumadi could not smash his fist into another man’s face, so said the priests, but how he wanted to, oh, how he wanted it. Approaching the shrine, he drew the knife he had taken from the guard that morning. For a moment, he stared into the votive basin, seeking his reflection in its shadowed waters and finding none. Then, before he had time to think about what he was doing, or how, or even about the pain, he gashed his palm and let the blood drip into the basin. Red droplets unraveled, clouding the water. “I curse you, nameless men who did this,” he said. “I curse you with blood, and I curse you with pain. In the sacred name of Talili, Lady of the Waters, you will be punished. I am the shumadi. I am twice-born, and I will make it so.” Now Tharril felt the sting of the wound, pain which did little to alleviate the agony he already felt. But he was not yet done. Words tumbled from his lips, words he had nourished for years with his hate, unable to speak them aloud until now. “I also curse you, High Prince of Tajhaan, Thanaj ked Muhal Dharu. You are a liar who keeps men as slaves, who dishonors the Lady’s sacred creatures by allowing them to be defiled this way. I curse you with my blood. I curse your heart, your breath, the very life in your body.” Such poison brought bile to his throat, and he was shaking violently by the time he was done. He wanted to vomit, to sink to his knees and curl into himself like a child, to wish away all the horror and pain. At last, closing his fingers around the congealed wound, he huddled on the floor at the foot of the shrine, seeking the comfort Erred often found there. He did not find it.

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Part II Vengeance

Vengeance is mine I will repay — (Romans 12:19)

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Chapter Six Blood often ran into the sea when men congregated by its shores. Trade and simple subsistence created its own debris. Fishermen threw fish heads and scales back into the waters, and dock workers rinsed the warehouse floors and waterfront streets with seawater. Sailors did the same aboard their vessels. Blood from fish, hrill, and sometimes men who stayed out too late or ventured too far and met violent ends mingled and ran into the boundless ocean. This day was different. Twilight brought a light, damp mist rolling inland. Tendrils crept along the waterfront like pale streamers, ethereal fingers tracing streaks of blood the dock workers had missed that morning. The mist coiled, dispersed, and began to trickle into the streets to obscure the footsteps of those still out and about. Out in the harbor, the fabric of the sea trembled, and began to change. **** Thanaj found it ironic that peace should elude him in so restful a setting. As he lounged under the shade of a silken canopy, watching his youngest children toss a ball by the fountain, he searched his thoughts, trying to decide what made him so restless. His two wives might avoid each other in private, but when he was in residence they presented an image of complete harmony. Ayashi and Herit knew better than to weary him with petty concerns or demands, and he took care not to favor one’s company over the other. To this end he had left his akeshi behind in the capital, bedding only his wives or the concubines they sent him. As mother of the Crown Prince, Ayashi deemed it her right to become Thanaj’s official High Princess. She never said as

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much in his presence—his spies told him all he needed to know, and he had seen the letters she regularly sent Hathil. At least the boy did not encourage her fancies. As far as Thanaj was concerned, Hathil showed quite enough ambition of his own. Leaving such a young, headstrong prince to rule as regent would have been folly had he not trusted his advisors. Hathil could sit on the Lion Throne and play at being High Prince as he pleased. Thanaj had taken care to assign real power to men shrewd and loyal enough to keep his eighteen-year old heir in his place. Having taken such pains to secure peace, what could disrupt it so? A breeze stirred the canopy’s gilded fringe, carrying with it a salty tang. Sea air was far healthier in summer than the pestilential heat of the capital, but Thanaj had always been a man of the desert. The ocean with its endless blue vistas stirred no wonder in him, brought him no delight. Once it might have been different, when he was young and unburdened by memories. His father and brother had been waylaid and murdered on the road from Akkil. Mayetra, his first wife, had loved this city above all others in his realm. Thanaj found contentment in her joy, but then she had died, leaving a void not even Ayashi or Herit or his many children by them could fill. Only once since then had he known happiness in sight of the sea. That, too, had come and gone, so swiftly it might never have been. Nowadays Akkil served as a constant reminder that not all in his realm respected his authority or obeyed his laws. No matter what measures he took, hrill continued to be hunted openly. Priests from the west tried to educate people, who merely scoffed at their foreign goddess and the idea that hrill were sacred creatures who were not to be touched. When his children’s ball came rolling toward him, he sat up to retrieve it. His daughter Zerai ran up the path, followed by an apologetic eunuch whom Thanaj promptly waved aside. “Here you go, my dear,” he said. “Where is Jhamal? I do not see him playing with you.” Zerai reclaimed the ball with a solemn curtsy. “He is sick, Father.” “What is this, child?” “Jhamal has a fever, Father,” Zerai replied quietly. “Surej

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says we have to play outside so we do not bother him.” Such orders the steward might have given, yet he neglected to inform the children’s father when Thanaj had made it clear that he was to be kept abreast of every detail of his children’s health and upbringing. Surej could expect a royal reprimand, but not before Thanaj saw to his son. Smiling, Thanaj bent and kissed his daughter’s cheek. “Go back to your game. I will look in on your brother.” Upstairs in the royal nursery Jhamal lay on his bed. His mother sat beside him, his hand clasped in hers as he coughed. An herbal compress covered his chest to soothe his breathing, and another cooled his brow, while Herit irritably waved aside the hovering eunuchs. Thanaj banished them from the room. He glared at the retreating Surej, and ordered the household physician to stay. “What is wrong with him?” “A summer fever, it seems,” replied the physician. “He is a strong boy, so the worst should pass in a day or two.” Herit made room beside the bed as Thanaj approached. Jhamal sucked in a ragged breath that abruptly dissolved into another coughing spell. “Do not speak,” Thanaj said gently. His hand stroked the boy’s cheek, found it burning hot to the touch. “Rest now. When you are better we will go duck hunting in the marshes.” Thanaj stayed throughout the afternoon, and urged Herit not to worry. “It is as the physician said, only a summer fever. It will soon pass.” As night fell the boy began vomiting blood. **** Jhumo sent an assistant the second day to inspect Erred’s bandages and assess his condition. The man left with his master’s fee and an assurance that he would return within a day or two. Three days passed, then four, and no one came. “Obviously it isn’t worth the fee or his precious time,” muttered Tharril. In his opinion, the physician charged more for these extra visits than his assistant’s services warranted, since the man did very little.

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Shanju shook his head. “I have heard there is illness elsewhere in the city. If so, Jhumo will not be available. We will have to do the best we can.” Erred regained consciousness late the second day, after Jhumo’s assistant left, but he could not speak or focus for very long. For a few moments he blinked up at Tharril and the priests who crowded around his bed, then closed his eyes again, a response Sartel attributed to his concussion. “The physician said the skull was not damaged,” he said quietly, “but I have heard that one cannot always tell. We will not know for certain until Erred wakes again and tries to speak.” The four priests spent the day on their knees in the shrine just off the atrium, praying for Erred’s recovery. “For it would be a terrible thing for a talevé to die like this,” they explained, “struck down by godless heathens so far from his native land.” When they invited Tharril to join them, expecting that, given his status, he would want to he found it difficult to explain that he lacked their religious zeal, and that his prayers had taken an exceedingly dark turn of late. For the sake of appearances he made his morning and evening devotions in the shrine, excusing his continuous presence by explaining that as a shumadi he preferred to commune with the Lady in private. During the day Tharril remained in the atrium, talking with Shanju or playing dice with the guards, who did not quite know what to make of this casual interaction with a holy shumadi. To his surprise he was able to tolerate the presence of Thamar when the akesh, sulky at being ignored and curious about the events taking place elsewhere in the household, came down to join them. Thamar could speak some broken Shivarian, and knew some games the priests had taught him. Tharril soon found that once he stopped trying to be seductive, Thamar’s company was actually quite bearable. Thamar motioned to the second level, where Erred slept. “He is….” He appeared to fumble for words, at last falling back on Tajhaani when he failed to find the appropriate one. “He is your haru?” “He means an intimate, a lover,” translated Shanju. Those guards within earshot, who had remained unaware of the intimacy commonly shared by talevé, looked uncomfortable.

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Glaring at Thamar for his lack of tact, and Shanju for translating where it was not necessary, Tharril did not know whether to publicly admit the truth or deny it outright. Neither course appealed to him. “Erred is very close to me,” he finally said. “We were both slaves here in Tajhaan.” “I did not know this about you,” said Shanju. “He was seized on pilgrimage, and I was taken from my village. I was killed and thrown into the sea not far from here,” replied Tharril. He did not want to have this conversation, not at all. “I was reborn as a shumadi. Erred was set free when his brothers came to negotiate for his release.” Shanju toyed with the ends of his beard, as he often did when he sat idle too long. “Some of these things I already know. Erred’s aktiri name is still uttered here, though I must warn you that not all the talk is flattering. There are many who criticize his influence on the High Prince.” Tharril laughed harshly. “What influence would that be? I don’t see that anything has changed since I was here last.” “Akkil is not the capital. What is true here is not so elsewhere,” explained Shanju. “The High Prince has invited priests of your water goddess into his inner circle, and has been taking instruction from them. There are many at court, including the Crown Prince, who accuse him of neglecting the gods of his fathers and allowing himself to be enchanted by a foreign demon, though anyone can see this is not so. All the proper sacrifices are made, all the rituals are carried out, and all is as it always has been. There is simply one more goddess in Tajhaan, that is all.” One more goddess. Tharril did not have to be spiritual to know that the Lady of the Waters would not consent to being yet another insignificant foreign deity in a vast pantheon. She tolerated Min because the Lord of the Winds was Her consort, Sirrë because the Earth Mother had been born from Her primordial waters, and the Lord of the Flame because She feared and respected the power He wielded. Certainly She would not condone the company of gods who permitted the slaughter of Her sacred creatures, or the abuse of Her sacred consorts. When evening came Tharril did not return to his bed, but stayed in Erred’s room on a cot prepared for his use. Wherever

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necessary he helped the priests change the bandages and bathe the lacerations. He sent the servants for the clean seawater that washed up on Akkil’s beaches, not the filthy stuff from the local waterfront, and used the water with the compresses he used to cool the fever which had developed the first night. “Are you certain this is wise, holy one?” asked Shanju. “The salt in this water will make his open wounds sting.” Tharril said nothing, because in truth he did not know. All he could do was grasp at possibilities, the strongest being his own experience. If the Lady could restore life to a bleeding corpse thrown into the sea, could She not also heal Erred? Doubt dampened his conviction, for after all it was the Lady Herself who had set Erred on this terrible path, and so he did not speak. Just after dawn Erred regained consciousness. Blinking, wincing at the faint daylight streaming into his room, he gazed up at Tharril, who held his breath and wondered if his lover would even recognize him. Then he appeared to study his surroundings, wincing at the pain his slight movements caused. “Why am I here?” he rasped through dry lips. So many questions begged to be asked, yet for the moment Tharril stifled the urge. Moistening Erred’s lips with fresh water, he responded, “You’re in your room in the embassy. We found you by the waterfront and carried you back. Don’t you remember?” Licking his lips, Erred shook his head. For a long time he said nothing, keeping his silence to the point where Tharril doubted whether he would speak at all. Can it be that his mind is damaged by the blow to his head, that he can’t think or remember anything? “It was not meant to be,” he finally whispered. Tharril found the words surprising. “What do you mean?” Apparently unable to find the words, Erred did not explain. “My head hurts.” “Here, this might help.” Once again Tharril applied the compress. He did not tell Erred how badly he had been injured, and did not intend to until Erred was strong enough. There was no need to stir painful memories. More than that, Tharril dreaded his lover’s possible reaction to the face that awaited him

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in the mirror. The moment came sooner than he would have liked. Bennar helped Erred eat the warm gruel the servants had prepared, as he could not hold a spoon with his broken fingers, and assisted him in using the privy and bath. Tharril had not known the elderly priest meant to let Erred out of bed, or else he would have come upstairs immediately. At midmorning Talian came down to fetch him. “You should come,” he said. “Erred has seen himself in the mirror. He is quite distraught. Bennar and I have both told him that the bruises will fade, but he does not hear us.” We should have taken the mirrors away, thought Tharril. Perhaps he would have had he suspected there would be such an immediate need. Taking the stairs two at a time, leaving Talian to catch up, he could already hear Erred’s soft yet persistent weeping, and Bennar trying without success to comfort him. “Leave us,” Tharril said sharply. He waited until the two priests withdrew before approaching Erred, who wept into his good hand. “You are hurting yourself,” he observed, “crying like this with your bruises and broken ribs. And there really isn’t any need for tears, Erred. Your hair will grow back, and the physician told us the scars will be almost unnoticeable. It’s just the stitches that are ugly, and the bruises, but those will fade.” Erred sniffled, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Tharril, you do not understand.” Tharril sat down on the edge of the bed, where Bennar had been just moments before. “No, I don’t understand,” he admitted. “Why did you go in the first place? It was foolish.” “I had to, but you interfered.” “Interfered? You would have died if I hadn’t done something. Is that what you wanted?” Slowly Erred shook his head. “It is not about what I wanted. I never wanted this. I simply had no choice. It was a sacrifice.” Sacrifice. The word, conjuring heathen images of human victims sprawled on bloody altars, struck apprehension and revulsion into Tharril’s heart. “Explain it to me.” Silent tears spilled from Erred’s eyes, running into his

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stitches where the pain caused him to wince. “I am crying because the ki’iri is dead inside me,” he said. “The thing that makes me a talevé is gone. They killed it.” “How do you know?” “I can feel its loss,” whispered Erred. “I see it in the mirror.” Tharril wondered how Erred could perceive anything at all under the bruises and stitches. “Erred, what you’re feeling right now is pain and shock. You’ve been hit in the head. A ki’iri can’t die. It withdraws, but it can’t die. The priests teach us that.” A bandaged hand covered his. “The priests do not know everything,” Erred said softly. “My ki’iri is dead. The Lady told me it would die.” And you still went out there, knowing that? Swallowing hard, Tharril gently touched the hand atop his. “Why did you go?” he asked. “You still haven’t told me why the Lady told you that you had to make this sacrifice.” “She chose me because of my ki’iri, because it was a hrill.” Tharril took a moment to digest the information, yet in the end it made no more sense to him than before. Why would the Lady need to sacrifice a hrill, or any of Her sacred servants? Bloodletting was not a feature of Shivarian ritual. “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t understand.” **** Blood stained the linens, smeared the floor, and spattered the walls where Jhamal had coughed in his losing struggle to breathe. Thanaj did what he could, held the boy in his arms as his fever soared and blood streamed from every orifice, but it was not enough. And when his son, wanting to live, wept red tears, he could nothing. The High Prince of Tajhaan, who held the power of life and death over all his subjects, could not even save his own child. Priests of Belsha’at, the great Father, and Aben, the god of healing, flocked to the house at his command. They burned incense to purify the air in the nursery, they chanted to drive away evil spirits, and urged Thanaj to make offerings, which he had done, kneeling in his private shrine before gold and silver images who did not seem to hear him, and whose priests could

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not explain what an eleven-year old boy had done to deserve such suffering. “A child may be punished for the sins of his father,” answered one priest. Thanaj glared at him. Only so high-ranking a priest would dare utter such treason. “If I have sinned then let the gods punish me, not my son.” Later, he reflected that watching his son die was also a form of punishment. One of the lesser priests tried to placate him. “There is witchcraft about, my lord. Others in the city have been afflicted by this disease.” This was the first Thanaj had heard of it. “And have any of them recovered?” Studying the grim set of the priest’s face, the answer he received was nothing less than what he expected. “No, my lord, none have recovered.” **** “There is hardly any traffic on the streets.” Sartel shook his head in bewilderment. “This illness has proved more troublesome than usual.” Talian took the parcels from the baskets the servants brought in and set them on the atrium table. “Is that all you have to say?” He turned to Tharril, who sat munching a dried apricot. “What Sartel means is that the markets are half-empty and those vendors we did encounter are telling a gruesome tale. This particular plague is the most horrific I have ever encountered. Victims collapse in pain and cannot move, as though every bone in their bodies has been broken. They drown in their own blood and fluids, so many and within such a short space the authorities cannot cremate the dead quickly enough.” From the embassy windows Tharril could not see the smoke from the funeral pyres. Shanju had told him the funeral grounds were on the northern edge of the city, bordering the desert, but when the wind turned, blowing in from the north, the air smelled heavily of burning pitch and flesh. “We have bought everything we can,” continued Talian. “It might be a while before business returns to normal. Under such circumstances it is not wise to go out.”

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“There may be looters,” said Shanju. “If strangers come to the gate we must pretend there is plague within. It will keep them from disturbing us.” Tharril found the conversation baffling and somewhat disturbing. Removed from the rest of Sirilon by distance and their own apparent immunity, talevé never had to cope with the occasional outbreaks that struck the lower city, while in a village like Entippé when disease visited one house, sooner or later it visited all. Death and disease were an accepted part of life, yet this talk of mass pyres, empty markets, and looters unnerved Tharril more than he expected it would. “How did this sickness start?” he asked. “Few in the market are willing to talk,” replied Sartel, “but from what we gather the sickness started here in the waterfront distract. Since then it has spread to other quarters of the city.” Against his own advice, Shanju occasionally went abroad, swathing himself in protective clothing he later burned, to gather information and whatever supplies he could find. Where he obtained sealed jars of wine and oil, baskets of dried fruit, or the pouches of coin he gave the priests, he never said. Everyone knew what he had done, and it quickly became the unspoken rule that no one would speak of it aloud. Tharril instructed the household to remain silent about the plague in Erred’s presence. “I want him to concentrate on getting well. I don’t want him to worry about what is happening elsewhere in the city.” By the third day, Erred’s fever had abated and he could speak with increasing clarity. Ability, however, did not equal desire. Erred spent long hours staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought. Bennar helped him eat and relieve himself. Three times a day the priests helped him exercise by supporting him as he hobbled back and forth along the upper colonnade. Thamar offered to play dice with him, but Erred showed no interest in games or other diversions. This did not trouble Tharril as much as learning that Erred had not prayed since before the attack. “Kneeling before the shrine is difficult for him,” said Sartel. Physical discomfort had never been a hindrance before, simply because Erred’s faith would not allow the lapse. Worship need not be so formal, but Erred set such store in the daily rituals

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that Tharril began to wonder if his failure to perform the morning and evening litanies signified a more profound withdrawal. He might ask, yet refrained, knowing even then that Erred was not likely to answer. After a week Shanju brought increasingly grim reports, including ugly rumors he had heard from the few people he encountered on the street. “The only ones out now are looters or corpse carriers,” he said. “The looters run, of course, or threaten to rob you, but the corpse collectors are grateful enough to see a living body they’ll give you a moment or two.” “Are there really so many dead?” asked Tharril. Shanju shrugged. No matter what he heard or saw, he did not seem disturbed by it. “It’s hard to say. The living have either fled or shut themselves up in their houses to wait out the sickness, just as we have. When somebody dies they leave the corpse outside the door in a pool of blood to be carried away.” Here he shook his head, showing his disapproval. “No rites, no prayers. It is a terrible way to go.” “What have you heard?” pressed Sartel. “Is there an end in sight?” added Talian. “It hardly seems so. I hear there are more dead than ever,” replied Shanju. “But that is not the worst I have heard.” Glancing at the priests, then at Tharril, he hesitated. “Always when there is sickness you hear madness, most of all that the gods are unhappy. Of course, it does not take much for men to say so. Yet now I hear other things, wild talk that demons have brought the plague. People remember the white-haired creature who cursed their fishermen on the dock, and the waterfront is where the sickness began. It is nonsense, of course, and I did not wish to tell you. In a plague people simply do not think.” Tharril concurred, even as he went to assist the servants in putting away the goods Shanju had brought, but privately he began to doubt. The white-haired creature who cursed them. Naturally Shanju meant Erred and whatever he had said or done, but he could not know what prayers Tharril had invoked. Can it be that the Lady heard me, that She is taking vengeance on the city and its people for what they did to Erred? The possibility that his words, the prayers of a simple farmer’s son, might carry such power was an intoxicating

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thought, and ultimately a frightening one. Whenever he visited Erred Tharril took care to present a cheerful countenance. As per his orders, no one mentioned the plague. And yet, somehow, Erred seemed to know. “There is sickness in the city,” he said, his voice low and strangely flat. Tharril betrayed no reaction. “Who told you this?” With dead eyes, Erred looked at him. “The hrill are safe now.” Stop talking in riddles and just tell me the truth. “What does the sickness have to do with the hrill?” asked Tharril. “Anyone with blood on their hands will suffer,” said Erred. “That is why they are dying. The Lady has changed the hrill. They are safe now.” Tharril suspected that Erred’s eerie monotone was the result of the painkillers Jhumo had prescribed, yet even so he began to comprehend what his lover said as something more than opiateinduced nonsense. “Anyone who sheds a hrill’s blood will catch the plague?” “And anyone who defiles himself by consuming the sacred flesh.” Erred’s lips curved into a serene yet unreadable smile Tharril found chilling. “The Lady has made it so.” Glancing over at the book one of the priests had brought and set on the night table, Tharril was tempted to pick it up and drop it hard on the floor, or clap his hands together—anything that would startle Erred out of his stupor. “If She is so powerful, why did She need you to do this?” Erred breathed a heavy sigh. When he spoke again he was lucid, his voice pregnant with exhaustion. “It is about blood, Tharril. I tried to tell you before. She needed my ki’iri as a blood sacrifice, a hrill imbued with Her special blessing to change, one whose blood would change all the others. Now that spirit is dead inside me. I will never be as I was.” Now it made sense, yet understanding did not ease Tharril’s frustration. “Why you, Erred?” he asked. “Has the Lady not subjected you to enough punishment?” “I know what you think,” Erred answered quietly. “I thought it once, too, but now that I see Her design I no longer question Her choice. Could you truly see Olenwë making such a

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sacrifice, or Daro, or any of the others who bear the hrill gift?” Tharril heard a tiny, selfish inner voice cry yes! “It is not fair to you.” He felt Erred’s hand lightly touch his. “I know. I do not love pain, Tharril. I know you believe otherwise, but truly I wish I could be free of all this. And yet I cannot refuse the Lady. This is my sacred duty, and there is no one else who could have done it, who would have understood in the same way.” All Tharril could do was repeat his earlier words. “It is not fair to you.” Or to me. **** Sounds of grief echoed through the house. In the nursery Herit and her women rent their veils and wailed. Even Ayashi, stricken with horror at the sight of the bloody bed, gathered her children to her and wept. Thanaj brought his hands to his face, stopped when he saw the dried blood. Even his fingernails were encrusted. More blood stained his robe. So much he could not quite comprehend it. Then his gaze went to his son’s body, fixating on the blood smearing lips just turning blue, before a servant drew fresh linen over Jhamal’s face. The spell broken, Thanaj felt his knees give way, and uttering a low cry he sank sobbing to the floor. No one dared approach him, dared lay hands upon the High Prince even to comfort him in his grief. Surej finally got him to his feet and to his apartment, where his servants helped him wash and change his clothes, ruined silk for black mourning. Arrangements must be made for Jhamal’s funeral—by law the pyre must be lit within twenty-four hours. “See to it, Surej,” he said. “Lady Herit and her women will want to wash and prepare him. Let them, if the priests of Aben give them leave.” There was no guarantee that what had killed Jhamal would not afflict others. For all Thanaj knew, his other children might succumb next, or Herit or Ayashi, or even himself. The steward made an elegant bow. “It will be done, my lord.” Servants brought in food and wine, which he ignored despite Surej’s polite insistence that he eat. Instead he summoned the priest who had spoken to him the day before.

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“Umrit,” he began heavily, “yesterday you mentioned there was witchcraft done here in the city, that it was the cause of this affliction. I wish to know more.” Umrit knelt, touched his forehead to the carpet. “My lord, a thousand lamentations for your son—” Thanaj motioned him to rise. “If sorcerers are responsible for this deed, then I must know.” Joints creaking, grunting softly with the effort, Umrit stood. “Men throughout the city speak of a demon that struck near the waterfront some days ago. Again and again we hear this story from the sick who come to the god’s house for a cure. A white demon cursed the dock workers, and now all who approached it, all who saw it lie dead of this plague.” “My son had no contact with anyone near the waterfront,” said Thanaj. “That I cannot explain, my lord,” Umrit answered nervously. “There are none left who could tell you the words of the curse this demon uttered. Some say it was in a foreign tongue altogether.” Thanaj sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off a growing headache. Sorcery existed, that much he knew. Half the disputes that came before him involved charges of witchcraft, some unscrupulous person engaging a soothsayer to place a curse upon a hated neighbor, rival lover or merchant. Mutilated animals and maledictions on strips of lead were presented as evidence. Malformed shadows in alleyways presaged mysterious deaths. Thanaj knew the signs, believed in them as any sensible man did, but Umrit’s vague answers offered no respite. “Do not come to me with such charges unless you have proof. I will not have you add to the general panic by conjuring phantoms from the air.” Umrit started to his knees once more, until a sharp command from Thanaj stopped him. “Any proof I had I would offer you, my lord. Our priests have already begun to make inquiries, though I cannot say what else they may learn with so many dead.”

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When Shanju next returned from his rounds, genuine fear clouded his report. “The authorities have begun to seal off all houses where there is plague.” As he spoke in Shivarian, neither Thamar nor the servants understood much, but the priests leaned forward in horror. “The living with the dead?” asked Talian. “Indeed,” replied Shanju. “And as we have put it about that there is plague in this house, it is no longer safe for us to stay where we are. We will either be sealed in or attacked once it is known we harbor two ahiri behind these walls.” White-faced, Sartel nodded. “Then it is time for you and Erred to go, Tharril.” “You mean to stay here?” “We have not been recalled to Sirilon, or given permission to leave. If we depart with you there will be no one to look after the servants,” explained Sartel. “We cannot turn them out on the street now.” As far as Tharril was concerned the servants were selfsufficient enough to fend for themselves. “If you are shut in, you will starve. You may even catch the plague.” “That is not necessarily so. We have had no contact with the sick. Our private well will supply us with ampl e fresh water, and with a smaller household our food stores can be made to last. This quarantine can only last so long.” Sartel smiled, his attempt at reassurance falling short. “We will be fine until it ends.” When Tharril looked from him to the other two priests, Bennar and Talian wore the same forced smile, their hope mixed with the fear they all felt. “Where can we hire a ship?” Shanju cleared his throat. Tharril recognized the sound as a precursor to bad news—he braced himself to hear it. “Sadly there are none available. I have already gone to the harbor to make inquiries, but the docks are utterly still. Your ship left the same day the holy one was attacked, and there are no men to hire for a crew, or I would say take whatever vessel we can find. No, holy one, if you wish to return to Shivar you will have to go by land.”

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“We have to cross the desert?” Having made the journey once, under duress, Tharril preferred not to have to face such a trek again, especially now in the heat of summer. If only the guards knew how to sail, they could have stolen a ship from the harbor and returned easily to Sirilon, but the men were the sons of soldiers and tradesmen, and knew little about the sea. “Then get us horses, camels, and whatever else you think we’ll need.” “That I can do,” said Shanju, “but bear in mind you cannot go straight across the desert to the mountains from here. You need experienced guides and water along the route, else you will perish. You must go to Tajhaan first.” Tajhaan. The word rose in Tharril’s gorge like bile. A desert wasteland would have been preferable to the noise, squalor, and amorality of the foreign capital. “Are you certain?” “If you wish to survive there is no other way,” answered Shanju. “Advance me, say, twenty menar and I will see what I can find for transport. Once we reach Tajhaan, of course, you will have to spend more.” Tharril put his head in his hands. “I take it you don’t intend to steal the animals?” “Steal? Holy one, Shanju ked Tarkkali would never do such a thing! Before gods and men I will find you an honest price, so may the Father strike me down if I am lying.” If it was possible for a man to lie with more gravity and finesse, Tharril could not see how. “Erred is in no condition to ride,” Sartel pointed out. “You will have to go to Tajhaan by river.” “The only way to Tajhaan is by land,” said Tharril. “I remember the last time I came here. It was ten days across the desert.” To his surprise, Shanju immediately corrected him. “That is not so, holy one. You must remember that we Tajhaani are a desert people. We love our fountains and oases, but do not trust water under our feet. Most of us make poor sailors. Yet there are those who ply the river who can provide us with passage north. Once we are safely in Tajhaan we will find lodging until Erred is well enough to travel overland. The animals I mentioned I will purchase in the city for the journey across the great desert. The twenty menar is for the watermen.”

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After supper Tharril went upstairs to inform Erred. Twelve days after the attack Erred could walk on his own, but could not climb stairs or go very far before he had to stop and catch his breath. Talian had straightened his shorn hair, arranging it over the bald patches so it looked almost flattering, and his bruises had begun to fade in places. At that moment Erred sat in a cushioned chair by the window, perusing one of the illustrated texts Shanju had brought back for him; since Erred showed interest in the colorful illuminations, Tharril thought it best not to question where Shanju had found the scrolls. Now that he could leave his bed, Erred seemed more lucid and animated. Tharril suspected the absence of mirrors in his room might have had something to do with it. “Erred, we have to leave the city,” he said. “Our only choice is to go to Tajhaan.” Setting the scroll across his lap, Erred gazed at the wall. “Why?” he asked softly. “There aren’t any ships to take us to Sirilon, and we can’t cross the desert from here,” explained Tharril. “Believe me, I don’t want to leave like this, and I certainly don’t want to go anywhere near Tajhaan, but it isn’t safe for us to stay here any longer. Houses are being sealed. Shanju says there’s lawlessness everywhere. We’ll take the river passage north to Tajhaan and find lodging there until you’re well enough to travel.” “When must we leave?” “Tomorrow morning. Shanju wants us out of here before dawn,” said Tharril. “I should tell you now that Amerel is the only priest who is coming. Sartel, Talian, and Bennar are all going to stay behind with the servants. I tried to persuade them, but they insist.” Still staring at the wall, Erred nodded. “Had I come alone, there would not have been such trouble.” “Stop it. You know better than to say those things.” “But it is true.” Had Erred not been so frail, Tharril might have taken him by the shoulders and shaken him. “There won’t be any trouble. We’ll get to Tajhaan and find a safe place. It’ll be all right—

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unless, of course, the Lady has other plans for you.” Erred’s eyes grew hard. His lower lip trembled as he replied, “You make jests where you should not, Tharril.” “I am not joking, Erred. I don’t want to wake up one morning in Tajhaan to find you gone simply because you wanted to spare my feelings or didn’t think to tell me. That’s the problem, Erred. When these things happen, you never tell me. I have to find out later, when you’ve collapsed because your visions are too much for you, or you’ve been beaten and left for dead by an angry mob. I don’t ever want that to happen again.” “What was I to tell you, Tharril?” Erred’s voice trembled with emotion. “How could I tell you the horrible things the Lady showed me? I never wanted to go out there. I was terrified, you must believe that, but I had no choice. Had I told you, you would have prevented me from going, and that was something I could not allow. I could not disobey the Lady. Leaving you like that was the only way.” Tharril crouched down beside him, gently placing a hand on his knee in reassurance. “Tell me now, and be honest with me: is there more? When we get to Tajhaan, is the Lady going to ask more of you?” Bandaged fingers touched his hair. “The Lady is finished with me. I have nothing more to give.” “That is not true. You still have me.” “Yes,” said Erred, “and I want you to promise me that when we get to Tajhaan you will not do or say anything foolish. I know you may be tempted, but for your safety and mine you must be civil.” Tharril had no intention of swearing oaths he might not be able to keep. “I will do my best.” “I know what your best effort is. Try to do better than that.” Sighing, Tharril rose and paced to the opposite end of the room, where he stared into the votive basin. For the first time he wondered which of the servants or priests had noticed the blood in the water that night, and what they might have thought. Making a fist, he ran his fingertips against the tender scab on his palm. “We’re Shivarians in a land where they’re still kept as slaves and bred like cattle. If anybody tries to lay a hand on me, or you, I intend to fight back. Believe me, Erred, if Lais hadn’t

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found your pulse and told me you were alive, I would have shed my skin and gored those sailors as a bull right there on the dock.” Erred made no answer to his passionate outburst. “I suppose we must leave some of our belongings behind. I will have someone help me pack, but I do not want to leave the shrine behind.” With a lift of his chin, he indicated the votive statue and basin. Shanju appeared bearing the native clothes Tharril had earlier refused. “You do not care for these, it is known, but to be safe you should wear them.” This time Tharril took the garments and put them on. His other clothes and possessions he bundled into a leather bag before going to assist Erred and the servant who pawed through his linens. “You may go, Samo,” he said in Tajhaani. “I will do this.” “You do not even know how to fold your own things,” said Erred. Tharril stared at the chest and its contents: stacks of clean linen, robes, and, under the rest, shining silks and jewels wrapped in velvet. “Why did you have to bring so much?” Reaching under a pile of pristine undergarments, he withdrew a deep blue robe embroidered with golden flowers. “When did you plan on wearing this?” “I did not,” replied Erred. “I had Shanju sell some of my things in Sirilon to pay for this trip. I did not know if we would run short of money or if we would have to bribe officials. I had no idea what the Lady would require of me when we arrived, so I brought some of my jewels and silks as surety.” “We can’t take everything,” said Tharril. “The shrine and basin we must take. I also wish to take one of my priestly robes, two changes of clothing, and linen undergarments. If we are going to Tajhaan it would be unwise to sell those rich garments where they might be recognized, but we must take the jewels.” A discreet cough warned them they were not alone. Shanju stood there, a shadow leaning against the threshold. “You must excuse the intrusion, holy ones,” he said. “I did not mean to eavesdrop, but the wisest course is to sew the jewels into your

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clothing so they cannot be stolen. There are two servants here who are proficient with thread and needle. I will send them up here to show you how this is done, but mind you watch them carefully.” Tharril nodded toward Erred. “You need to rest. I’ll watch and make sure it’s done properly.” As he packed the items Erred wanted into a smaller chest, two old women climbed the stairs with needles, scissors, and thread. Outside on the colonnade Shanju issued a few last instructions, showing the women the jewels and the clothes Erred and Tharril were to wear. They nodded, motioning Tharril to follow them into the next room where they would not disturb the sleeping Erred. For three hours he watched as they ripped seams and folded jeweled rings and strands of pearls into linings and hems before deftly sewing the seams shut. Afterward Tharril donned his garments, tucking Erred’s under him as he tried to claim a few precious hours of rest. Sartel woke them in the middle of the night. “It will soon be time,” he whispered. “Come downstairs and eat something.” Tharril helped Erred dress, then supported him as they descended to the atrium. One of the guards followed carrying Erred’s chest. Shanju waited below with Amerel, the other guards, and the provisions they would take with them. When he saw the water skins and bags containing dried fruits and meat, Tharril gave the priests an uncertain look. “You can’t spare this.” “It will be enough to sustain fifteen men for the four days it will take you to reach Tajhaan,” said Talian. “What we have left we will ration. Our food may last ten days or more if we are fortunate.” Then Sartel came forward, leading Thamar by the arm. “This is no place for an akesh. Take him with you. Once you reach Tajhaan he can go free if he wants, or sell himself again. He is young enough that he may fetch a good price.” Tharril glared at Thamar, who seemed strangely disinterested in the whole affair. “As long as he doesn’t complain and can keep up with the rest of us.” After a small breakfast Shanju led them onto the street. A

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half-moon hung low on the western horizon; dawn was not far away. Tenement blocks passed one after the next, each dark, narrow street exactly like the one which preceded it, heavy with the odors of rancid sewage and death. The men crept silently through the shadows like the rats infesting the garbage heaps. Erred lay like a corpse in Nomel’s arms, which was precisely what he would pretend to be if they were stopped. No one would detain anyone associated with plague victims. Shanju went ahead to negotiate with the sentry at the northern gate. Normally the gate was a busy thoroughfare bustling with traders and customs officials, yet now only a single man, charged with enforcing a general quarantine, remained at his post. The bleariness with which he hailed Shanju revealed he had been sleeping, and his tone showed his lack of enthusiasm for the job. After only a few moments he accepted Shanju’s gold and waved the party on. “It might not have been so easy during the day,” said Shanju. The moon sank lower on the horizon as he led them down a dusty road, past orchards and empty fields of barley and wheat. Dew and the smell of overripe fruit hung in the air. Once, Shanju paused to let a serpent slither across their path, making the sign against evil as it did so, then pressed on into the growing dawn. Three hours brought them to a river sluggishly flowing south toward the sea. Shanties hugged the reeds, jetting out into the water where a barge bobbed up and down on the gentle current. Shanju tramped through a dilapidated vegetable garden, shrugging aside crude charms hanging from the dwelling’s awning, and rapped hard on the door. By now Tharril remembered enough Tajhaani to understand what Shanju shouted into the door’s warped crevices. “Come out if you are not sick! You have customers here. There is money to be made!” The door creaked open enough for a dark face to peer out. Wary eyes widened, becoming a shade friendlier at the gold Shanju held up for inspection, and ample assurances that the prospective passengers were not sick. Gabbled instructions sent them down to the jetty and the barge that waited there.

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“Ino and his sons will take us,” said Shanju. “There has been no business for days, so they are more than willing to bear us to Tajhaan.” “What about the plague?” asked Tharril. “I suspect it has gone far beyond Akkil by now. There may even be sickness in Tajhaan when we arrive. These things cannot be helped,” replied Shanju. “Perhaps some here by the river have been sick, but these folk have a saying that if a man survives a plague when his neighbors are dying all around him, he is either a demon or has the favor of the gods.” “And what do these people believe about us?” Shanju did not seem overly concerned, despite the rumors he had brought back to the embassy only a day before. “These river people like our gold. If there is more, they will leave it to the gods.” Presently Ino emerged from his shanty. A gaunt, leathery old man whose age belied his sinewy strength, he flashed a gaptoothed grin at the passengers, waving them aboard his barge in a rapid dialect Tharril could not follow. His grown sons, as brown and wiry as their father, leapt barefoot from the jetty onto the deck, and fell to work. The river barge rivaled the caravel Albatross in size, with a stern rudder and heavy poles to propel the vessel through the current. Shelter consisted of a sturdy frame covered in palm fronds, with reed mats for sitting; these could be easily shifted aside when cargo was brought aboard. Tharril, ruing the absence of cushions, tried to make Erred as comfortable as possible. Ino provided sheepskins from below; these were worn and smelled repulsive, but Erred accepted the gesture and thanked him. Shanju sat down cross-legged beside them. “I do not care for this way of travel,” he said, “but I am told it is not unpleasant. Certainly it will be easier for you to bear than in your ships on the open sea.” Breezes drifting in over the water cooled the air, even as the barge left the orchards and estuaries of Akkil for the north, where only a thin strip of green separated the river from the parched vastness of the desert beyond. Among the palms, huts clustered against the shore, and Tharril could see the tiny figures of villagers going about their tasks. In some ways it reminded

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him of Entippé. If we pass through the mountains, he thought, I may even see home again. After first becoming a talevé, he had tried to send a message to his family to tell them that he was alive and safe, only to be informed by the priests that those chosen by the Lady must cast off all ties to what came before. With help, Tharril had smuggled the letter out anyway, without ever knowing if his family received it. Evenings in the desert were bitterly cold even in summer. Shanju paid Ino extra for blankets, whose coarse, threadbare texture suggested they were most often used to cover cargo. When darkness fell, Ino and his son poled the barge out of the main current and dropped anchor among the reeds, securing the rudder and poles before joining their passengers for a meal. Ino spoke to Shanju in his rapid dialect. “He says the water seems peaceful at night, but one must be careful. Men sometimes come in the dark to steal what the boats carry.” For additional security, Shanju suggested some of the guards alternate watches during the night, and had Erred’s bedding moved to the center of the shelter. Tharril lay down beside Erred, burrowing close under their blankets to share body warmth, and they fell asleep to the rhythmic rocking of the barge and the gentle stirring of the breeze rustling the reeds. **** “There is not a single hrill poacher left alive in Akkil,” said Surej. “Umrit sends word that those priests who tried to question the relatives and associates of those poachers find those people are dead also. Even merchants and those judges who did business with them are dead, or dying.” Thanaj lifted his gaze from the papyri littering his desk. His grief he blunted not with drink but work, gathering information, making lists, and trying to determine some pattern in the plague. For this task he had recruited his steward and a few reliable priests, and sent them out to observe. Bodies dumped in the streets, entire households decimated, rampant looting—these things, synonymous with plague, did not surprise him, and he sent out guards to keep order, paying them extra when they balked at entering infected neighborhoods. Not one caught ill. Surej and the priests remained

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unaffected. This made no sense. Now this news about the poachers, all dead. His son had had nothing to do with such people. All in his household obeyed his orders not to touch the hrill. One more item to add to his lists. Thanaj thought nothing more about the matter until the steward returned later in the day, this time in obvious distress. “My lord, the hrill—” Again, the hrill. Thanaj set down his stylus. “What about them?” “Neighbors complained about the stench coming from the warehouse where the carcasses are processed,” replied Surej. “I know what such places usually look like, but I have never seen such horror as we found there. The carcasses were black. Not even the maggots would touch them. We waded ankle-deep in blood, and it was green with rot, unlike any I have ever seen. It scalded a man who touched it. We set torches to the building at once, and sent for the priests of Belsha’at to purify the ground.” Thanaj would have preferred to visit the site and view the alleged horror for himself. It was too late now to reprimand Surej for his preemptory action. “Was the man’s injury serious?” “For so small a wound it gives him great pain,” answered Surej. “The priests of Aben are doing what they can for him.” Clearly the hrill, or their blood, had been bewitched. Thanaj sent for Umrit, who informed him that the man had lost the use of his hand and burned with an inexplicable fever. “It is not the plague,” he said, “but something else. If he does not improve we fear we may have to amputate the limb.” At this Thanaj nodded. Should the worst occur the family would receive compensation. “What do you make of what he and Surej discovered in the warehouse?” “Those among my brothers who saw this evil can only hope the fire will remove the taint of witchcraft,” answered Umrit. “We continue to search for this white demon. There are rumors it has found sanctuary in the Shivarian embassy, yet without proof we cannot violate the embassy’s guest-right to search.” Rumors they might be, yet the lingering question of a white demon offered a possibility Thanaj had not considered before. Not that he believed so potent a curse could be loosed in his city

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without his knowledge, or that the Shivarians, no matter their political or religious views, would commit such evil. Just before sunset he summoned Surej. “Send for the priests from Shivar. You will find them in their embassy. I wish to question them.” Three men, dressed in threadbare blue and gray robes, answered his summons. Thanaj noted their names, their fluency, and courteous manners, and above all their obvious discomfort as he began to describe the purpose behind their visit. “It is clear you know something,” he finally stated. “If you have committed witchcraft or are harboring those who have it is best you cooperate now. I do not wish to subject foreign emissaries to torture, though I assure you that I will if you force me to do so.” Sartel, chief among them, spoke, “We have protested the continued slaughter of the hrill. You already know this. But we have not engaged in sorcery or any other illegal acts. These are not arts practiced in Shivar.” “Then why do the rumors lead to your door?” “Aside from the fact that we are foreigners who worship different gods, your people do not understand what they have seen. This ‘white demon’ of whom you speak is merely the talk of the ignorant and superstitious, those who have never seen an ahiru.” “A sacred consort of the Lady of the Waters has come here to Tajhaan? They do not leave the sanctuary of the Blue House, and certainly have no cause to visit a foreign land.” Thanaj acknowledged their surprise. “Yes, I know something about ahiri—talevé you call them in your tongue.” Sartel cleared his throat anxiously. “The Lady sent them to us—” “There was more than one?” “Indeed, two ahiri came to us, sent by the Lady to protect the hrill. One faced the mob down by the waterfront and was attacked by them. This is the white demon your people fear, yet no demon is he. He lives still, though gravely injured.” Had the priest told him a god had descended to earth Thanaj could not have been more shocked. A sacred ahiru should never have been treated thus in his realm. Both ahiri should have approached him directly, sought his protection. “Superstitious

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talk or not, your guests have been linked to the plague. I am told that none of your people are ill.” “That is true, we are not,” admitted Sartel. “As for how the plague started I do not know. Erred mentioned that the Lady would take vengeance for the crimes committed against Her, but we merely assumed he was delirious.” Erred. The name gave Thanaj an unexpected start. His Erred, here in Akkil? Now things began to make sense, and yet some mysteries still remained. Naturally Erred would be outraged at sight of a hrill hunt, and become the white demon who cursed the poachers in his own language, but what had he to do with the plague? As far as Thanaj knew Erred did not possess such power. Why did he not come to me? Visions of that ethereal, pale beauty defiled by violent hands made him queasy, all the more because he had seen it before. “What are the names of these ahiri?” Thanaj had a suspicion who the other must be, for if Erred returned to Tajhaan then his lover Tharril could not be far behind. He was right. The shumadi had also come. “Where are they now?” The news was not what he wished or even expected to hear. “They have left the city,” said Sartel. “It was no longer safe for them to remain here.” “We are under quarantine.” Of course, that had not prevented those with sufficient money or influence from fleeing. On several occasions Thanaj himself toyed with the idea of leaving, but considered it ill-advised for a High Prince to be seen abandoning his subjects. With the city closed he turned to avian couriers to send messages to the capital. Sartel nodded grimly. “We felt an attack on the embassy was imminent. The ahiri arranged river passage to Tajhaan through their liaison.” In private this new information bore much thought. That the plague sprang from the hrill and the Lady of the Waters was no easier for Thanaj to believe than the old, tired refrain that the gods of Tajhaan were displeased, yet when taken with all the facts he and his steward had gathered it made far more sense. Only he could not say how his son fit into the puzzle, save that

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Jhamal must have disobeyed him. He was always a dutiful son. How could he flout my wishes over this one small thing? Thanaj had seen fathers turn their backs on their children, beat them or worse, for less than this. That a goddess he embraced would slay his child for so insignificant an offense—for surely Jhamal had only sinned once—was a gall too bitter to swallow. That night he spent giving orders to Surej and the viziers of the harem and nursery. With Erred and Tharril on their way to Tajhaan, Thanaj could no longer remain in Akkil. Had he been able he would have been on a swift horse and racing across the desert, but that would have meant leaving his wives and children behind. With their wagons it would take two weeks or more to make a ten-day journey, an intolerable delay. Water travel did not appeal to him. Necessity, however, had him order Surej to arrange river passage north. **** Tajhaan came into view three days later. From the whitewashed buildings and gardens clustered on its three hills, cultivated land radiated out, irrigated by channels branching out from the river. River traffic grew more congested, prompting Shanju to advise Erred and Tharril to cover their heads. “The best course is to go straight to your embassy,” he said. “With your guards, you will arouse suspicion if you try to lodge elsewhere.” “I had hoped to avoid the embassy,” Erred said quietly. “You will be safest there,” replied Shanju. Once the barge docked and Ino’s sons secured the lines, Shanju stepped out to flag down a shabby-looking palanquin for Erred, while cautioning the guards to conceal their weapons when they went into the city. “It will attract attention if you do not,” he said. With Erred riding in the palanquin, which proceeded at a turtle’s pace through the crowded thoroughfare, his companions walking alongside, they traversed the mile from the river through the east gate into the city. Heat and dust hung like a pall over the streets, thick with rancid cooking smells and unwashed bodies. Tharril pressed a corner of his scarf to his nose, trying to shut out unpleasant memories along with the clamor and stench.

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In a relatively quiet neighborhood, Shanju led them to a large building, which Tharril assumed was the Shivarian embassy. He rang the bell at the gate, but the two servants who came out were no more welcoming than those in Akkil. Shanju opened his mouth to harangue them, when Tharril stepped forward and pulled off his scarf. “You tell your masters there are ahiri here from Shivar,” he said in Tajhaani. “We have come far and expect good treatment.” There was no need. A priest in the courtyard beyond spied Tharril’s white hair and hurried over. “A holy consort in Tajhaan!” he exclaimed. “Famal, open the gate, and you, Isil, go find the steward, then tell the ambassadors that two ahiri are here!” No sooner did the gate open than the priest ushered Tharril and his companions into the outer courtyard. His face fell as he counted the number of guards, perhaps wondering where the embassy would house them all, his dismay then turning to horrified surprise when he saw Erred leaning on Nomel, bruises on his face and his arm in a sling. “Sweet Lady!” he cried. Still staring, he gestured frantically at Famal. “Tell the physician to come at once.” Drawn by the activity, servants and residents of the embassy came out to see what the commotion was. Priests asked for news of Shivar and the plague in Akkil, of which they had heard only rumors. Tharril, seeing Erred begin to wilt under a barrage of questions about what had happened to him, appealed to Shanju. It did no good. The man’s pleas for order were being ignored, his efforts to get their attention rebuffed. It was chaos, and it was maddening. Tharril drew in a breath and opened his mouth to shout when he heard a booming voice that did not belong to him. “Silence! What is all this noise?” A middle-aged man, arms crossed over his broad chest, filled the archway leading into the main building. Like the priests he was Shivarian, but dressed in the native style, with jewels on his fingers and a heavy gold pectoral. Behind him, almost timid by comparison, stood an older man also richly dressed. “That is Shinias né Keturil, ambassador to Akkil,” said

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Shanju. “The other man is Arthis Hindari né Demasa, your prince’s ambassador to Tajhaan.” “This is no way to treat guests!” roared Keturil. He aggressively dispersed the crowd, ordering the servants to lead the newcomers upstairs to their quarters. While Tharril appreciated an end to the questions and noise, he did not care much for the ambassador’s brusque manner—the man neither bothered to address nor welcome them. “Where is his respect?” muttered Amerel. “He dismisses you like so many servants.” Tharril did not answer. In this at least, the man’s lack of deference did not trouble him. The less ceremony he and Erred had to endure, the better it suited him. In the stale, tense air of the desert he could not rest. Thamar’s agitated complaints next door did not help. At last, Tharril rose from his bed, went to the door, and snapped at the youth to be quiet. Thamar gestured frantically to the fountain court below them. “He has another akesh!” he hissed. “Some filthy little bakti!” Tharril was not necessarily unsympathetic, but frustration gave him no patience. “What did you expect?” he asked. “If you don’t like it, you can leave.” Like a wounded animal, Thamar slunk away, shutting his door hard behind him. At sunset, supper was served around a low table in the green fountain court, a setting made pleasant by the cool splash of water and fragrant, night-blooming flowers. Tharril donned his priestly robes. Erred, who came downstairs with Nomel’s help, wore native dress, explaining that the loose clothing was easier to wear over his bandages. While the ambassadors were solicitous, offering the services of a highly qualified physician attached to the royal court, Erred said little during the meal, leaving the conversation to Shanju, who distracted their hosts with lively anecdotes about life in Sirilon. When asked about Erred’s injuries, Shanju simply replied, “They are not friendly to talevé in Akkil.” “Nevertheless it is a lovely city,” commented Keturil. “Sadly we have been delayed, or we might have met you there.

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We heard the reports of plague just as we were preparing to return.” Keturil’s indolent tone made that an unlikely story. Not once, Tharril noticed, did the man inquire about the three priests or servants left behind. He did not even show interest in Thamar, who had refused to leave his room to partake in the meal. It was just as well, in view of the lissome young man who hung on Keturil’s arm, pouring his wine and feeding him delicacies from the table. Demasa, the older ambassador, seemed browbeaten by the more imposing Keturil, and spoke very little. “There has been some sickness here,” he offered. “You must pardon me if I am mistaken,” said Shanju, “but in Akkil the streets and markets were abandoned. By contrast, this does not seem like a city troubled by plague.” Though he seemed irritated by the change in topic, Keturil answered, “There have been a few deaths similar to those in Akkil, but one cannot always be sure it is plague. These people are so accustomed to sickness and squalor, it is nothing to them.” Amerel and the five priests who had joined them at the table made noises of agreement. Erred looked troubled, but, too polite to argue, concentrated on eating with his left hand. Only afterward, in the privacy of his room, did he confide in Tharril. “Tajhaan may be safer than Akkil, but the company leaves something to be desired. I will be grateful when we can leave.” Before retiring, Shanju came to see them. “I do not think it will surprise you that Thamar wishes to be sold. Tomorrow I will make inquiries.” The next day passed without incident. Keturil and Demasa spent the afternoon elsewhere, among wealthy associates who mixed business with exotic entertainment. Meanwhile the embassy’s physician inspected Erred’s wounds and dressings before checking the other arrivals for signs of plague. Tharril did not tell the priests he was a shumadi, and forbade his companions, especially Amerel, who would have waved his status about like a banner, to speak of it. By sunset the ambassadors still had not returned. Erred and Tharril enjoyed a quiet supper with the priests, then spent a few hours perusing the embassy library before going up to bed.

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Morning brought an ostentatiously dressed man to the embassy. Tharril, sitting in the shady fountain court with Erred and Amerel, recoiled at the man’s unctuous mannerisms and felt an inexplicable urge to snap at him. Keturil was no better, draping a familiar arm about the man’s shoulder and leading him over to the fountain without acknowledging the two talevé who were also his guests. Tharril frowned, then paused when he sensed Erred stiffen beside him. “What is it?” he whispered. “The man is an akesh broker. I know him.” “I believe he’s here for Thamar,” murmured Tharril. “Are you sure?” Without answering, Erred awkwardly stood and moved toward Keturil and his guest, just as Shanju emerged from the main building with Thamar. “I did not realize you made your own calls, Dhabi,” he said softly. Turning, an indulgent smile on his lips, the man gave a visible start at sight of Erred’s white hair, and another when Tharril rose and approached. “Such rare treasures!” he exclaimed. “Who is this man, Erred?” asked Tharril. “He is Dhabi ké Abhinar.” The name sounded oddly familiar. “Have I met him before?” Erred shook his head. “No, you do not know him. He is the one who sold me to Satu. It is all right, I will deal with him.” Now Dhabi was all honey and smiles. “Ah, now I recall you, Arqui. You became a favorite of the High Prince. Did I not once tell you, listen to Dhabi ké Abhinar and you will rise—?” Tharril could stand no more. Brushing past Erred, he bunched his right hand into a fist and smashed it into the man’s face. With a startled, pained cry, Dhabi bent double, both hands pressed to his nose, blood spilling between his fingers. “What have you done?” Keturil asked sharply. “This man is a guest.” “He is scum, and if you would deal with someone who once sold a talevé as a sex slave to a vile man, then you are no better than he is.” Keturil stepped forward, arms crossed over his chest.

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Tharril did not back down, despite the other man’s greater height and breadth, and intention to bully. “Your allegations are unfounded—” “We are also your guests, and you offend us.” Tharril knew it would have been more tactful to hold his tongue and withdraw, but this insult was not going to be borne. If need be, he would reveal just what ki’iri spirit lurked under his skin. “As a holy shumadi of Sirilon, I do not lie. This man is lowborn scum, trafficking in slaves taken from our own land. If he wants Thamar, he can have him, but if I see him again, I will break his nose a second time.” “The law—” whined Dhabi. “The laws of hospitality protect guests,” finished Keturil. “You have struck this man on our embassy grounds.” “Then I’ll take him out onto the street and beat him. I’m not a subject of this realm and I don’t give a damn about its laws. They don’t protect our people or the sacred hrill,” said Tharril. In Tajhaani, he added, “You, Dhabi, take your slave and get out, and if you’re thinking about suing, you’re wasting your time. You’re not going to get a fucking copper from me.” Still fuming, Keturil escorted Dhabi into the main building, presumably to have the physician clean and examine his bloody nose. Shanju followed with Thamar. Once they were gone, Tharril turned to Amerel. “Leave us, if you would.” Erred waited until they were alone to speak, “Why did you do that?” “You have to ask?” “Yes, I think I do,” Erred said shakily. “You did not even know the man. I told you I would deal with him.” Tharril felt no remorse for the blood spotting his knuckles, only satisfaction. “You once struck a man who hurt me,” he said. “Had it been Satu, I would have stuck a knife in him instead. I would have broken his neck with my bare hands, you know that.” “Is that what this is about, hurting a man who has been dead almost nine years?” Yes, and I would do it again, twenty times over if I could! Tharril had to admit he had only seen Satu on two or three occasions and could not even remember what he had looked like.

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But Dhabi, with his crude, oily manner and past history, was no different, no better. “What do you want me to say?” “Nothing,” replied Erred. “I do not want you to say or do anything. The tactful man knows when to be silent. It is only a—” “A peasant who hits a man who has wronged him!” finished Tharril. “Yes, I’m a farmer’s son. I’m not ashamed of it, and I’m not ashamed to avenge myself on those who wrong me.” “Dhabi has never done anything to you,” Erred gently pointed out. Moving forward, Tharril grasped Erred’s shoulders, wanting to embrace him yet hesitant. “He’s the same type of scum who put me on the auction block and stripped and prodded me in public like some animal before selling me to Satu. And he actually sold you to that monster. That’s injury enough for me.” Erred should have sympathized, he should have understood. Instead he met his lover’s outburst with a clenched jaw and steady gaze. “I am fully capable of answering insults on my own, Tharril. I do not need you to speak for me. I do not want you to speak for me. Had I realized what you would do, I would not have said anything at all. Now let me go, you are hurting me.” Tharril released his grip. “You do nothing, that’s the problem.” “That is my choice.” After that they spent the day apart, Tharril alone in the fountain court, Erred in the library with Amerel. At midday Tharril watched Dhabi leave with Thamar. He spied Keturil glaring at him from the shadows of the colonnade. The ambassador, perhaps wary of tangling with a talevé—a shumadi, no less—who could not be swayed by his attempts at intimidation, did not approach him. Left alone with his thoughts, his anger and satisfaction waning, Tharril began to regret his outburst. What he told Erred was perfectly true: he hated the men who had captured and sold him. Dhabi was exactly the same type. A stranger maybe, save what little Erred had said about him, but he had come to the embassy where the others had not. Tharril rinsed the blood off his knuckles in the fountain.

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Had he to relive the moment he did not know what he would do. Punching Dhabi seemed right at the time, but Erred had also been profoundly embarrassed by the altercation. I never think before I act. He dried his hand on his robe. I’m running out of ways to beg Erred’s forgiveness, and he’s surely getting tired of forgiving me. One day I know I’m going to go too far. Late afternoon brought more visitors, these dressed in elaborate livery. They presented a scroll to the household steward, who passed it along to Demasa. The ambassador quickly scanned the contents, then, with a nod, approached Tharril. “Holy one, these men are from the palace. They are here to see you and your companions.” Tharril observed the steward withdraw into the main building, ostensibly to inform the other residents. Moments later Erred and Amerel emerged, accompanied by two priests and a half-dozen guards from the atrium. Keturil was nowhere in sight. Tharril sensed him watching from the colonnade above, but did not raise his eyes to ascertain if his suspicion was correct. “These men have come on official business from the palace,” explained Demasa. Had he known what message the envoys carried, the ambassador might have been more hesitant to introduce them. “By the order of Thanaj ked Muhal Dharu, High Prince of Tajhaan, may the Father bless him with a thousand sons,” said the chief envoy, “this embassy and all within it are placed under quarantine until further notice.” “But the High Prince is in Akkil,” said Tharril. The envoy gave him a haughty look. “The High Prince returned this afternoon. These orders are genuine, and not to be questioned.” Demasa, nervously flicking his gaze to Keturil standing above, gave a start. Tharril did not need to ask to realize what an inconvenience this order would cause the embassy. “Has the prince stated why we are subject to this treatment?” asked Demasa. It surprised no one that the envoy avoided giving a direct answer. Probably he did not know. “The quarantine is in immediate effect,” he said sternly. “Priests from the temple of

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Aben will come to examine you for signs of plague. Under pain of death, no one is to leave these premises.” Someone had obviously reported the presence of refugees from Akkil. Demasa, reaching the same conclusion, glared at Tharril and the other newcomers who gathered around to hear the message. “If our guests carried the plague, they would already be ill or show signs,” he protested. “Surely there is no need for such measures?” “These are the orders of the High Prince.” Apparently the envoy was not accustomed to having his pronouncements questioned, as his answers grew increasingly short. “Guards will be posted at this gate and elsewhere to ensure full cooperation. Once it is determined that there is no danger, the quarantine will be lifted.” Erred placed a comforting hand on Demasa’s arm and said, “I am sure the inconvenience will last no more than a day or two.” Tharril should have felt reassured. There was no illness among them, no reason why it should not be as Erred said. Suddenly he was not so sure.

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Chapter Eight Thanaj did not make it his custom to confine ambassadors or high-ranking foreign visitors, yet necessity dictated his actions. While he no longer believed the plague could pass from one person to another, and that its victims would succumb no matter where they were or how well they isolated themselves, enough people still feared contagion that the High Prince must be seen to take all the proper precautions. Not a single Shivarian, from the priests to the visiting ahiri to their guards, would fall ill. Not one would die. Thanaj knew that before he gave the order, and made a mental note to feign surprise when he received news of the outcome. As a mark of respect, he sent priests of Aben to examine the foreigners. He offered every conceivable comfort, then his formal apologies when no signs of illness appeared. The sixteen guards and the priest no longer bore observation, and remained in the embassy. As for the ahiri, Thanaj moved Erred and Tharril to luxurious quarters within the palace as soon as the priests of Aben gave their consent. Erred continued under the care of the priests, the catalogue of his injuries less grievous than Thanaj had expected. Nevertheless it made him wince. Ahiri should not be treated this way, they should not be kicked and beaten in the streets and left for dead, especially not one who had been the aktiri of the High Prince. The Water-lovers of Sirilon brought the plague. Thanaj tried to ignore the small yet persistent voice in his head. They have killed thousands of your people. They killed your son. This did not matter now that the ahiri were guests. The laws of hospitality would not permit him to raise his hand against him, regardless of what they might have done. Thanaj knew what he did, had chosen to bring Erred and Tharril under his roof for

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precisely that purpose. Strict custom and a healthy fear of the Lady’s retribution would ensure he proceeded cautiously, and make it impossible for others to lean on him to do otherwise. At the other end of the audience chamber, the herald announced a name. The heavy cedar doors opened, admitting a figure in blue-gray robes who strode vigorously toward the dais. This did not please Thanaj at all. Erred was well enough to leave his bed and come to court, and the High Prince had requested that both ahiri appear before him. Only one had answered his summons. Thanaj noted the fall of white hair over broad shoulders and the strong-featured face, the face of a warrior or working man. From the priests of the Water who had come to court he knew that not all ahiri were nobly-born. Some came from the mercantile class or had been tradesmen, farmers, or fishermen before being taken into the Blue House. And some, lamented the priests, never learned to conceal their rude manners. As he came to the edge of the dais, the ahiru neither bowed nor lowered his eyes in accordance with court etiquette. Surely one of the viziers had explained that no one, not even the Crown Prince, was permitted to gaze at the High Prince until given leave? In the man’s eyes Thanaj saw that this one knew the rules. He simply did not care to observe them. What an insolent creature! This was not Erred, whose every gesture exuded grace, whose beauty matched his princely bearing. This was a peasant, a boor. Yes, this could only be Tharril. His appearance might have come as a surprise, but his failure to make the proper obeisance did not. Erred’s letters and Thanaj’s own strategically placed observers in Sirilon had imparted something of the man’s restless nature, his impulsiveness and fiery temper. Tharril disdained the letters and gifts Thanaj had sent over the years, and had little to say to the ambassadors who arrived each summer to pay their respects. This made his presence in Tajhaan now all the more puzzling. “Welcome, servant of the Lady of the Waters,” Thanaj said pleasantly. “We had hoped to receive both you and your companion this day.”

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Tharril glared at him. Such profound disrespect rated a sharp reprimand, even a whipping. So it would have been done in his father’s court, Thanaj reflected, so the whispers and muttered comments from the court urged now. Yet one did not abuse foreign ambassadors, and one did not lay a hand upon a shumadi, the Lady’s most holy consort. “Erred was not well enough to come.” “We were told otherwise,” said Thanaj. Tharril spoke in stiff, awkward Tajhaani, “It has not been a month since he was attacked. He is still very weak." Thanaj inclined his head. “Please accept our profound apologies. This is not how we treat ambassadors in Tajhaan. Had we known of your visit, had you approached us directly, there would not have been any difficulties.” “This is not an official diplomatic mission.” Tharril stumbled over his words, then pulled his brows together in frustration while casting suspicious glances at the viziers and eunuchs of the court. Thanaj would not learn what he wished to know here. I must speak with him in private. “We have come for the hrill.” “We are surprised your House of the Water was willing to release you.” Now was not the time to mention Jhamal, to make accusations. That could come later. “Our laws do not forbid our coming,” Tharril said stiffly. “We have come as we pleased, to see for ourselves how the hrill have been treated.” “We respect the Lady of the Waters, and the hrill,” Thanaj replied in Shivarian. He took a moment to measure Tharril’s reaction before adding, “Yes, I speak your language, far better than you speak mine.” Tharril switched over to his own tongue. Now began the harangue. “Respect isn’t what we found in Akkil. We found your laws being ignored. We found the hrill being hunted as they were before. When Erred voiced his outrage, a mob tried to kill him.” His inability to educate his subjects about the hrill and to enforce the laws meant for their protection was a subject Thanaj did not like to discuss. Many thought the effort a waste of time. Even Hathil criticized him. “For that we apologize. I swear to

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you that those who did this will be found and prosecuted.” Tharril’s short, harsh laugh startled him. “There is no need for that. I’m sure they’re already dead. The plague has spared few in Akkil. The Lady punishes those who defile Her.” Over the years the mental image Thanaj had formed of Tharril suggested someone with few spiritual sentiments, making his response now a curious one. Fanaticism did not appeal to the High Prince. He kept religious zealots from his court, and had informed the first Shivarian missionaries to Tajhaan that he would listen, but would not tolerate any theatrics or attempts to turn him from his traditional gods. “We were not aware that yours was a religious mission, or that the plague in Akkil was the work of your goddess.” “Erred came here at the Lady’s command,” replied Tharril. “I chose to accompany him so he would not be alone in this foreign land.” Thanaj read the implied accusation as clearly as if Tharril had actually uttered it. “It pleases us to know he has such a loyal companion. We desire to know more about your mission, especially as you did not announce your arrival in our land. It would have been common courtesy had you done so.” “If you wish to know more, you will have to ask Erred,” said Tharril. “He is the only one who can explain.” Thanaj sensed that was not so, and knew he could have pressed the matter if he chose. He did not. Drawing water from stone would have been easier than making Tharril cooperate in public; it was best to let him go. What Thanaj wished to know, he would either ask in private or approach Erred directly. The interview brought an end to the daily court ritual. Thanaj did not watch Tharril’s retreating back, or his courtiers as they dispersed in knots of whispered conversation. The ahiri’s presence would have excited considerable comment, he had no doubt, but had he taken interest in their murmurings he knew he would catch more than a few furtive glances. All Tajhaan took his measure for any signs of weakness, assessing the fine lines etched around his eyes and mouth, the gray strands in his hair, and the colorlessness of his pallor. If I am weary, he thought, you know the cause. Upon his return he had ordered official mourning for Jhamal, ruing that

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five days was all protocol allotted for a lesser royal son. Now that the time had passed he was expected to put off his grief as he put aside his mourning garments, even to welcome talk of taking a younger third wife to give him more sons and daughters. Thanaj wanted nothing more than to escape the audience chamber and find a quiet place to rest and meditate, but a prince could not flee like a child. He must rise gracefully from his chair and observe the correct ceremonies; his guards must attend him, and the bearers of the royal fly whisk and sunshade. In the halls and courts beyond, he must endure scores of petitioners trying to catch his attention. If none tried to throw themselves at his feet, he might even humor one. In his chambers a servant offered wine; he waved the man away. Wine would only dull his senses, where he already felt tired. The Lady’s servants should bring hope and renewal, he thought. Instead he had dismissed Tharril with old questions still weighing heavily upon him, and new ones whose answers he dreaded hearing. **** Anduri had royal credentials and an experienced hand which was now employed carefully removing the sutures from Erred’s cheek. “So it stings,” he commented when Erred winced. “That is a good sign. The physician who stitched this wound has skill. Once these suture marks heal over, you will have very small scars. But you must still follow the regimen I prescribe.” Erred’s face throbbed as the physician placed a glass jar on the table before him; he was sure the broken scabs must be bleeding. “This cream will alleviate any itching associated with healing,” said Anduri. “As to your other injuries, your bruises show good color, though you may not think so, and your broken bones seem to be mending quite well. At this rate we may be able to remove the splints and bandages in six or seven weeks. For now, take light exercise and fresh air whenever possible, but do not overdo the effort.” Once the physician left the yellow-garbed priests of Aben slipped back into the room. They had been a permanent fixture since the embassy quarantine, one or more always on hand

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should Erred require anything. By now he was well enough that he did not need their constant attention, yet despite his protests he could not seem to be rid of them. “Thank you,” he said, rising from his chair as his two minders descended on him, “but I can walk and look after myself.” The young priest who took his arm offered an apologetic smile, while the other priest withdrew. “I know you would rather be alone. However, you tire easily and have difficulty using your right hand, and your spirits have been so low that you need the company.” “Usha,” sighed Erred, “I am not going to take my own life, if that is what you fear.” “No, but you need company. I am happy to provide it.” It came as no surprise to find Satu’s youngest son among the priests sent to the Shivarian embassy. Usha was as affable as Erred remembered, though now at twenty-seven he appeared more dignified than he had been. Still, not knowing what Tharril would say or do if presented with one of Satu’s relations, Erred kept the information from him. Doing so was not difficult, since Usha never spoke of his family and used his maternal grandfather’s name as his patronymic. “Do you not have other duties?” Usha shook his head. “I have been excused from them while you are here. In fact,” he said cheerfully, “you are my only charge. I certainly hope you did not plan to send me away. It is such a pleasure for me to see you again that I would hate to cut our time short.” “You make it seem like a social call rather than work,” replied Erred. “With you it is easy to believe so.” Usha laughed, his humor presenting an odd juxtaposition against the severe cut of his robes and shaved head. “Are you in pain? Then there is no reason you cannot take a little exercise with me. The physician told you that activity and fresh air is good for you.” “You could only know what he said to me if you were listening at the door.” Usha raised his hands in vehement denial. “Oh, but I would never do such a thing! Anduri received his training in his temple

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before moving to the royal household. He would have told you the same things we have been telling you for days. Now please stop frowning and be agreeable. It is not good for your health for you to be in a bad temper.” Erred let Usha escort him into the lush garden courtyard attached to the apartment. Blood loss and the drugs the physicians gave him to dull his pain had left him weak, yet through rest and the herbal concoctions Jhumo and Anduri prescribed for him, his strength gradually returned. Although only three weeks had passed since the attack, Erred could leave his bed and walk without the cane the priests offered him. His legs had suffered little injury. Most of the trauma had been confined to his arms, torso, and head. A leisurely stroll through the garden necessitated small talk. “You are doing well in the house of Aben?” Usha was more than pleased to oblige. “Oh, yes,” he replied. “I am now a priest of the second rank. I receive no favors on account of my connections. My grandfather makes certain of that, so any advancement I achieve is based on merit.” “Whatever became of that handsome priest you liked so much?” asked Erred. On such a pleasant day, with so affable a companion, he felt comfortable enough to tease. “Hebet, was that his name?” Usha gave a deep sigh. “Alas, he has gone to the god’s house in Marreh. He does well, I hear, and writes to me sometimes, but there is nothing more between us. I am not unhappy, though. I have many friends, and plenty of work to keep me occupied. But I am not here to talk about myself. I came for your healing.” “I do not need so many nursemaids,” said Erred. “We are simply obeying the royal command. You are determined to be a difficult patient. You do not want to go out and you have not said anything about what happened to you in Akkil. That you are listless and in shock, I understand, but you do not even ask for a remedy when you hurt.” “The pain is not much, Usha.” “Tell me, does your goddess grant you Her favor for enduring pain?” Thunderstruck, Erred stared at the young man. “Do not be

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ridiculous. The Lady is not worshipped through pain.” “Then why be so difficult?” “I told you the pain was not unbearable. The drugs you give me leave a sour taste in my mouth and an ache in my belly, so I would rather do without them. As for what happened in Akkil, I do not remember much about it.” This was no lie. In the days following the attack Erred had lingered in a fog, drifting in and out of consciousness, his few waking moments strangely empty, as though he truly had died as the blood sacrifice demanded. “Yes, but you have not said anything about what you do remember,” observed Usha. “I will not pry, but I know you have been anxious. You have an altar to your Lady, yet I do not see you praying. I do not think this is customary for you.” Erred shied away from his old rituals, fearing the Lady would not listen to him because he had somehow failed, and because the loss of his ki’iri meant he was no longer a talevé. Anduri had prescribed massages with eucalyptus and neroli oil, and urged meditation to help his anxiety, yet asked no questions. This was the way Erred preferred things. There was no way he could have described his fragmented memories of the attack: the shouts, the hands pulling at him, or the blows raining down on him until he lost consciousness. Memories that resurfaced in moments of unreasoning terror, such terror that he had only known once before, at the hands of Usha’s own father. “Thank you, but you would not understand.” “You forget there are some things I do understand. That is why I have not pressed you.” Usha began walking again, slowing his pace to match Erred’s. “The High Prince has requested that we offer you ritual purification if you desire it.” “Thank you, but it is not necessary,” replied Erred. Unless a talevé’s purification was performed under the auspices of the House of the Water, according to the prescribed ritual, it would not have sufficed anyway. “The attack was not what you think.” Usha simply nodded, and for a moment they shared the same thought: there was no need to revisit older, unhappier times. “You and your traveling companions were fortunate to have escaped the plague. I am sorry to say we understand little about this illness, except that its symptoms are the most terrible

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we have ever seen. We would not have been able to treat you had you been afflicted.” Erred’s visions had not revealed the horror the bloody flux would wreak on its victims, and when told had no need to feign revulsion. Beyond that, he could have told Usha what he wished to know, that the plague was the Lady’s own punishment for sins committed against Her, only he did not think Usha or anyone else would believe him. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I suppose we have been fortunate.” “Now then,” said Usha, “about the ahiru who came with you. I had no idea there were more of your kind in Shivar.” “I distinctly recall telling you once that I was not unique.” “Ah, but you remember how young and thoughtless I was back then,” Usha answered playfully. “And this one—Tharril, is that his name?—I can tell he likes you.” Mere mention of his name seemed to conjure Tharril from the shadows, for when Erred looked up his lover stood on the steps leading down into the garden. He wore his formal robes and a silver circlet which he removed and let dangle from his hand. “It’s good to see you taking exercise,” he said, thoroughly ignoring Usha’s presence. “Would you excuse us, Usha?” asked Erred. “I wish to speak with Tharril alone.” “Of course. If you need anything one of us will be waiting inside.” Usha, bending at the waist, dropped a perfect courtier’s bow and left the garden. Tharril walked over, the circlet hanging off his wrist like a giant bracelet. “I see they removed the stitches,” he said, touching his fingertips to Erred’s face. “The scars are hardly noticeable.” “You are flattering me, Tharril.” “No, you look fine. You could have come with me had you wanted to.” “I am not yet ready to go out.” Although Erred was well enough to walk to the royal audience chamber when the royal summons came, he hesitated. In many respects Tharril was flattering him. The sutures might have been removed, but the broken scabs were still visible, the yellowing bruises livid enough that he could not bear the

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inevitable public scrutiny. A consort of the Lady must be whole and unblemished. “I think it might do you good to go out,” said Tharril. “You can’t stay confined here forever.” “I am comfortable enough. This garden is pleasant and provides ample exercise.” “We were both supposed to appear this morning.” Finding the right words with which to refuse Thanaj’s command had not been easy. “I am sure the High Prince understands why I did not come.” Tharril groaned under his breath. “Did it occur to you that I might want your company? You know how to behave and what to say around royalty. I don’t.” “You are not as inept as you claim,” replied Erred, “and I think you can remember basic courtesy. Do exactly as the royal viziers instruct you. Enter the audience chamber with your eyes lowered, and do not raise them until the High Prince gives you leave. As a talevé and ambassador you need only make a short little bow. The genuflecting you see is strictly for court servants or petitioners of low rank.” “It’s too late to be telling me this.” That statement offered no reassurance. “Whenever you meet with the High Prince, make certain you do not deal with him as you did with Dhabi.” “You’re assuming he wants to see me again,” said Tharril. “We both know you’re the one he really wants to see. I’m just there for show.” However true that might be, Erred brushed the comment aside. Thanaj was not immune to curiosity. No doubt his invitation to Tharril was for more than simply form’s sake. “I am serious, Tharril. Whatever you might think of him, attacking him would mean your death. His bodyguards would strike your head from your shoulders before you even finished lifting your hand.” “I’m not that stupid, Erred,” Tharril answered tightly. “What I did to Dhabi was rash. I shouldn’t have done it.” “You always seem to act first and regret later. The High Prince will not give you that chance should you lose your temper.”

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Tharril shook his head. “I didn’t lose my temper with him. I was perfectly well behaved. You should have come with me, Erred.” “I do not wish to appear at court like this.” He felt the warmth of Tharril’s presence as his lover drew close, then fingers gently brush through his cropped hair and ghost over his shoulder. “Erred, there’s nothing wrong with your face that won’t heal. There’s no reason for you to be ashamed. Or is it that you’re afraid to let him see you like this?” Tharril’s voice was level, but Erred sensed an undercurrent of jealousy. “He has seen me with bruises before. But I am no stranger to this court. They remember me as being beautiful and perfect.” “Why should you care what they think?” “I do not, but it reminds me of what I will face when we return home. When I tell Madril what I have done he will not believe me. He does not know the visions the Lady sent me, he did not see the plague and cannot understand what happened. He will only see a talevé with shorn hair and scars on his face. A talevé cannot be imperfect. I know you think it is unimportant, but what I feel inside shows, and right now I feel empty. I did not come with you because part of me is dead. I no longer know how to carry myself.” Lips touched his cheek. “I know what it is to be dead, and it is nothing like this.” Craving intimacy, Erred wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him close. “You have always told me that you did not remember.” “That was because I didn’t really want to discuss it, not because I had no memory of it. I remember waking up on the beach and gasping for air,” said Tharril. “I remember being cold and afraid, and not knowing what happened. Even after the priests told me I had been reborn, I didn’t believe them. Death was this blackness, this wall between my last moments with you and what I faced in Sirilon. I felt empty inside, yes. And whenever I thought about you I was afraid because for a long time I thought you were gone. I felt the same fear on the docks in Akkil.” His voice became very soft, almost a whisper, a caress of warm breath. “You’re very much alive, Erred, and still

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beautiful.” Erred closed his eyes, trying to grasp those words and hold them. “How I wish I could believe that.” “Remember I was once a blood sacrifice, too.” Tharril kissed his mouth, his lips tasting of urgency and devotion. “How much have you truly lost?” he asked. “Your ki’iri was already going dormant. As for your face and your hair, they don’t matter. Your scars will fade, your hair will grow back. You’re still beautiful. I know you don’t believe me now, but one day I will make you see yourself as I see you.” **** Lips moving in prayer, Thanaj tried to empty his thoughts and concentrate on his devotions. Chanting filled his ears, and the air before the altar was thick with the myrrh he had brought and laid at the god’s feet. Behind him knelt other courtiers, all bearing precious gifts, all intent on the same thing: to placate the god and bring an end to the plague in Tajhaan. On his way into Belsha’at’s temple Thanaj had glimpsed dusty laborers and vendors who should have been hawking amulets near the entrance prostrating themselves on the floor, offering what small trinkets and sacrificial animals they could afford. Similar crowds swarmed the house of Aben, and shrines throughout the city where the priests began to turn worshippers away. Where he should have been overwhelmed and carried along on the tide of devotion, Thanaj could not suppress his increasing restlessness, the disquieting, terrible sense that it all meant nothing, that the god on his alabaster pedestal was a hollow thing, immune to the prayers and gifts and chants. Thanaj went through the motions, wondering for perhaps the first time in his life if other High Princes before him had ever nurtured the same suspicion. It did not matter. This High Prince must be seen performing his duty to the gods on behalf of his subjects, no more urgently than now. Thanaj only questioned which god should receive his gifts and devotions. The Lady of the Waters had no temples in Tajhaan, no shrines but for the one he kept in private. Gifts he would have brought, but he did not know how to make an offering beyond

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the simple prayers the Shivarian priests had taught him. For now they were not privy to his knowledge about the plague. Before he revealed anything he must be absolutely certain. If Erred would not come to him then he would have to seek Erred out, and this he dreaded. No matter that he had been beaten and nearly killed, a foreign ambassador abused where the sacred laws of hospitality prohibited it, if Erred’s actions had triggered the plague then it was witchcraft. It was treason. Relief eluded him as the service concluded and, accosted by supplicants who begged him to intercede with the gods, he returned to the palace. An audience with his son the Crown Prince brought no comfort either. “Father, you should not concern yourself overmuch with these foreigners.” As usual, Hathil wasted no effort in concealing his disdain. “If they must remain here in the palace, your ministers can easily attend to their needs.” Setting his wine goblet on the edge of the terrace, Thanaj looked out over the city. Under a flawless late summer sky, the city on its three hills presented a tranquil image, but he knew well that appearances could deceive. In Akkil the orchards and vineyards went neglected. Already wine merchants were wringing their hands at the projected loss of revenue, while those who could afford it were buying up supplies to augment the next year’s shortage. Trade would suffer. “These ahiri are guests of special status. I have told you that before, Hathil.” “And yet there are those who say they are sorcerers.” Thanaj chose not to answer. “It seems you have already decided who and what is important and how I should rule,” he said sharply. Strain robbed him of his customary patience. “Perhaps now would be a fitting time to remind you that I have been High Prince since long before you were born.” And if you become troublesome, I can remove you from the succession and replace you with another son, one who minds his place and his tongue. Sharp words concealed an empty threat. Hathil was the only one of his father’s surviving offspring old enough to govern, or shrewd enough to do so. Had Jhamal been old enough, had he lived, it might have been different. Hathil offered no apology. “Aside from a few cases, the plague has remained confined to Akkil. Fear and rumors have

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not. You were not the only one to send messenger birds from Akkil. I, too, have heard the rumors of white demons and rotting blood.” “Fear breeds terrible fancies.” Retrieving his goblet, Thanaj turned from the terrace toward the comparative cool of his private salon. “When the plague struck there was no one to wash down the waterfront warehouses or process the carcasses there. That fish untended will rot in summer needs no sorcery.” “There are those at court who find it suspicious that sixteen Shivarians newly arrived from Akkil show no signs of illness,” said Hathil. “Surely it is sorcery, just as it is sorcery that the plague strikes some and spares others. How else could Jhamal be stricken, yet not others?” Thanaj cut him short with a gesture. For all the noises he made, Hathil cared nothing for his brothers. All were potential rivals. “You were not there.” Hathil nodded. “Forgive me for troubling you with these unhappy matters,” he said smoothly. “But perhaps it is not wise to receive these ahiri. Of course, it is too late to say you should not have admitted that ahiru into your presence this morning, Father, but I pray you reconsider before doing so again. These creatures cannot be trusted.” It might be so. Sorcery, he did not know. Tharril’s words earlier that day only added to his doubts. The Lady punishes those who defile Her. Such utterances were better suited to a spiritualist like Erred. “Unless there is incontrovertible proof of witchcraft,” he answered, “the ahiri are guests and there is to be no more discussion about the matter.” “Do you say that because you fear their goddess,” asked Hathil, “or because one of them was once your aktiri?” Thanaj felt a headache coming on. “You are delving into areas which are not your concern,” he said sharply. Hathil continued, “I remember you once brought him to Akkil. Sadly I hear he is not so beautiful now.” “Mind your tongue, insolent boy.” Thanaj lifted his hand to dismiss his son, yet never completed the gesture. Pain stabbed his temples, making his vision swim until the room swayed, and suddenly he no longer had the strength to stand. What is wrong with me? The goblet spilled from his hand,

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splashing wine onto the pristine marble floor. Red against white, like a bloodstain. A headache should not hurt this much. His limbs trembled, his gorge rose, threatening nausea. As he sagged, he felt Hathil’s arms around him, keeping him upright. Eunuchs came running at the Crown Prince’s barking command. Their frenzied chatter grated on his nerves, and only added to his pain. “Dismiss them. I am fine,” he gasped. Leaning on his son, Thanaj made it to the divan and lay back amid the cushions. “I simply need to rest.” Hathil ordered the eunuchs out. “You have not been well, Father,” he said quietly. “I am fine.” Thanaj pressed fingers to his temples, willing the pain away. Silk whispered against his body, a blanket as fine and soft as a shroud. I am fine. The familiar refrain clung to his tongue. I am fine.

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Chapter Nine Water lilies swayed in place, attracting graceful swallows and hummingbirds. Fish swam across the walls, darts of silver and gilt against a turquoise sea. Rich carpets softened the floor, save in one corner where glazed sky-blue and cobalt tiles delineated a niche in which stood pedestal and alabaster basin. “I do not permit many access to this chamber,” said the High Prince. “It is all right. You need not linger in the doorway.” Tharril ventured a few cautious steps across the threshold, advancing until he could see the figure in the elaborate niche above the basin, its sinuous curves of translucent alabaster both exotic and familiar. His breath hitched in his throat. “Is that the Lady of the Waters?” he asked. Gilded and silken splendor he expected, not the image of his own goddess. Thanaj stood beside the shrine, jeweled hands clasped before him. “This is a holy place,” he said. “I use it sometimes for meditation. Here I also receive your priests when I ask for instruction, but this room originally served another purpose.” In those plain words Tharril felt the first stirrings of apprehension. Erred had once mentioned a beautiful painted room in the palace where he had dwelt as Thanaj’s concubine. Once he took his eyes away from the shrine and focused on the room itself, he encountered subtle signs of its previous usage: the embroidered cushions, an inlaid table and chair whose footings were hrill, even the murals themselves. This was the place, then, the very chamber where Erred had been kept as another man’s lover. A jewel-box of a room. An insult. “Why have you brought me here?” “I asked you here because the audience chamber is too formal a setting for conversation, and not as private as one might wish,” replied Thanaj. “Even my apartments are not entirely

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private. I cannot speak openly with you when half the court is privy to what we say.” Tharril glanced at the cushions on the floor before the shrine and bit his tongue against the sharp retort he yearned to make. He had met the High Prince, seen with his own eyes the man’s power and charm, and was not impressed. “I wasn’t aware that there was any need for conversation.” “You were quite reserved during our audience with you,” said Thanaj. “There was much you did not say.” “I am a private man.” “Indeed, I see that is so. All the same, I believe the knowledge that you were being observed made you hold your tongue. Not unwise, but difficult for anyone who wishes to know you better. Please, will you sit?” Thanaj slipped one leg behind the other and gracefully sat down on the cushions before the table. Wine and delicacies had been set out on a tray. “If you brought me here to ask about the plague only Erred can tell you what you want to know.” Tharril warily got to his knees and tried to find a comfortable position; he cared for neither the lack of chairs nor the intimate setting. “I will visit with him later. I am curious, you do not have a patronymic?” “A what?” “The patronymic is your father’s name added to your own. Is this not done in Shivar?” Surely after so many years the High Prince would know the answer to that question. Tharril shook his head. “Only noblemen have surnames.” “All men in Tajhaan take their father’s name,” explained Thanaj. “Unless they are slaves, and this you are not.” Slaves. Tharril wished he would drop the subject. “My father is called Dirren.” “Tharril ked Dirren,” said Thanaj. “This suits you better.” It sounded foreign and repulsive. “This is not a social visit,” replied Tharril. “You want something from me. What is it?” Thanaj’s smile grew strained. “Was I mistaken in assuming we could talk as civilized men?”

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“That depends on why you want to talk to me,” replied Tharril. “I came to court the other day as you requested. You satisfied your curiosity, and you know that only Erred has the information you want. I can’t imagine what else you could want from me.” “Is that what you think? Had I merely wanted to see your face, I would have sent an artist to the Blue House to paint a miniature.” From within his robe Thanaj produced a folded cloth, which he placed on the table beside the tray. “Did Erred ever tell you that I had him painted?” When the dark cloth fell open Tharril took the ivory oval and politely studied the image, the face and shoulders in profile. Painted in the highly stylized Tajhaani fashion, it did not resemble Erred much at all. After a few minutes he replaced the miniature on the silk. “I never asked him what he did here. I’d prefer not to know.” Thanaj reclaimed the miniature, wrapped it carefully, and set it aside. “Those things I do not intend to tell you.” “Then why did you bring me here. I’m just a farmer’s son who was once a slave in your kingdom. I didn’t come here because I wanted to. I came because Erred needed me. I don’t require a patronymic from you, or a royal audience, or a fancy apartment with servants. I don’t require anything. So I ask you again: what could you possibly have to say to me?” “Your bitterness does not surprise me. I only regret that so much of it is so misguided.” Thanaj reached for the silver decanter on the tray and began to pour wine into two cups. His hands trembled slightly, as though the vessel was too heavy. “Misguided,” Tharril muttered under his breath. How ignorant this man was, and how insolent, to suggest his grievance against Tajhaan and its godless, slave-trading savages was anything other than legitimate. Thanaj continued without acknowledging the comment. “I recall hearing about an incident from several days ago regarding an akesh broker who came to the Shivarian embassy on business. There was an altercation between you and him, yes?” Tharril shook his head at the cup Thanaj offered him. “I only take diluted wine,” he said. “Call it what you like, but that was strictly between him and me.”

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“And yet, Dhabi ké Abhinar is my subject, assaulted when he was clearly a guest of the Shivarian embassy.” Thanaj uncovered a second, smaller decanter of water and passed it across the table. “The laws of hospitality are quite clear on this matter. You owe him compensation.” Tharril took a deep breath. “I’m not going to apologize to him or pay a fine. His mere presence insulted me.” As Thanaj drank, his eyes remained on Tharril, taking his measure. “I had heard that you were impulsive. This is not a desirable quality in a grown man or leader. You struck Dhabi for superficial reasons. You do not even know why he sold Erred to Satu ked Menteith.” “Those reasons don’t matter to me,” Tharril said sharply. “He owned Erred and forced him to do degrading things. Believe me, if I could find the men who captured Erred and marched him across the desert, if I could find the men who captured and sold me, I would do the same to them.” Thanaj proffered a plate of olives stuffed with goat’s cheese, which Tharril, who had no appetite, declined. The dark fruit, associated so strongly with Satu ked Menteith, revolted him. “I am not so callous that I do not understand your sentiments. I know what it is to desire vengeance.” Thanaj popped an olive into his mouth, chewing slowly before swallowing. “However, it has apparently not occurred to you that Erred does not need anyone to act on his behalf.” “Erred’s solution to life’s ills is to fall to his knees before his shrine and pray,” Tharril said bitterly. “Then if he does not desire confrontation or violence, you should not presume to act for him. He is not a child,” replied Thanaj. “Do you really have to ask why I do these things for him? I thought you said you understood.” “I understand that you love him,” said Thanaj. “I did not say I approved your methods. Love makes men do foolish things. As to the earlier matter, Dhabi sold Erred where he did because Satu was the only one willing to pay his outrageous asking price. There was nothing more to the transaction. Dhabi may be a crude man, but he is not inherently vicious.”

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Tharril took the decanter and carefully diluted his wine, but did not drink. “He is—” “Dhabi is not Satu ked Menteith.” “I never said he was.” Tharril’s reply sounded harsh even to his own ears. “You do not have to. I have made a lifetime of reading men and their desires and intentions. You are no different, Tharril ked Dirren. The man you truly want to strike is dead.” “Did your spies tell you that?” Thanaj’s gaze, so sympathetic a moment before, now turned cold. “I suggest you soften your tone with me. I have tolerated your insolence because you are a foreign ambassador, and because you have a legitimate grievance against my people, but know this: I am not your enemy, no matter how much you may think so. And even enemies may be civil with each other when they break bread together.” Those words, spoken so quietly, made Tharril’s blood freeze. Here was a man who could order his death with a single gesture. “I’ll say it again,” he said slowly, “I’m not going to pay a fine for what I did to Dhabi. I’m not going to apologize.” “Then we will leave it at that.” Thanaj started to take another drink, yet paused as his lips touched the rim. He set the goblet down. “I brought you here because I wish to know what took place in Akkil. I do not wish to question you before the entire court. As far as anyone knows this bloody flux is a plague like any other. I have my own suspicions as to the truth. Do you follow me?” So now they came to it, the true reason behind the visit. “I already told you that the Lady punishes those who defile Her,” answered Tharril. Thanaj was quick to point out the flaw in that argument. “Hrill poachers and others have defied my laws for eight years, and your goddess did nothing until one of Her own ahiri was attacked. I must know the truth, Tharril. As High Prince and your host I have a right to know. Did you or Erred engage in sorcery to bring about this plague? Was witchcraft done in Akkil?” Memories of the curse, wild words, and bloodshed on a terrible night, surfaced and were swiftly smothered. Tharril had

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no doubt that these foreigners punished suspected witches as harshly as the elders of Entippé would have done, and was amazed that Thanaj expected him to tell the truth. “Erred obeyed the summons of the Lady of the Waters. She sent him signs and terrible visions, and he went out as She commanded. He confronted poachers at the waterfront. They shed his blood, and so the Lady shed theirs.” “If that was all then it should have stopped with the men who attacked him,” said Thanaj. “Instead thousands have died from this plague. My own son is dead. Jhamal was only eleven years old. He had nothing to do with harming Erred, or the hrill.” Tharril drew a breath and held it. So the High Prince had a personal stake in questioning him. Somehow this did not surprise him. “The Lady does not always reveal Her secrets.” “And yet you are a holy shumadi.” “I have no special privileges when it comes to knowing Her will.” How much more vehemently Thanaj would interrogate Erred. Tharril knew he must prevent it if he could. “Erred didn’t understand his visions until he came here. I doubt very much he knows much more than I do.” Thanaj held him with a steady gaze. Bringing his fingers together, steepling them just below his lips, he considered Tharril’s reply. “That remains to be seen,” he finally said. “He doesn’t remember very much about the incident.” “I am not concerned with the attack but his intentions.” Tharril stared unflinchingly at him. “What do you think he has done? You of all people should know Erred isn’t evil or vicious. Whatever he did was by the Lady’s command. He never intended to harm anyone.” “Do you know that for certain?” Thanaj asked quietly. “Did he share his visions with you?” I am not going to fall into your trap. “Only those he received in Sirilon,” said Tharril. “He described them for me: visions of the hrill, of blood and pain in the sea. Whatever the Lady showed him in Akkil, whatever She ordered him to do, it could not have been wicked. Erred would never knowingly do

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evil, the Lady Herself is not evil. The plague isn’t what you think.” Again the steepled fingers, the probing gaze. “And what does the High Prince of Tajhaan think? Tell me, since you know my mind so well.” Tharril ignored his subtle sarcasm. “You think we came intending to kill your people. You think we devour babies and cast the evil eye on pregnant women and small children—” “Has anyone ever accused you of these things, Tharril?” Smiling tightly, Tharril shook his head. “Aren’t those the things witches are supposed to do?” “Are you a witch?” Thanaj employed the same soft tone with which he might have inquired if his guest desired more wine or delicacies. “I am a talevé.” Thanaj took another sip of wine. “I do not think you fully appreciate what that means here in Tajhaan.” With a linen napkin he dabbed at his lips. “You did not answer my question earlier. Did Erred tell you what vision he received in Akkil?” To lie would be impossible, to try to concoct a tale foolishness. “No,” replied Tharril. “He told me nothing.” “I see.” Thanaj nodded, as polite as ever, yet Tharril knew he had not given the right answer. **** A eunuch announced the visitor, then discreetly withdrew. Erred stiffened against the cushions of the chair in which he sat. He wanted no visitors, especially those he did not know, and nothing to trouble his reminiscences. Once before he had sat in this palace, in a beautiful room whose walls were alive with flowers and birds and the creatures of the sea. Swathed in costly silks and ornaments, he had been a jewel himself, loved by the most powerful man in the realm. It seemed so very long ago. Such was the illusion of memory. Erred thought he might send a message to the High Prince asking to see that room, for he knew Thanaj had kept it as a personal shrine, but he refrained. As an aktiri he had dwelt in a part of the palace where a free man, even a visiting prince and

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talevé, might not easily tread, and he had no wish to spoil the perfection of his memories with harsh reality. “Your name is changed from when we last met, and you are not quite as beautiful now as I remember,” said the young man who entered in the eunuch’s wake. “Memories can be so deceptive.” Richly dressed and sporting a neatly trimmed black beard, the visitor resembled Thanaj enough that Erred would have recognized him even without the eunuch heralding his name and titles. “Even as a child you were impertinent, Prince Hathil,” he answered softly. “You do not appear to have changed much since then.” Hathil lifted an eyebrow. Again it was a familiar gesture, yet lacking the warmth that characterized the prince’s father. “I did not come to bandy pleasantries with you.” “Of course not,” said Erred. “I did not think the Crown Prince of Tajhaan would waste his valuable time on a mere social call.” “I wish to know why you have returned to Tajhaan.” Erred folded his hands in his lap. “I am here on a religious matter, not personal business. My being in the capital has nothing to do with your father, I assure you. I had no intention of inconveniencing or even involving him.” By now a guest would have been seated, but Hathil remained standing, his arms folded over his chest in a vaguely intimidating manner. “Since you are now a royal guest your intentions are irrelevant.” “I was not aware you were so concerned over such trifling matters,” said Erred. “I would have remained in the Shivarian embassy had your father allowed it. If the arrangement does not please you, I suggest you mention it to him.” Hathil gave him a look cold enough to wither daylight. All it suggested to Erred was that the prince had already voiced his displeasure and been vetoed. “I was under the impression that ahiri never left their sanctuary,” he said. “As you can see, there are exceptions to the rule.” “Ah, yes, exceptions.” The prince’s tone was too smooth, its oiliness a thin mask

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for the malice lying beneath. Erred instinctively fell back on his royal upbringing and the icy disdain that came with it. I was a master at this game before you were ever born. “And what is your interest in this matter, Prince Hathil? We have not appeared at court, we have not made a petition or any demands of the High Prince our host. Surely the royal heir has many important duties and would not have troubled himself to visit us if our presence did not concern him in some way.” Hathil noticed the shift to the impersonal royal plural, as Erred knew he would, and snorted. “My father told me you had noble blood. You might exercise certain prerogatives in Shivar, but here you are neither sacred nor a prince, and you did not come on an official diplomatic mission, so you are not entitled to the privileges or protection granted an ambassador. Naturally I realize you are not well, and as civilized people we honor the laws of hospitality, but as people of the desert we do not lie. So I am certain you will understand when I tell you that your presence here is not welcome.” Erred maintained an even tone as he inquired, “According to whom?” Hathil narrowed his eyes. “From me you will receive the utmost courtesy, but I will make no pretense of friendship with you.” “That is evident.” “You have corrupted my father, turning him away from our traditional gods. Before you came he was strong and well-loved by his people, a mighty prince. Now he takes counsel from foreign priests and makes unpopular laws he cannot enforce. I am not so young or naïve that I do not recognize the source of this change. I know what manner of creature you are, so beautiful, so powerful that you must be shut away behind strong walls lest men lose their reason in seeing you. And that is what you have done to my father: enchanted him with your beauty and poisoned him with your lies.” Erred curled his lips into a wistful smile, ready to forgive the prince his misguided tantrum. “Do I now appear so beautiful to you that I could enchant anyone?” he asked softly. “My father has not yet seen you,” said Hathil, “but he will. And when he does you will no longer seem so perfect in his

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eyes. I have heard the tales of the white demon that brought the plague to Akkil. Gods willing, your power over him will end.” “I have no doubt he will come, but it will not be as you think,” answered Erred. “I possess no power and am no demon. An ahiru receives his grace from the Lady of the Waters. If your father chooses to show Her respect it is because he recognizes Her divinity, not because I have bewitched him. I am sure he has explained this to you many times.” Hathil did not soften, and did not prolong his stay. His exit relieved Erred, who did not think he could have borne much more of the prince’s company. The interview left him with much to ponder. What was truth and what was merely Hathil’s distorted version of it? Erred knew Thanaj maintained a shrine to the Lady, he knew about the new laws and the Shivarian priests who came to court, yet clues in his letters indicated Thanaj kept his familiar gods and rituals, including the carnal Great Marriage with the priestesses of Shalat. There was no reason why Hathil should resent a talevé’s negligible influence over the High Prince unless he headed a faction opposed to it. I have nothing to do with the laws. The High Prince does not consult with me over such matters. Erred had said it, Hathil had ignored him. The Crown Prince saw only the sealed letters entrusted to Ajmi, without knowing their contents. His imagination must run riot over the steady exchange of correspondence, seeing scandal and intrigue where it did not exist. Erred smiled to picture his disappointment at discovering how mundane those letters actually were. Thanaj surprised him by entering the salon unannounced. “So this is where you have been hiding.” Plainly dressed in a pleated white robe belted with a red sash, the High Prince wore no jewels save a ring which he kept twisting around his left index finger. More gray streaked his hair than Erred ever remembered seeing. Lines creased the skin around his eyes and mouth. Even as he smiled he exuded an air of weariness. Habit bade Erred to rise and make some formal obeisance. Thanaj swiftly approached and placed both hands on his shoulders, urging him to sit. “This is an informal visit, Erred. You did not answer my summons to court.”

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As he spoke his voice sounded oddly strained. Erred noticed, could not fail to do so. Time and distance blurred unpleasant memories and gilded others. Had he so idealized Thanaj that the reality surprised him? No, Thanaj at forty-two had worn no worry lines, had no gray in his hair. Truly he had changed. “I meant it not as an insult,” replied Erred. “Surely the priests must have told you that I am not yet ready to receive company?” “They told me that is what you wish them to say, but their verdict is that you are quite well. Well enough to answer questions.” Thanaj found a seat, while waving away the servants who began to approach with food and drink. “You have not told me why you are here.” “I believe Tharril told you when you received him at court.” Erred could not help but wonder where Tharril was now. Earlier Usha told him that Tharril had been summoned to meet with the High Prince, but that had been hours ago and Thanaj was now here alone. Another man would have asked outright. Erred knew better. Thanaj wished to question him separately, did not wish to give them a chance to confer before doing so. “I came because the Lady ordered me to do so. She spoke to me in visions, terrible visions of blood and suffering. The hrill were dying in Akkil. It was the Lady’s will that I go there.” Thanaj nodded. “This I have already heard from Tharril, and from the priests in Akkil.” “Then what more can I possibly tell you?” “I wish to know what occurred when you confronted the men on the waterfront,” said Thanaj. “I wish to know what you did, what you said to them.” “That is something I do not quite recall.” Not even Usha or the other priests of Aben pressed him about the matter. Erred could not imagine why Thanaj wanted to know the precise details, unless he gave credence to the rumors coming out of Akkil. “I know I was angry with them, I know I cursed them—” “You cursed them?” repeated Thanaj. Erred shook his head vehemently. “I mean I spoke sharply to them, condemned their actions. Talevé do not call down

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curses. If they did I would have done so long ago against others who did me harm. Vengeance rests with the Lady.” Thanaj received his answer in silence. Finally he spoke, “The two men who accompanied you tell it somewhat differently. You told the men on the dock they did blasphemy, and that the Lady would strike them down.” So the High Prince had questioned the guards before coming to him. Erred did not know whether to be insulted or accept it as a logical course of action. “That was not a curse, simply a statement of fact,” he replied. “If you are accusing me of starting the plague in Akkil then say so. Do not dance around the matter merely to be polite.” “Then the plague does not come from your goddess? It is only coincidence that those affected happen to be those who dealt in hrill?” “I did not say that.” Erred found this parrying of half-truths and insinuations increasingly exhausting. Why did Thanaj not speak plainly to him? “I did not know Her will when I set out. I knew nothing about plague. In fact, I had no idea what I would be required to do. It was only after I arrived and saw the visions of blood that I saw how the Lady would take vengeance. By then it was too late to refuse.” “What was it you could not refuse?” pressed Thanaj. Erred laced his fingers together, tightening them in a futile attempt to conceal his trembling. “I saw how She required a blood sacrifice, a talevé who carried the hrill gift. I saw how it must be me and no other. It terrified me, what She wanted, but I had no choice. I had to do it.” “Do what?” Every instinct screamed at him to stop before he said too much, yet he forced himself to continue, “The mob in Akkil slew the hrill within me. My blood ran into the sea. It changed the hrill, made their blood poison. All those who have bathed in that blood will die.” Thanaj’s eyes widened. “Is this truly so?” “Yes, it is so.” Now his words met a silence that cut like knives. When at last Thanaj answered, his voice was as cold as his son’s had been earlier. “I remember a day many years ago when my city was

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torn apart by madness and rioting. I asked you then if your goddess would slay the innocent along with the wicked. Must I ask you again now?” Erred did not want to speak, wished he had another answer to give. “Those with blood on their hands will die,” said Erred. “I have no control over Her vengeance. I came only at Her command, only when I could no longer refuse. I came to do Her will, whatever that was. I had no idea my coming would bring death.” “And yet it has.” Thanaj abruptly rose from his chair. “You knew that I had wives and children in Akkil. You knew that I spent summers there,” he growled. “What did you think would happen when you left the embassy to do the Lady’s will?” “I believed that I would die.” “Your actions have devastated my people, you have killed my son, yet you are my guest and you leave me in an impossible position.” Erred stared horrified at him. “Your son—” “Jhamal bled to death in my arms, and I could only watch as he suffered,” Thanaj said sharply. “Will you tell me now that you have done no harm? I welcomed you into my house, I defended you against those who would have had me throw you in prison and tried for witchcraft, and this is how you repay my kindness, with death and destruction.” Truly he had not known. Thanaj wrote so often of his children they might have been members of Erred’s own family. Still, it changed nothing. “If your son died, it could only have been because he defied—” Erred felt the hand seize his upper arm, haul him to his feet. Even as he spoke he knew he had gone too far. Now it was too late. “I have nothing to do with this. The Lady—” “I have had enough of your goddess!” He heard the High Prince shout for the guards, then he was being dragged, past the servants, past a horrified Usha who had been drawn by the commotion, then out into the sunlit garden, where Thanaj flung him to the ground. Three men in royal livery appeared, and at a barked command he heard a metal slide against leather; he did not turn to see which one had unsheathed his sword.

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Thanaj lifted his hand. Erred knew that in the next heartbeat, with a single gesture, the guard behind him would take his head. “My prince!” cried a voice. A blur of yellow at his periphery. Usha. “What is this?” Thanaj ignored him. “The penalty for witchcraft is death. You know this, Erred.” Yes, he did. And saw also the pain brimming in the High Prince’s eyes. “Need I remind you that I am a guest?” “Guest or not, the law allows me to kill a witch in my own house.” Erred laughed harshly. “Is that what you think me: a witch? Will you put me to death because you are obeying the law, or because you want vengeance for your son?” When Thanaj paused, he continued, “Talevé do not utter curses. We do not practice sorcery. The Lady will answer for my death if She finds it unjust.” “No!” cried Usha. When he started forward, a guard stopped him. Anger blazed in Thanaj’s eyes. “Are you threatening me?” Was he? “The truth is I should already be dead. I was only the Lady’s instrument, a blood sacrifice to be cast aside once his purpose was fulfilled. I was not supposed to survive. I saw my own death in the vision. I know it was meant to be so.” Erred fought to still his quavering voice. He did not want to die now anymore than he had that day in Akkil, but Tharril was not here now to save him, and he was not being given a choice. “Tell your man to strike cleanly, then let Tharril go. He had no part in this.” Thanaj did not move. His hand remained uplifted, shaking slightly with the effort. “Do you think it would give me satisfaction to kill you? Do you think it will bring back the lives you have taken? Do you think shedding your blood will give my son back to me?” Thanaj’s voice was so pregnant with anguish it made Erred ache to hear it. “I do not know.” With each passing moment Erred felt his nerve slip that much more. Let it be over quickly. “I absolve you.” Anything to make it easier, anything to end this impasse. “It is death to harm a talevé. I am not threatening you.

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That is what we believe in Shivar. But if I have broken the law, and it is Her will that it end this way, then I absolve you for what you must do.” At this he lowered his head, stretching his neck, grateful for once that his long hair was gone. Seconds passed. He waited, his heart beating hard, and he swallowed to keep from vomiting. Nothing happened. Then he heard it: a growl, more animal than human. “No,” said Thanaj. “I cannot. Rahar, put away your sword.” Erred nearly collapsed in relief. “You did not have to—” “I cannot kill a guest, or an ahiru.” Thanaj’s harsh tone offered no comfort. “But this is not over. I may yet have to render judgment upon you, and put you to death. I only know I cannot do it in this way.” When, in the ensuing silence, Erred glanced up he was alarmed at the gray pallor of Thanaj’s face, his visible shaking. As the High Prince swayed on his feet and the guards did nothing, Erred instinctively rose and wrapped his arms around Thanaj. The body leaning heavily against his pressed into his bandages; he clenched his teeth, forcing the pain back. “Usha, help me.” Together they eased him onto a bench near the fountain. While Usha went in search of a cool compress and reviving herbs, Erred clasped Thanaj’s hand as tightly as propriety and his bandages allowed. He felt cold. “I am sorry. I never meant to injure you or put you in this position.” Thanaj shook his head at the apology. “I have tried to honor the Lady. I have done all that I can do as one man, yet this is how She answers me. My son was innocent.” It was not enough, and you know it. Yet Erred had not the heart to say so. “I am sorry about Jhamal. I never meant to cause you so much pain. After all you have done for me, you do not deserve this.” Thanaj gave no answer but for a slight squeeze of his fingers. It could have meant anything. **** Tharril found Erred seated on the colonnade overlooking the garden, gazing at the green paths and tiled fountain with distant eyes. He might have been meditating, or brooding, or some

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combination of the two. Erred often remained unreadable. After his interview with the High Prince, Tharril had been unable to return to the apartment. Instead a priest came to escort him to another wing of the palace, and proved most vehement when Tharril tried to refuse. When the bodyguard appeared Tharril knew this was no invitation. Thanaj meant to visit Erred that day, meant to question him without offering him any warning. Nimthral, a grandfatherly priest of Aben, led Tharril through vacant galleries and courtyards, well-removed from the daily traffic of the court. Eunuchs appeared, and servants on their way elsewhere, most sparing Tharril’s white hair a curious glance before vanishing from sight. A few made a sign he recognized as protection against demons or the evil eye; the omnipresent bodyguard kept them from venturing too close or lingering too long. Tharril cared nothing for the palatial surroundings or the priest’s rambling anecdotes. Nerves taut, he yearned for nothing more than the opportunity to return to Erred. Were it not for the bodyguard and the fact that he did not know his way about, he would have fled at the first opportunity. Late afternoon finally afforded him the chance. Quiet permeated the apartment. Erred was unharmed, sitting outside in the sun with Usha hovering solicitously at his side. Relieved, Tharril dismissed the young priest and approached the fountain. “You had visitors today?” Erred did not look at him. “The High Prince was here,” he murmured. That came as no surprise. “Did he trouble you?” When Erred failed to answer, Tharril sat down beside him and rephrased the question. “You seem distracted. Is something wrong?” “The visit did not go well.” No surprise there, either. But Erred’s next utterance came as a shock. “The High Prince cannot be blamed for what happened today. He has been placed in an impossible position.” Images of Thanaj trying to take advantage raced through Tharril’s mind before he banished them. Somehow he thought it unlikely, or at least wanted to believe so. “What is it?”

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Now Erred looked at him, his face pale, stricken. “He questioned me about Akkil and the plague.” “That can’t be all, or you wouldn’t be so upset.” “He meant to have me executed.” “Are you saying he was going to arrest you?” Erred slowly shook his head. “No, he intended to do it right here. He brought me outside to kneel on the grass, and ordered the guard to draw his sword. He came within a breath of giving the order to strike my head off, but then—” Tharril balled his hands into fists. “Then what?” he growled. “He could not do it.” Bastard. Had he been there—no, Tharril preferred not to think about the possibility. While the guards could hold Usha back, they could not do so with a talevé liable to change amid the chaos. The High Prince had known it, had known only too well about Tharril’s propensity to strike blows whenever Erred was threatened. “I do not blame him,” said Erred. Tharril started. “Have you gone mad?” “I have done a terrible thing to his people, and to him. As the High Prince and a father he has the right to seek justice.” “I don’t care what he wants, or what he thinks he’s entitled to have,” said Tharril. “He tried to kill you, and you just sit there and defend him.” Erred’s expression did not change. “I know you think me weak and sentimental, but what I did in Akkil was sorcery—” “Don’t say that where others might hear it.” “Tharril,” Erred said calmly, “neither Usha nor the servants speak Shivarian. No one can understand us.” “If the High Prince speaks our language you can be sure others do as well. And no, what you did was the Lady’s will.” Tharril tapped his chest with two fingers. “I grew up in a village where people believed in witchcraft. I saw neighbors accuse each other of casting the evil eye or poisoning wells or curdling milk. What you did had nothing to do with that.” “No,” agreed Erred, “what I did was more terrible. I let the hrill emerge, I started to change before their eyes, and I knew the words I spoke were not empty. I knew it was a curse, and that

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the Lady would answer.” Tul and Ruval had said nothing about the hrill. Then again, both guards had also been beaten. Tharril doubted they recalled much beyond that. “They deserved it.” “No,” said Erred, shaking his head. “You cannot tell me that all who died deserved that torment. There were women and children, babes too young to understand about the hrill. There is nothing you or anyone can say to make me believe that was right. I should not have survived that day—not because I want to die, but because I hate knowing what I have done. A talevé should not be the bringer of death.” Tharril placed a hand on his back, moved it in light, soothing circles before drawing him into a close embrace. “Would it have made any difference had you known all this before leaving Sirilon?” “I would have fought harder.” “You did fight.” “Then I do not know what I could have done aside from throwing myself out a window. I do not know that I could have boarded that ship knowing what suffering I was about to cause.” Erred drew back from the embrace, yet remained close. “I know you hate Thanaj, Tharril. Even I hate him right now, but I understand his anger. He had to watch his son die. He loves his children more than anything.” “That doesn’t give him the right to kill you.” To his surprise, Erred nodded. “Before I thought it might be the Lady’s intention to have me die this way. Now I am not so sure. He could not follow through with it, and She might have struck him down if he had. But still I cannot blame him for being angry. I killed his son, Tharril. I never meant to do that.” Tharril did not know what to say. However many dozen children the High Prince had fathered, they meant nothing to him. It was not your fault, Erred. “I’ll be grateful when we can finally go home. I think it will do you good to leave this place.” Tajhaan had never brought either of them anything but unhappiness and regret.

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Chapter Ten Just as he could not quell his earlier restlessness in the house of Belsha’at, Thanaj could not keep from trembling as he knelt before the Lady's shrine. Once this chamber, commissioned as a private haven for his beautiful aktiri, had been an oasis of peace amid the intrigues and ambitions of a treacherous court. Now the hrill decorating the furniture and the sea birds and water lilies bright upon the walls filled him with nameless dread. Everywhere the Lady’s presence lingered, no more so than in the basin of water on its alabaster pedestal. No one joined him in his worship. For their own safety, and to lessen the potential strife at court, Thanaj had sent the Shivarian priests back to their embassy days ago. If they suspected the plague had originated with their goddess and Her holy ahiri, he did not know, and he was already doing his utmost to ensure they never learned of the incident between him and Erred. How he wished it had never happened. Merely to threaten a guest violated the sacred laws of hospitality. That alone would bring Belsha’at’s wrath upon his head. But to threaten an ahiru would bring disaster tenfold upon his house, for he had no doubt the Lady of the Waters would repay any who laid violent hands upon Her favorites, just as She spared those who revered Her sacred creatures and kept them from harm. Jhamal had disobeyed him. Thanaj understood that, had even begun to accept it, though he wished he knew why or how. Erred had not intended to hurt him, and when questioned had simply spoken the truth. Thanaj had reacted as any father would who sought vengeance. Guest-right or not, the law demanded punishment for sorcery. From the priests of Aben came reports that the few plague victims capable of speech cried out in their delirium that

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they were being torn apart by sea creatures, and drowned in seas of blood. Thus the priests quickly made the connection between the illness and the foreign water goddess whose holy servants escaped Akkil, to the point where the high priest Shakhar complained that his grandson continued to tend a suspected sorcerer, never mind that Usha did so by his own choice. Even had Erred not been his guest, Thanaj did not know that he could have done it. Merely to drag him into the garden and throw him down, order the sword drawn, and lift his hand to give the signal tore at his heart. Never mind that he had not given it. The Lady of the Waters, faceless and amorphous, was not a goddess one easily loved. Now he hated Her, as much as he recognized Her vast power, and despised Her even more so that She chose to use as Her weapon one whom he had loved, and still loved. Grief and shock did their work. Since his return he had collapsed twice, his vision swimming as dizziness overwhelmed him, his legs turning to water under him. Fortunately both incidents occurred in private, and thus far no word had escaped to become court gossip. Hathil and his stewards urged him to rest, while his physician prescribed mulled wine and red meat to strengthen his blood. Thanaj should have been in bed, yet he knew he would not be able to sleep until he faced the Lady in Her shrine. Blood had brought the plague to Tajhaan. Therefore blood might take it away. Royal blood possessed its own potency. Thanaj drew the jeweled dagger he had secreted in his robe, closed his fingers around the blade, and, before he could pause to reconsider, sliced into the soft flesh of his palm. Stinging pain preceded the blood that seeped through his fingers, dripped into the basin before him. “Lady of the Waters,” he said in Shivarian. Somehow he did not think She would listen if he spoke in his own tongue. “I am Thanaj ked Muhal Dharu. I am the High Prince of Tajhaan. I have tried to protect the hrill. I have tried to keep Your ahiri safe from harm. You know this. I have done all that one man can do, but You have taken my son, and brought death to my people. I come before You to ask that You take no more lives in

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this land. I fear You, and worship You, and despise You, but whatever You require of me I will give.” He let the dagger clatter to the tiles, pressed a length of linen into his hand to stop the bleeding. Wincing at the sting, he watched his blood fall and swirl in the clear water, until he realized that a mist had begun to rise off the surface, and that shapes were taking form within it. Stalls, colorful awnings against the backdrop of a lime washed palace in Akkil: he recognized the private bazaar his wives and children occasionally visited. Why am I seeing this? Then his breath caught as he glimpsed Jhamal in the company of several other boys. A vendor accosted them to offer samples, thin slices of fish on a platter. Jhamal selected one, yet shook his head vehemently when the vendor indicated another variety. His companions sampled the delicacy, then nudged and chided Jhamal for his reluctance. At last, persuaded by them and the man with his wheedling words Jhamal took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. Thanaj clenched his jaw at the sight. Within sight of his own house the merchants of Akkil had flouted his laws and unwittingly brought death to his child. Nausea made him tremble. Grief made him press his fist against his mouth and bite down. Had he only been there he could have prevented it. “You did not have to take him,” he said raggedly. “He was a good boy, an obedient son. He did not mean to do anything wrong.” With a hiss the water rippled. The mist curled around itself, the images clouded and shifted, and became a view of the waterfront. Thanaj watched men unloading hrill from a ship’s hold onto the dock. Nets spilled open, releasing twitching bodies, and as the poachers bent forward to club them they froze in horror and, blood pouring from their mouths, fell to their knees. Others fled then collapsed, vomiting in alleyways and temple thresholds. Thanaj watched without pity, and knew what he saw. Once the plague abated new poachers would replace those who had died in the first epidemic. As they carried out their grisly work the sickness would take them, again and again until they realized that shedding a hrill’s blood meant death.

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This goddess had no need for his meager promises. His title, his royal blood, even his life meant nothing to Her. She made him feel as powerless and insignificant as the soulless gods and their priests in Tajhaan’s temples had played him false, and to tell the truth he could not decide which felt worse. **** Erred paced the small salon. His nerves would not let him rest, would not let Usha near enough to question or comfort him. In his restlessness he moved back and forth, clenching his left hand into a fist, hissing under his breath as he gradually realized that what he felt was anger. Not merely irritation, but hot, livid rage such as he had not experienced in many years. Had he known where to direct his anger, and how, he might have felt calmer. Too many abused his patience, too many targets, and not all of them accessible. Thanaj might have the right to execute a criminal, even a witch in his house, but a talevé’s person was sacred. No one, not even a High Prince, had the right to manhandle him. He does not own me now. I am his guest, not some lowly creature he can whip or order about. Erred shot a savage glance toward the servants who watched from the doorway. They scattered. I loved him once. I still do. I never meant to do him harm. Tharril dared interfere with the Lady’s will, dared save his life where he should have died, and even now failed to understand. I want to live, but defying the Lady only makes it worse for us all. He should never have come with me. It is so much harder with him here. Tharril should have made him feel safe, protected, but he was so unpredictable, so troubled by his own demons. I never know what he will do. He promises he will not strike or insult anyone else, but, gods help me, I do not trust him. Had he been here he would have leapt at the swordsman and strangled the High Prince with his bare hands. Tharril never thought before he acted. A royal court was a perilous place for one who could scarcely keep his emotions in check. The next time he does it may be the last. He might well be the death of us both. Erred retreated to his room and shut the door. Across from

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him, gleaming from a makeshift altar, stood the silver statuette and basin. Meditation usually offered comfort, yet he could not bring himself to approach the Lady. Why did You force me to do this when You could have changed the hrill without my aid? For no matter how he tried to untangle the mystery it eluded him. A goddess who could alter a living man, hallow him, shorten his life, and grant him unearthly beauty and ability should not need a blood sacrifice to change the rhythms of the sea and bring death to those who defiled Her. She should not have needed him, and yet She did. “Have I not endured enough?” he asked. In the answering silence he turned away from the altar. On all sides he felt betrayed, with nowhere to turn. Even the Blue House, when and if he ever returned, would prove no haven. The priests would question him, cast doubt on his tale, and perhaps reject him for his imperfection. What the other talevé would say he did not know. That they would turn away from him seemed unlikely, especially with Tharril there to chastise them. Their distaste he could have borne. Their pity he could not. After a moment Erred crossed the room and knelt down beside the altar, leaning his cheek against the table. Habit brought a sliver of relief. “What am I to do? I did all that You required of me, and yet here I am. What is to become of me now?” He closed his eyes, tried to still his breathing and regain his calm. Perhaps he drifted off for a few moments. His body grew heavy, his senses dulled. Against the soft breeze coming in through the screen he heard the faintest hiss, like rain drizzling over the surface of a pond. Cool breath stirred his cheek, damp, urging him back to consciousness. As he lifted his hands to his face, mist curled about his fingers. Turning, Erred shifted position, rising on his knees so he could peer into the basin. Mists parted, and the sea opened before him. Kelp forests swayed with the current, gold against blue-green. Hrill darted in and out, sleek dark bodies among smaller fish whose scales flashed in the sunlight drifting down from above. Erred knew this vision, had seen it turn to blood and horror. Once he had

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come upon a dead hrill lying on the ocean bottom. Clouded in blood and black rot, he had perceived the ki’iri spirit within and recognized it as his own. Anticipation filled him, then dread. A red smear caught his eye, then dissipated. Sunlight obscured the vision, bringing him back to the surface, his world, and the mist, imbued with its own life, encircled him, fanning out until it seemed like tendrils of his hair were caught underwater, waving about him; he felt the familiar weight, the soft silk caressing his fingers. But no, that could not be, for the priests in Akkil had cropped his hair short. The water in the basin rippled, the mist began to fade, yet the hair wrapped around his fingers remained solid, as real as he was. And at last he understood. The death he had seen was not his own, only the part of him that could be changed, the part whose blood could be shed without extinguishing his life. At last he understood the Lady’s design, and Her mercy, clutched like skeins of thread between his fingers. **** No other choice remained. The priests wielded too much power in Tajhaan for a High Prince to openly defy them. Should the high priests of Belsha’at decide to withhold their blessing it would mean disaster. Any mishap, from a failed harvest to the plague, would be laid at his feet. Civil war would come as any and all claimants with royal blood—including his own son— would jostle to seize control and topple him from the throne. Such was the power the priests wielded, and what they wanted from him they must eventually have. Have it they would, but with conditions. The priests of Belsha’at and Aben both wished to examine the ahiri, Erred in particular. Examination meant a formal inquest, and an inquest performed by the priesthood meant the High Prince might be permitted to watch as a courtesy but could not render judgment. In a religious court Erred would be treated like a prisoner, guilty until absolved, and Thanaj had no doubt what the outcome would be. His guilt would be a foregone conclusion, his death an agonizing one. The ties that bound them went beyond master and concubine, for that bond had been dissolved long ago. A strange love existed between them, somewhere in the margins where it

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need not be acknowledged, where it might safely dwell without disrupting the bond between Erred and his chosen companion. But when the moment arose it could be as powerful as physical intimacy, a knot that closed the throat and made the heart ache. Thanaj could not subject Erred to a religious inquest, yet neither could he deny the priests. Nebukkar and Shakhar, high priests of their orders, would have their desire, but they would have it on his terms or none at all. **** Tharril sensed Erred’s restlessness, and knew it was best that he not stay in the apartment. Not that he had done anything to warrant banishment, not lately, but some instinct warned him to get away. Unfortunately the palace offered no haven. Wherever he went the nameless bodyguard followed, and if he was truly unlucky Nimthral appeared to distract him with meandering anecdotes and inane babbling. Today the old priest was absent, leaving Tharril free to explore the galleries and courtyards nearest the apartment. As before, he had no particular interest in the lavishness of his surroundings. Tajhaani architecture with its domes and elaborate arches and latticed screens, its vibrant colors and exotic motifs held no fascination for him, even stirred unpleasant memories when he lingered over it too long. Still more he hated confinement, and needed exercise, no matter what Erred’s mood. The first house he had seen in Tajhaan belonged to Satu. To one accustomed to the thatched cottages and outbuildings of a Shivarian farming village, the lime washed house with its spacious rooms and bright decorations seemed too beautiful to belong to one person. Tharril quickly learned that splendor could bring unhappiness, even terror, and he learned to avoid those parts of the house where he might be noticed. Even the palace’s deserted galleries held pitfalls. Tharril had no doubt that, aside from the omnipresent bodyguard, his every movement was being watched. On a terrace shaded by fruit trees, he was accosted by a polite yet insistent nobleman. “Forgive this interruption,” said the man, “but it is a joy to see you once again at court.”

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Tharril glared at him. “I have never been here before,” he answered coldly. “I never forget a face, and no man could forget your hair. Perhaps you do not recall my name, but perhaps you would honor me by recalling the splendid afternoon we shared?” As he lifted his gaze to study Tharril more closely, the nobleman froze, then blanched as he realized his mistake. “I beg your pardon, sir. It seems I have confused you for another.” A discreet cough from the bodyguard sent the nobleman bowing and stammering on his way. For once Tharril approved his interference. When he deemed it safe to return he did not share the incident with Erred. Even had he intended to do so, it slipped from his consciousness the moment he saw Erred standing in the salon. Where earlier his expression had been pensive, brooding, now Erred beamed with a radiant smile. And spilling down his back, over his hands, was a glory of silken white hair. Tharril lifted his hand to touch the wonder, hesitated. “How can this be?” Even the servants, even that interloper Usha stood looking on in amazement. “It is the Lady’s gift.” Erred spoke in Shivarian. “It is a sign.” “What sign?” “That you were right in what you did, Tharril.” And you needed a vision to tell you this? The words never made it past his lips. Not for anything could he sour this moment. “Are you still in pain?” Tharril noted the bandage still on Erred’s right hand, the delicate suture marks scarring his cheek. It did not surprise him. When the Lady restored his life She had healed his mortal injuries, yet not all his hurts. Perhaps it was a reminder that She had compassion to match Her power, to demonstrate as She willed. “My pain is much less now,” said Erred. Tharril gingerly touched his fingers to Erred’s hair, grazing the strands, rubbing them between his fingertips to reassure himself that they were real. When he brought a length to his lips its familiar scent told him all he needed to know. First he kissed the hair, then Erred’s cheek and mouth. It would be all right now.

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Erred glanced over at their audience. “You may go,” he said in Tajhaani. “There is nothing to see. Lightning is not going to fall from the sky.” “No, indeed,” answered Usha, “unless Belsha’at sends you a sign also.” Tharril waited until the young priest ushered the servants out and shut the door before turning back to Erred. Now his smile faded, his joy seemed subdued. “Is something wrong?” “I have had news you will not like,” Erred said quietly. “While you were gone a message came from the High Prince. We have been invited to dine with him in two days.” Tharril snorted. “Only here does a man try to kill his guest, then invite him to supper.” Erred did not share in the jest, nor had Tharril really meant it as one. “It is not as simple as you think. This is more than a mere meal.” “It’s a bit late to be holding a banquet in our honor.” “No, this is to be a private gathering in the High Prince’s pavilion by the lake,” said Erred. “There is a purpose behind this invitation.” Eyes narrowing, he tried to concentrate, unravel the mystery. “I know he does not quite believe we are innocent of witchcraft. His message indicated that priests would be among the guests. I have no doubt they will try to question us.” “If they want to interrogate us, why disguise it as a banquet?” Erred frowned, then shook his head. “To interrogate us means an inquest, perhaps torture. We are guests and ambassadors; the High Prince cannot allow the priests to question us without breaking the laws of hospitality, and yet…. I honestly do not know what this is about, or what to tell you, except I do not think anything will be as it seems. I fully expect these priests, whoever they are, to try to trick us. We must watch what we say and do.” His earlier joy gone, evaporated, Tharril drew a long breath and held it. Each day he spent in Tajhaan was a battle of wills against the bull raging inside him. Withholding a ki’iri spirit was dangerous, yet even he knew the perils of allowing a transformation to take place now. People would call it sorcery. “If only we could leave and forget about all this.”

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“We will, once it is safe enough.” Erred placed a hand on his arm. “I know you do not think so, but it may be better for us where we are. Once we leave we are no longer under the High Prince’s protection.” “His protection hasn’t done you much good.” “Our sacred status as guests may be the only thing which has kept him from executing me,” said Erred. “As for you, he knows you are innocent of any wrongdoing. If anything happens, the blow will fall on me.” Another hard breath. All along Tharril had known that, no matter what Erred might say in his defense, the High Prince was as ruthless and brutal as all the others who had once owned him. No sense in saying anything. Erred would never listen. “The next time,” he said bitterly, “the Lady can make Her own sacrifices. **** “It is exquisite,” said Usha. “Is this how priests dress in your land?” Erred fingered the blue-gray silk. Under the circumstances the last thing he had expected from Thanaj was an extravagant gift of clothing. When had these garments been commissioned, when had the measurements been taken? Many days must have gone into the work, yet no note accompanied the parcel, no explanation other than a command to wear the garments to the pavilion that day. No further messages had come, no reassurances or instructions on what to expect, only the impersonal invitation and the gift. “Not really,” replied Erred. The colors were correct, but in its elaborate pleats and full sleeves the robe possessed a distinctive eastern flair that would have been out of place in the House of the Water. Silk brocade such as this was a rarity in Shivar. “I have the robes in my baggage if you wish to see how ahiri dress in my land.” “I saw the eunuchs deliver matching robe for Tharril also,” added Usha, “but he did not seem pleased by the gift.” “Tharril does not care for jewels or rich clothing,” said Erred. While it seemed plausible that the royal tailors might still have his measurements from many years before, how they had

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acquired Tharril’s remained a mystery. “He has very simple tastes.” Usha leaned in to adjust one of the garment’s many buttons. “I do not want you to think me rude for saying so, but I have no idea why you are so fond of Tharril. He is so sour. He never smiles when I greet him, never says anything when I try to speak to him.” Erred sighed. “He has his reasons, and I think it would be wiser if you did not toy with him. I know you wish to be friendly, but you should know that Tharril was once a slave in your father’s house. He was badly treated there. It angers him still.” Usha’s smile vanished, and he drew back in dismay. “I am not surprised to hear he feels that way,” he said grimly. “Men still spit on my father’s name for setting my half-brothers against each other as he did.” “I mentioned it to warn you, not accuse you.” “I know, but it shames me to be associated with him, or my brothers. Tharril must know who I am.” “He has not said anything to me about it, and I would not mention it to him if I were you,” replied Erred. “I believe he merely sees you as a priest of Aben whose constant presence he finds unnecessary and annoying.” Usha’s brow creased in a worried frown. “Do I truly annoy him?” Erred sighed, “It does not take much here in Tajhaan to do that.” A moment later Tharril appeared in the doorway, looking stiff and uncomfortable in his new finery. Usha acknowledged him with an anxious nod, then discreetly withdrew. “I put it on as you asked, Erred,” said Tharril, “but I feel stiff and halfdressed.” He began fidgeting with the robe’s elaborate closures. Around his brow he wore his shumadi’s silver circlet. Erred smiled and straightened an invisible wrinkle on Tharril’s sleeve. “You look fine.” “Another message arrived while we were dressing. Some greasy eunuch to tell us the Crown Prince will also be there, as well as a pair of high priests. I didn’t get their names.”

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That came as no surprise. “Hathil is an arrogant little snit,” said Erred. “He will wear on your nerves with his slights. Please try not to hit him, however much he might deserve it.” Tharril made a face. “Are you ever going to stop mentioning that?” “I am not playing, Tharril, and I am saying it for your own good. You have never met Hathil. By the time he finishes cutting you down you will want to strangle him. I am certain he knows that, and I am certain it gives him great pleasure.” The pavilion hugging the water’s edge was an open structure of gleaming white marble softened by billowing draperies, thick rugs, and cushions. Two low tables were set for a leisurely meal. As Erred and Tharril passed the gauntlet of royal guards and climbed the steps, Thanaj rose to greet them. “At last you have come,” he said. Through his welcoming smile Erred noticed a start at sight of his hair. True to etiquette, Thanaj did not mention it or otherwise point it out. Nevertheless his bewilderment was plain enough to see. Behind him lounged Hathil and a second young man dressed in robes of pleated linen; their resemblance to each other and the High Prince told Erred that the youth must be Thanaj’s second-eldest son, Shemir. A gaunt-faced man sat between them. His white robe was banded with scarlet, with a leopard skin elegantly draped over one shoulder. Even had he not been forewarned by Tharril, Erred would have recognized the man as a high priest of Belsha’at, the thunder god and chief deity of Tajhaan. Opposite him sat another elderly man, his pale yellow robe fringed in bullion. On his breast he wore a golden pectoral, a badge of the house of Aben. “It seems we are overdressed.” Erred’s hand smoothed the silken folds as they flowed out from the robe’s sash, while he took care to adopt a neutral tone. It would not do to have the High Prince assume he and Tharril were ungrateful for the gift. Thanaj glowed with pleasure, and with gestures insisted that Erred turn around so he could see how well the garment looked. “No, indeed,” he said. “It seems our gift has been well received, and you both wear it well.” Nothing in his demeanor indicated the earlier incident. Erred knew it had not been forgotten, no

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matter what pleasantries his host uttered. Now Thanaj glanced over at Tharril, who managed to murmur a few polite words of thanks. “As you can see, priests never put off their formal dress when coming to court even on personal business. Come, sit down and make yourselves comfortable.” Erred diluted his wine with water before passing the decanter to Tharril. Platters of grapes and sliced melon, olives, cheese, and honeyed pastries appeared. Casual nibbling was encouraged. “Erred, you have already met Hathil,” said Thanaj, “but I know your companion has not.” Glancing over at Tharril, he indicated the two young men opposite him. “Hathil is my eldest son, the Crown Prince. His brother Shemir is my second-eldest.” Even among company Hathil regarded him and Tharril with open disdain. Shemir spent most of the time twisting his rings around his fingers and staring out across the water. It did not take much for Erred to realize why he seemed so visibly uncomfortable beside his brother. Hathil rarely conveyed warmth even to those closest to him, though even then it would not have mattered, for if Erred understood Tajhaani custom correctly the Crown Prince would eliminate Shemir and all his other male kinsmen when he took the throne. And these people look upon us in the west as barbarians. Thanaj disparaged the custom, as any loving father might, but the internecine nature of Tajhaani politics made it impossible for him to affect a change in policy. Thanaj continued the introductions. “Nebukkar is a high priest of Belsha’at. The high priest of Aben sitting near him is Shakhar.” Nebukkar took immediate interest in the royal guests. “I understand you are priests of the Shivarian water goddess,” he said pleasantly. “Yes,” answered Erred. So began the interrogation. “We have come from Sirilon.” “So I have been told, yet you are not at all like the other priests your ruling prince has sent.”

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Tharril sipped his wine with disinterest, leaving Erred to carry on the conversation alone. “We are ahiri, the Lady’s sacred consorts.” “This I have heard, though your priests have not been able to satisfactorily explain what this means. The subject seems to be taboo with them.” In the midst of nibbling a grape, Hathil commented, “Nebukkar, you are trying too hard. It seems very simple. After all, the temple of Shalat combs the slave markets for the finest boys and maidens to serve as the goddess’ sacred prostitutes. Shivarian priests obviously do the same.” “That is not only outrageous,” said Erred, “but entirely untrue.” Beside him Tharril went rigid, his knuckles whitening around the stem of his goblet as though about to hurl the contents in Hathil’s face. “Ahiri are not slaves bought by the priests, and they are not prostitutes made available for the common good.” “Hathil,” warned Thanaj, “remember that you are among guests.” The prince flashed him a smile so insincere Erred could not see how his father did not strike it off his face at once. “Of course no insult was meant, Father,” Hathil said smoothly. “I merely recall that one of our guests was once an akesh, and then a royal aktiri. There is no shame in that.” “Agreed,” said Nebukkar. “A royal aktiri holds a position of great honor.” Tharril set the goblet down and crammed his hands together in his lap as though to keep from making a fist. Erred held back from touching him in reassurance; the gesture would have been too obvious, too visible to Hathil. Not to mention that it would be extremely dangerous. “Slavery is not an honor in Shivar ,” he said tightly. “We do not buy and sell other human beings.” It was time to veer away from this volatile subject. “What the shumadi means,” Erred quickly explained, “is that the Lady’s sacred consorts are chosen entirely by Her, not by the priests or any other mortal agency.” “Ah,” said Shakhar, “so you employ oracles and divine lotteries. Your priests should have said so when we asked.” Trying to explain how the Lady truly manifested Her will

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by physically changing Her chosen lovers would be fruitless, and as Erred saw it these priests had no business delving into such sacred mysteries. He merely smiled and left it at that. Shemir chose this moment to take interest in the conversation. “What is a shumadi?” “It means ‘twice-born.’ Quite simply, a shumadi is an ahiru who has died and been reborn.” With a silver skewer Nebukkar speared a green olive succulent with tart dressing and began to nibble at it. “How interesting,” he said. “I had no idea your people believed in reincarnation. In certain sects believers are taught that a man may experience spiritual rebirth in the act of conversion or initiation. These sects still persist in places, but our desert ancestors who conquered Tajhaan left off the belief in the cycles of death and physical rebirth many centuries ago.” “That is because the old belief in reincarnation was a tiresome thing,” commented Hathil. “Man forever being born, dying, and suffering rebirth with no end to the cycle, no release. It gives no hope to those whose lives are forever mired in hardship. It is a primitive system at best. Perhaps it is not surprising that these beliefs persist in the west.” “You make too many assumptions about us,” said Erred. “I said we believed in rebirth, but I did not say we believed in man’s individual reincarnation.” Hathil raised his goblet to his lips. “It is either one way or the other, you cannot equivocate. Your people observe no gods but the four elements. It seems a rather—how shall I phrase it?—simplistic view of the universe.” “I assure you, our religious beliefs are quite complex and satisfying.” “Are there many shumadi in your land?” Shemir asked in a small voice. Feeling that Tharril was best suited to answer this question, Erred gently nudged him, then offered a reassuring look as Tharril swallowed his awkwardness and spoke, “No, they are very rare.” “A shumadi undergoes physical death and rebirth, Shemir,” added Thanaj. “He is a special servant of the Water goddess.”

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Inquiry should have ended there, but the High Prince’s explanation only added fuel to the curiosity of the other guests. Erred reached over and covered Tharril’s fingers with his. “Gently,” he whispered. “How curious,” commented Shakhar. “I have never met anyone who died and came back to tell of it.” “Yes, how did you manage it?” Hathil’s acid tone, implying scorn and disbelief, provoked a direct response. Tharril leaned forward, eyes blazing, and hissed, “I was murdered by your own people. I was beaten and tortured before someone finally cut my throat and threw me into the sea.” “And you expect us to believe this tale?” asked the prince. “You expect us to believe you have died and come back when there are no marks upon you, and no witnesses?” Tharril curled his upper lip in a feral smile. “It does not matter what you believe. I know the truth. Those who found me lying dead on the beach near Sirilon know the truth, because they witnessed the miracle when I drew breath again. The Lady of the Waters restored my life. She marked me as both an ahiru and a shumadi. Does that answer your question, or would you like to hear more?” For once Erred welcomed Tharril’s rudeness. The tactlessness of the question demanded a blunt answer, and the questioner put in his place. Erred smothered the satisfied smile that rose to his lips while he surreptitiously watched for Thanaj’s reaction. The High Prince’s blank expression did not waver, but that in itself meant nothing. Erred knew Thanaj was watching, measuring their every word and gesture. Hathil let his gaze slide disdainfully toward Tharril. “You have told me what I wish to know, though your tone lacks the courtesy a man ought to show his betters.” “A shumadi has no equal, and no better,” Tharril said sharply. “Son, if you ask a man an unpleasant question,” observed Thanaj, “you should expect a like answer. A host who desires gentle words and praise must treat his guests more graciously.” “I shall remember that,” replied Hathil, “when my turn comes to play the host.”

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Erred read the double meaning in his reply, and saw that Thanaj recognized it also. Had his own eldest brother behaved so, even in private, their father would have dragged him by the collar into the stable yard and whipped him with his own belt. Alanthas né Camoril was the undisputed master in his house, even when his guest was his kinsman, the prince of Altarmë. Yet Thanaj said nothing, offered no reprimand save a lifted eyebrow. Erred suspected he would upbraid his son in private. Having finished with Tharril, Hathil turned to him next. “I seem to recall on my last visit that your hair was much shorter than it is now.” “That is true,” replied Erred. “The Lady restored what was taken away.” At this, Hathil snorted. “Come, you do not expect us to believe that. Say rather that your long, beautiful hair is an illusion.” “You may touch it and see for yourself.” “All men know there are sorceries which confuse senses other than sight,” said Hathil. “Your priests would not say what abilities you possess, what function you serve in the house of your goddess, other than that you are far more gifted than they. So no, I shall not touch your hair. It would prove nothing.” Erred avoided glancing in Thanaj’s direction; the gesture would be marked, and he knew he would find no assistance there. Calmly he replied, “Ahiri are chosen because the Lady finds them pleasing. She prefers to be served by attractive young men. Now if I had the power to cast illusions as you imply, I would have erased the scar on my face as well, but quite simply I do not possess such powers. Whether or not you choose to believe it, the Lady in Her mercy sent a sign that I would be healed, that I am still an ahiru despite the loss of my sacred spirit.” “What is this sacred spirit of which you speak?” asked Shakhar. “I believe it is called a ki’iri,” said Thanaj. “It is an animal spirit given to ahiri when they enter the Lady’s service. A totem, if you will.” Thanaj knew quite well what a ki’iri was and how it manifested. How much more he could have said, how much

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more fantastic his explanation than the mundane one he gave. “That is true,” said Erred. “It is revealed to us through visions.” “And how did you lose this spirit, this ki’iri?” Shakhar stumbled over the unfamiliar word. “In Akkil, when I was attacked on the waterfront. My hrill spirit has not appeared to me since then. I do not think it will return.” Shakhar turned to Tharril. “And you?” he asked. “Do you also have this ki’iri spirit, a hrill?” “Yes, but mine is different.” Tharril flashed Hathil a vicious little smile. “Mine is a bull.” During the meal the conversation remained light, inconsequential. Erred knew better than to assume the interrogation was over, even when Hathil cited pressing duties elsewhere and excused himself. His younger brother, uncomfortable from the beginning, seized the opportunity to leave as well. The two priests remained, their presence offering a buffer against what would have been an awkward triangle of lovers past and present. “I apologize for my heir’s impertinence,” said Thanaj. “Hathil is old enough to make his own apologies, my lord,” replied Erred. Thanaj drank from his goblet before offering an explanation. “Do not think I neglect my duties as a father. Hathil has been reprimanded many times for his arrogance. It does no good, it seems.” “The prince is strong-willed.” Nebukkar spoke approvingly, at which Thanaj simply coughed and shook his head. “Even a headstrong prince must obey his father and show courtesy. Perhaps an administrative position in Marreh will curb his arrogance. Let him spend his days tallying figures and staring out at the desert, and learn patience that way.” Musicians appeared, and dancers clothed in flowing garments that swirled and fanned out as they twirled on the grass before the pavilion. Tharril watched, mildly agitated until Erred leaned over and whispered that these men and women were hired performers, not slaves, and that the dances were traditional ones

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performed throughout the realm. “I could even teach you the steps,” he said, “if you wanted to learn.” Tharril did not answer. While he seemed to enjoy watching Erred dance, he never showed interest in participating. “I just can’t bend and move like that.” So emphatic was his refusal that Erred was never able to explain that there were dances men could easily perform. Even Thanaj could dance, twirling a sword with lethal skill and speed in the way desert warriors had done for centuries. How Erred would have loved to see that again, yet knew that in his current condition there was no chance of Thanaj stepping onto the grass to entertain them. In the hypnotic beat of the drums and trilling pipes, Erred felt an inexplicable yearning to join the dancers, to sway and bend his body to the music. The eunuchs of the Blue House, while they could in practice play Tajhaani instruments, did so with no great skill. Here was passion as Erred had once known it, the eroticism of supple limbs commanding all attention, and youth that could dance all day and make love all night. It was life and color, far removed from the horrors of the mob in Akkil who would never have dared lay hands on a royal aktiri, a world away from a scarred face and broken bones. Erred heard himself sigh, felt Tharril’s eyes on him. “It is all right,” he whispered. “We simply do not see things like this in the Blue House.” “I’m not sure I want to see the eunuchs dance,” Tharril whispered back. His comment elicited an image of a half-dozen corpulent eunuchs trying to twirl seductively. Erred suppressed his laughter. After the entertainment the musicians stayed, playing discreetly in the background. “No doubt you have heard this observation,” said Shakhar, “but many here at court find it curious that neither you nor your people became ill in Akkil. My healers in the house of Aben know of no cure for the plague, and still do not understand how some avoid it while others do not.” “Indeed,” agreed Nebukkar, “it does not behave like any plague I have ever seen.” There was no need to lie. Survival had not come merely on account of the Lady’s grace. “That is no mystery,” answered

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Erred. “The moment we learned of the plague we shut our doors and had no contact with the outside. Our embassy in Akkil has its own well and ample food stores.” “And yet you fled.” “There were sixteen of us,” added Tharril, “which was a considerable drain on provisions. We felt it best to leave so the priests and servants who could not escape would have a better chance at survival.” Nebukkar paused, nodded. “As always in such times there are many rumors, and few truths.” On the surface his tone remained pleasant, yet Erred sensed his underlying suspicion. Here was one priest who would not relax his views no matter what he saw or heard. “A trite saying,” commented Thanaj. “That may be, but sayings become trite only because they contain undeniable truths.” Nebukkar favored Erred with a fixed smile. “However, I will not bore you with clichés. After all, who is to say what is rumor, and what is truth?” Erred did not care for the direction the conversation was taking. “It is not for me to distinguish between the truth and fiction of the plague. As I have been ill and confined to my guest quarters, I have heard very little, and Tharril has only been to court once. We would not know anything of these tales.” A cool breeze stirred the waters of the lake, fluttering the pavilion draperies. “Nebukkar, you must not heed every rumor you hear,” said Thanaj. “Do not waste this pleasant afternoon on such dark matters. Had I wished to dwell on the plague I would have invited my advisors here instead.” **** “The priests will condemn us,” said Erred. Without waiting for a servant to assist him, and knowing that Erred could not, Tharril tore loose the pearl and silver closures of his robes and struggled out of it. Blue-gray silk fluttered down in a soft heap, over which he stepped on his way to the wash basin. “I don’t give a damn what they think.” “You should.” Despite his bold words, Tharril knew that. He poured water from a silver ewer, splashing it on his face and neck before reaching for the linen cloth lying folded next to the basin. “We

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can’t stay here much longer. I want to leave as soon as you’re well enough.” Erred stroked his back with light fingers. “I am sorry for the delay.” “I never said it was your fault.” Blotting his face dry, Tharril tossed the cloth aside and turned to embrace Erred. “It’s this place. Even here in our rooms we’re being watched. Then there’s that boy.” Erred drew back, frowning slightly. “Which boy is that?” “Don’t play stupid with me, Erred. I know whose son Usha is. I might have lived below stairs and only known a little of the language, but I have a long memory. The High Prince should know better than to send Satu’s son with the other priests.” “Usha is harmless.” Erred leaned in to kiss his cheek. “It was merely chance that he came with the other priests to the embassy. He stays because he is a friend and wishes to offer comfort.” Comfort, with its many possible meanings, was not the word Tharril wanted to hear. “Tell me all he does is change your bandages and walk with you in the garden.” “I will tell you so because it is the truth,” answered Erred. “Usha is not his father’s son. In fact, he is quite the opposite, deeply ashamed of what his father did. He knows about you and wishes you were friendlier with him. Try to be civil with him.” Tharril was in no mood to be forgiving, not after the scrutiny he had just endured. “When he betrayed his father and went over to the priesthood it caused plenty of trouble for the rest of us.” “I know, and so does he. Now pick up your robe and put it away, and help me with mine.” Tharril scooped up the garment and tossed it on the bed. He would never wear it again, no matter what Erred said. “Today would have been better without the priests and the two brats,” he said, adding, “And the High Prince. In fact, if we’d had the pavilion and the lake to ourselves, it would have been perfect.” “Come now,” chided Erred, “the High Prince was an excellent host. It might have gone much worse than it did.” “Next you’ll make excuses for the royal brat.” “His name is Hathil.”

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Tharril fumbled with the closure at Erred’s shoulder. “I know what his name is. I also know he deserves to be bent over his father’s knee and thrashed.” His fingers slipped, roughly pulling at the expensive fabric. “Gods, I’m glad I’m not trying to seduce you. I’d have to tear this off you to get you naked.” “I think you may end up doing that, at the rate you are progressing.” “Seducing you, or tearing off your clothes?” Tharril asked playfully. Erred’s expression grew dark, troubled. “Perhaps I should have one of the servants help me.” “No, I have it.” The clasp came free, baring a shoulder clad in wispy linen. Tharril moved down to Erred’s wrist, where he struggled with a cuff awkwardly fastened over layers of bandages. He spent several moments trying to slide the buttons from their tight loops before giving up. “All right,” he sighed. “I’d probably end up hurting you.” “I did not mean to tease,” said Erred. “I am in no condition to make love.” Tharril pulled Erred close, kissed his cheek and mouth, lingering just long enough to feel the first stirrings of arousal. Had Erred been well enough he might have ventured further. But no, it would have to wait. Reaching up, he pulled away the pins that held Erred’s hair back from his face. “You didn’t tease.” Erred’s gaze followed the pins as Tharril tossed them aside. “I do not know when I will be able to share your bed again, or how much pleasure I can—” “Listen to yourself,” grumbled Tharril, “talking as though you were my concubine, my slave, instead of my lover. And before you start wringing your hands and complaining about a few scars that no one will even notice, there is nothing wrong with you. The Lady gave you back your hair. You are as beautiful as ever.” “You are saying that to be kind. Some things She cannot give back.” Tharril kissed him hard, crushing into his mouth all the heat and passion he dared. “You’re so full of shit,” he growled, pausing long enough to take a breath. “You’re staying with me

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tonight.” “I told you I could not—” Another hard kiss, this one deeper than the first. Then he pulled back. “If I want pleasure, I’m perfectly capable of fisting my own cock. No, the last thing you’re going to do is lie alone feeling sorry for yourself. Now sit right here and I’ll get someone to undo those blasted buttons.” The servant made deft work of Erred’s robe, using a slender hook while shaking his head at the mess of pulled fabric and dangling buttons Tharril had left him. Tharril, impatient to be alone with Erred, hustled him out as soon as the job was done. “Here, take the robe and mend it if you’re so unhappy about it,” he said, shoving yards of silk into the man’s arms before closing the door. At the sideboard he poured more water into the basin and brought it over to Erred with a fresh cloth, which he dipped, wrung out, and gingerly applied to Erred’s neck and shoulders while pushing his heavy hair to one side. “Your bruises are gone. You can say what you like, you look much better now.” “I still have some pain.” “Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Tharril patted Erred’s skin dry before bathing his back and the nape of his neck. Damp tendrils of hair caught his fingers. “I once broke my leg and three ribs falling out of a tree. It might surprise you to learn I was as stupid a boy as I am a man.” “Yes, how terribly surprising,” commented Erred. “What did you do this time?” “I wanted apples, but it was early summer, too early for harvesting. I climbed one of the apple trees anyway, not even bothering with the ladders we use. Of course I slipped and fell.” “Of course.” Tharril sponged Erred as far as the bandages wrapped around his torso before rinsing and squeezing the cloth. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” “The bath or your story? And here I thought you injured yourself trying to fetch apples for some fair lady. What am I to think of you now, knowing it was pure selfishness on your part?” Seeing Erred smile brought Tharril greater joy than lovemaking, for it was rare that he showed his humorous side. “I

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was eleven years old,” said Tharril, “and I thought girls were the most annoying, hateful creatures on earth. Under your arms now, lift up. If it’s any consolation to you, my father and mother both boxed my ears black and blue, because I was useless for haying, and scarcely able to help with the harvest.” “I broke my leg once,” said Erred. “I used to hunt with my father and brothers and members of my cousin’s court near Altarmë. On one occasion my horse failed to clear a hedge and I spilled out of the saddle. I was fortunate it was not my head, though my parents complained for weeks of the scratches I took when I fell through the hedge. How would any noble lady find me attractive? How was I ever to marry? Perhaps I should mention that I was only sixteen at the time.” Tharril dried his arms, lightly caressing the skin as he went. “Such a tragedy! Scratches and bruises and dirt would’ve been nothing in Entippé. Had your family failed to find you a princess to marry, you could have come to my village and wed a buxom milkmaid.” Sunset came, igniting the sky. Brilliant orange and gold spilled through the latticed screens, casting molten shafts of light over the carpets. It had been a warm day, not uncommon for autumn in Tajhaan, but nights were cold, and Tharril insisted that Erred burrow with him under the blankets. “Some things here are pleasant,” he admitted softly, “but only because you’re here. At least this bed is bigger than the one we shared before.” “In Satu’s house?” mumbled Erred. A moment later, when Tharril finally had a reply, the even rise and fall of Erred’s breathing indicated he had slipped into unconsciousness. “Well,” said Tharril, plumping his pillow before laying his head down, “I didn’t really want to talk about it anyway.” The next day they spent outdoors lounging in the cool shade of the garden, a scene reminiscent of countless others played out on warm afternoons in the Blue House. Usha provided company, urging them to go barefoot on the tiles and soft grass. “There is a bazaar here on the palace ground if you wish to go out.” While Tharril cared nothing for mingling with courtiers and palace eunuchs who would stare and mutter at two talevé, he had relished Erred’s earlier description of the bazaar and its exotic

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wares. “I don’t know that it’s safe,” he said regretfully. “Well, I cannot promise anything, but I will make inquiries to see if some of your guards might accompany you. They are still in the embassy.” Usha gathered his pale yellow robes and stood up. “Now if you will excuse me, I have a few duties to attend to. I will return shortly.” Once Usha vanished inside, Tharril observed, “I thought you were his only duty.” “Since I have improved, he can resume some of his responsibilities in the temple. His grandfather insisted. Shakhar does not approve of the time he spends here.” An hour later Erred and Tharril enjoyed a light luncheon on the grass, afterward retreating to couches set out on the shaded terrace when the midday sun began to blaze down on the garden. With full bellies they napped, drifting off to the sound of the splashing fountain. Tharril woke first, his nostrils twitching at the faint whiff of smoke. Yawning, rubbing the grit from his eyes, he glanced through the entryway yet saw nothing out of the ordinary. He left the couch and descended into the garden, once more obscured in shade and mist from the fountain. There was no sign of fire, yet there was no mistaking the acrid smoke wafted through the air. A servant appeared on colonnade, followed by Usha. “There is no cause for alarm.” On his couch, barely awake, Erred yawned and stretched. “Is it a riot?” “There was a small disturbance in the city earlier in the afternoon, yes, but the High Prince has sent men to disperse the crowds. It is over now.” Usha gave them both a strained smile. “Do not be concerned. These things are not as uncommon as you might think.” “Don’t lie to us,” snapped Tharril. “I remember fights in the streets outside your father’s house, but I don’t remember fires, or such a disturbance that soldiers had to be sent to restore order.” Usha blanched, though whether at being caught in a lie or being confronted with his paternity Tharril could not tell. “I do not know the particulars,” he admitted, “except that people are

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frantic over the plague. Rumors are rampant. It leads to panic.” “What are people saying?” asked Erred. “I was not close enough to hear everything.” That much Tharril believed. A calmer man might have persuaded his listeners to accept the brief explanation and leave off further questions. Usha was not such a one. He wore his alarm and discomfort like a second robe. “Then what did you hear?” Usha hesitated, looked toward Erred for reassurance. Only when he did not find it did he reply, “I have heard the plague in Akkil was caused by sorcerers, the white demons who have since fled here to the capital. The rioters mobbed the palace gates, demanding the High Prince turn the guilty ones over to them for justice.” His gaze went from Erred to Tharril, then back again. “Do you fear it is you they want?” Tharril sensed his growing apprehension, added it to his own. “Of course they want us,” he snapped, “but we had nothing to do with this. They think we’re sorcerers because we’re foreigners and different.” “Of course,” Usha said shakily. He did not believe them. Tharril could see that at once. And why should he, when Tharril divulged only half the truth? “Listen to him, Usha,” added Erred. “They see only our white hair and strange ways. They think we have bewitched the High Prince because he has received our priests at court and passed laws to protect our people from slavery and the hrill from poachers. Those were political concessions he made to our princes, Usha. That was diplomacy for the sake of trade, not witchcraft.” “The protesters have been sent home,” said Usha, “but I know they have some supporters here at court. I did not want to alarm you by saying anything.” Tharril frowned. “You believe the rumors, don’t you?” Usha shook his head, yet the gesture lacked conviction. “To be honest, I do not know what you are, only that you are not the evil some people claim. Others are not so open in their thinking. I do not think it is safe for you to remain here much longer.” “We’ve known that ever since we arrived here,” Tharril said sharply. “You think we would trust people who would attack a

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holy talevé in the street?” Now Usha hung his head. “I did not tell you this before. The high priest of Aben you met yesterday was my grandfather. It seems you have had nothing but ill from my family.” “You are not your family, Usha,” said Erred. “I have no power to protect you. I might not even be with you for much longer. My grandfather insists I return to the temple for my own good. I have too many other duties, he says.” Usha made a face. “He keeps his own counsel, but I hear things. He senses your power—I sense it, too, if you must know. Everyone around you does.” “That is the Lady’s grace you sense.” Usha nodded before continuing, “Grandfather believes you are sorcerers, and that you have bewitched the High Prince. I have no doubt Nebukkar has reached the same conclusion. They have no other words for what you are. “I know the High Prince does not want to execute you.” Usha looked meaningfully at Erred. “But the high priests have power over him, and they have Prince Hathil’s support. If they were determined it would not take much to overthrow him. Then I think you would be arrested and put on trial.” Erred nodded. “I know all this.” “You have never seen a religious inquest,” said Usha. “It is a terrible thing. There is no way for the accused to prove his innocence. Any evidence you try to give will be called sorcery, any witnesses willing to testify on your behalf will be dismissed as having been bewitched. You would be condemned and burned alive. I have seen these things.” When they were alone again, Tharril turned to Erred. “We have to leave now, before it’s too late. Do you think you can ride?” “I will have to try.” Erred looked toward the garden wall and the patch of blue sky beyond. Tharril knew what he sought. Smoke still stung the air, yet left no visible sign. “Send a message to Shanju. Let him make the arrangements.” Tharril found pen and paper, and Erred scrawled a short missive which Usha refused to take. “My grandfather has spies watching me,” he said. Then he winked at them. “I did learn a few useful things from my father, though. I will slip your

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message to someone who can be trusted. Shanju will come to you tomorrow.” “Do not endanger yourself on our account,” said Erred. “If we have to we will apply directly to the High Prince for permission to leave.” Usha smiled. “If anything my grandfather will think I have been bewitched and make me undergo ritual purification. A revolting process,” he chuckled, “but as long as you can escape I do not mind playing along.” The papyrus scrap disappeared into the lining of his robe. Tharril watched the young priest slip from the room, and wondered if Satu’s resourceful youngest son could even be trusted. It seems you have had nothing but ill from my family. “Help might come too late.” “Or not at all,” finished Erred. “You should not have come with me.” “You keep saying that. The Lady wanted you to live.” Tharril edged closer, until they shared the same breath. “To live, and to love.” Their lips touched, the tentative kiss quickly melting into a hot rush of open mouths and tongues. Tharril knew where such intimacy would lead, for he could never kiss Erred or hold him close without wanting him. He held back, ready to break off contact and relieve his need in private, but now Erred was leaning into his embrace, the hardness under his clothing signaling the same fierce passion. “I don’t want to hurt you.” “You will not.” Erred dropped hungry kisses along his cheek, the line of his jaw, before returning to claim his mouth. “Some things I can still do with you.” His right hand was useless. A selfish man would have let him use his mouth, but Tharril, sensing they did not have time for leisurely lovemaking, wanted Erred to share his pleasure. For all they knew, it was the last time they would ever lie together. Winding Erred’s hair around one hand, tangling his fingers in the silk, he thought feverishly. He ached to be able to bear Erred down to the cushions and possess him, yet could not do that without crushing his chest. Taking him from behind was not

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an option; they both avoided that position, associated it with unhappy things. A chair caught his attention. “Climb on top of me,” he growled. Releasing Erred’s hair, he unfastened his robe, and quickly discarded his undergarments before helping Erred. Massage oil left by the royal physician eased the way. Tharril clasped his arms around Erred’s waist, held him as close as he dared as they came together and began to move. Erred’s hair swayed with the movements of his body. Its heavy scent and silk enfolded them, brushing against Tharril’s cheek as he kissed Erred’s throat. He groaned, trembled with the effort of trying to prolong a moment that came too soon, too hard. Orgasm left him feeling deflated, empty. Afterward they lay close under the blankets in his bedchamber, listening to each other breathe. All that could be said had been. Escape seemed so fragile a hope, it seemed best not to speak of it. Smoke scented the breeze wafting in through the screens. At last Tharril spoke, softly so only Erred could hear him, “We both died in Akkil, and somehow we’re still here.”

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Chapter Eleven “What we have seen are clear signs of witchcraft,” said Shakhar. “It cannot be otherwise.” Thanaj nodded, yet offered nothing else to the conversation. At the moment his only consolation was that Hathil was not present. “We did not meet them before,” added Nebukkar, “but if the reports are true then the fact that the one ahiru’s hair appears to have grown back so soon after it was shorn is proof of sorcery and illusion. Not to mention the witnesses from Akkil all those years earlier who swore they saw him change into a hrill.” Witnesses who still served in the royal household, who could point to the High Prince and say he, too, had observed the transformation. Thanaj thought it best not to dwell on this fact, for if the priests put the question to him he could not lie. “That may be true,” he replied. “On the other hand, they are still ambassadors as well as guests. To act as you wish would provoke a diplomatic incident I would prefer to avoid. The Shivarians would regard the execution of two of their sacred ahiri an act of war, and I for one have no desire to have their armies on our western border.” “They would have to come through the Haban Pass, which can easily be fortified against them,” Nebukkar pointed out. “To do so would mean diverting much-needed troops away from the northern border and the more pressing Turya threat. Also, do not forget that Shivar possesses ships, and the ability to build more. If they cannot break through the pass, they may try to land men at Akkil. We cannot hold three fronts at the same time.” Thanaj sighed, and spread his hands in a show of futility. “This is not an easy question to resolve. I wish for all our sakes that it was.”

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All he said was the truth. Nebukkar and Shakhar could not call him bewitched for raising such issues, or charge him with making excuses on behalf of the accused. When they left, Hathil entered the apartment and joined his father on the terrace. “You have the proof you need.” Not for the first time Thanaj wished the Crown Prince did not have such easy access to his person. Had his advisors not pressed him to name an heir so soon, had Jhamal lived or been older, Hathil would never have been elevated. It is no use wishing. You cannot undo what has been done. “Do not be so quick to listen to what the priests tell you,” he answered sharply. “They have much to gain by this.” “I do not need priests to tell me what I can see with my own eyes.” Hathil gestured to the smoky haze that blanketed much of the city. “The people have already spoken. They say you are bewitched. How much effort do you think it would take to persuade the army you are under the power of others? Next time there may be no one to hold back the mob.” Hathil’s words alone implied treason. And you are just the one to side with the priests and seize control of the army. Yes, I see. Now would be an ideal time to have him quietly put to death. If only the thought of shedding a child’s blood were not so morally repugnant. For the sake of order and selfpreservation I may have no other choice. Until then Thanaj knew he must put a complacent face on the situation. “I cannot make judgments based on the whims of the mob. I know what the priests say, I have seen the evidence, but unfortunately the situation is more complicated than either you or they realize.” “Father, your personal feelings—” Thanaj rubbed his temples. Neither Anduri’s regimen of red meat and wine nor any amount of rest seemed to make any difference. “This has nothing to do with the fact that one of them was once my aktiri. I suspected him once before of wrongdoing. Had he been guilty then I would have executed him without delay.” “Or he has bewitched you all these many years.” “I am not so befuddled that I cannot think properly,” Thanaj said sharply. “Neither the priests nor the mob have to consider

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the potential outcome of executing the ahiri. Nor, it seems, have you.” “Shivar is a negligible military threat,” replied Hathil. “Its goddess is not.” Hathil snorted. “You do not seriously believe their superstitious nonsense?” “I have seen what their goddess, this Lady of the Waters, can do.” Thanaj noted his son’s distaste and continued, “This is not mere conjurer’s tricks, some illusion like Erred’s hair. I have no doubt the plague in Akkil was the result of Her anger—” “Belsha’at is displeased with us,” said Hathil, shaking his head. “Nebukkar has informed me that we have not been making the proper offerings.” Thanaj allowed himself a short laugh. “Son, you must learn to be more discriminating when it comes to the priests. To hear Nebukkar tell it, the priesthood of Belsha’at is the most impoverished institution in the realm. You have seen me go everyday to the temple with gifts of incense and gold. If Nebukkar and his cohorts had their way they would bleed the treasury dry and rule through a puppet High Prince. “I, too, considered the possibility that the plague was sent by our gods, yet if Belsha’at is so displeased with us, why have we not been stricken? Only your brother has died, while thousands of fisherman, merchants, and judges have fallen dead—all those who have dealt in the slaughter of hrill or the subverting of our laws.” He might have continued and described the vision the Lady had sent him. Common sense, however, told him Hathil would never believe him unless he received a clear sign. Even then, perhaps, he would retain a closed mind. “One ahiru may have committed witchcraft, the other may be innocent. Would you condemn both for what only one might have done?” “You heard them speak,” answered Hathil. “Both are sorcerers.” Thanaj sighed and gazed out over the city. Usually he found the view restful. Now the drab haze blanketing the quarter beneath the palace hill merely served to remind him how tenuous his position truly was. Erred and Tharril would have done better not to come, for both their sakes and his.

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Few options remained now, and most were not to his liking. I must keep my own counsel, he thought. Not even his most trusted advisers could be relied upon in this situation. Whatever choice I make, I must do it quickly, before Hathil and the priests anticipate me. “At least the plague has begun to subside.” Hathil grunted assent. “The sorcerers have no power here, only illusions and hollow words.” “Indeed,” Thanaj said softly. Birds circled the heights. Desert hawks and pigeons populated the skies above Tajhaan, and as one traveled away from the river and the city vultures sometimes appeared. Exotic birds imported from Thales and Juva occasionally escaped their cages to roost among the eaves and fruit trees of the upper city. Other than his hunting falcons, Thanaj did not keep birds. His wives adored their jewel-like plumage and vocalizations; he found them as irritating as the tame monkeys that frequented the harem. Often when he came to the terrace he had to endure a cacophony of squawking birdsong. Complaints were issued to the local nobility, ordering them to secure their pets, sell them outside the city, or better still sacrifice them as offerings to the temple. Once all conversation ceased and his thoughts grew still, Thanaj realized how utterly silent the scene was. Beyond the persistent birdsong he should have heard the muffled sounds of his servants going about their tasks, and the omnipresent guards patrolling the grounds near the terrace. Nothing. His own faint breathing and Hathil setting his wine goblet on the lip of the terrace were all he heard. A mewling cry echoed against the stones, drawing his gaze upward. Above the palace a large bird circled. A solitary hawk might find its way to populated regions, soar high above the hills for a quarter of an hour before moving on, but no, Thanaj had only to notice the bird’s light coloring to know it had not come from the desert. In its strange, mournful call Thanaj recognized a seagull, a creature that rarely ventured so far inland. Once again it circled the palace grounds before disappearing from view, but for a long space afterward its voice filled the

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unnatural stillness. Hathil made no comment, and did not even appear to notice. Suddenly the day seemed very dim and cold. **** Instinct told him the summons would come. One morning nine years ago, on a lovely autumn day such as this, Erred had listened to the High Prince’s akeshi and eunuchs gossip about the death of a local merchant; in his indifference he only half-heard what they said. That night guards had come for him, and in the royal apartments, Thanaj demanded to know if he had played any part in the death of Satu ked Menteith. Riots followed, as Satu’s four sons turned on each other in their ambitions to seize their father’s fortune, and smoke hung pall-like over the city for days. When Erred smelled the smoke and heard Usha’s hesitant account a tremor of anticipation passed through him. He withdrew upstairs to see what he could, but the apartment’s windows faced the wrong direction. It did not matter. The sharp, acrid smoke still hanging in the air told him it had been a sizeable disturbance, and Shanju confirmed as much in the message he sent from the embassy. It was no longer safe to remain in Tajhaan. Erred shut the screen and pulled the drapery back in place. There were rumors in Akkil even before we left. The white demon. And despite what he and Tharril had told Usha, there was some truth in the charge of sorcery. If that is what they call the Lady’s will, then I am guilty. The anticipation followed him as daylight faded and the summons came. With the guards waiting outside, Erred paused only long enough to wash and comb his hair before leaving with them. In the foyer he met Tharril. “Do you want me to go with you?” “The summons was for me alone.” Not caring who saw, Erred kissed him. “I will return, but if I do not you must not wait for me.” If I do not return. His heartbeat thundered in his breast, his fears echoed in the palace’s cavernous halls and the grim silence

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of the guards escorting him to the royal apartments. Thanaj might still order his death, or be forced to do so. The doors to the High Prince’s private salon opened. Within the chamber all was dim and silent save for a single lamp burning in the corner. Incense perfumed the air. As Erred stepped beyond the threshold the doors closed at his back, shutting him in. He heard Thanaj’s voice from the shadows. “So you have come.” On all other occasions strict court etiquette had told Erred what to do. When he came as a slave he had knelt as custom demanded at the edge of the carpet. Now he merely stood, eyes respectfully downcast, to await his host’s pleasure. “Come forward, Erred, and sit here beside me.” Thanaj lay on his wide divan, propped up against silken cushions, his legs covered by a leopard skin. Even the wavering lamplight could not disguise his gray pallor. Erred took the covered stool beside the divan. “Are you not well?” “For the sake of politeness I should tell you I am perfectly well, but as you can see it is not so.” “Men of the desert do not lie,” said Erred. “Indeed, we do not lie.” Thanaj offered a wan smile. “You realize there are serious matters I must discuss with you?” Just like before. Smoke and news of riots had brought an audience with the High Prince, then it had brought anger and accusations. “Is it wise to receive me alone?” “I am still master in this house,” Thanaj said firmly. “I will do as I wish.” “Then you do not believe I am a sorcerer who will bewitch you?” Thanaj waited a space before answering. “You bewitch me in ways that have nothing to do with the plague. The priests still fear your power over me.” “That time passed long ago,” Erred said softly. To this there was no answer. “I believe you did something in Akkil, but I do not think what occurred was through your own agency. You acted as the vessel for your goddess. However, you did it willingly, which leaves me in a quandary as to what to do with you.”

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All this Erred had heard before. “Tharril is innocent, you know that.” Thanaj nodded. “Tharril will not be harmed. I give you my word.” “That is all I ask,” said Erred. Now the order should have been given, the guards should have come in to take him away, yet nothing happened. Thanaj reached for a goblet standing on an inlaid side table and drank. “Red wine,” he said, “to strengthen my blood. Did you smell the smoke yesterday?” The question was not unexpected. “Usha told us there was a small disturbance.” “He did not lie, yet he did not tell you the truth either.” Thanaj fell silent, measuring his words, perhaps gathering his strength before continuing, “There have been stirrings of discontent in the city, rumors of foreign sorcery. It has always been so, ever since you became my aktiri, ever since I began receiving your priests, but there is more. Plague does things to men who would ordinarily remain quiet. It rouses their fear and hate. I did not wish to trouble you with these matters. Now I can no longer avoid it. “Men stormed the palace gates yesterday, demanding that I hand you and Tharril over to the mob. Today they attacked your embassy. Many people believe you are guilty of witchcraft. The moment I heard I sent soldiers to disperse the mob and restore order.” Thanaj sighed heavily. “Once my word would have sufficed to keep the peace, but things now are not what they were. Rumors that began at court have spilled onto the streets. I will not say outright that my son is guilty, but I know he is not blameless, either. “If you are afraid, I do not blame you. I have doubled the guard around your quarters. Let others think I mean to keep careful watch on suspected sorcerers if it pleases them. You will not be harmed.” Erred sat with his head bowed, not knowing what to say. “Of course not.” Desert-born or not, Thanaj must be lying to him, trying to soften the inevitable blow. He knew he would not leave these chambers save as a prisoner or a corpse.

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As though he heard these thoughts Thanaj made a soft shushing noise under his breath. “Erred, if I did not kill you then I will not do it now. And I did not bring you here to frighten you with tales of sorcery and riots. “Of myself I forgive you, because I know you meant no evil, and had no choice. But what the Lady wrought in Akkil was evil, however much you may think it may have been deserved. You know this, and you know there must be a punishment.” “I have been punished.” When Thanaj touched the scar on his face, Erred shook his head. “I am not so vain. The Lady’s mercy allowed the man to live, not the talevé, and not as he was.” Thanaj nodded, withdrew his hand. “You know I must be seen to render justice. If I do not men will assume I am under your power. Others will seize control, and I will no longer be able to protect you. Therefore you and Tharril are to leave this land. Akkil is once again open. You will return to Shivar by sea, and your priests and ambassadors will go with you. This is my judgment. You are never to return to Tajhaan.” A moment passed before Erred realized what he had heard. It was more than he had ever dared expect. “Is it wise to banish the ambassadors?” “If I wish to maintain order I must close your embassy and send your people home,” replied Thanaj. “For your own safety you must go in secret. I am deeply sorry it had to end this way. Know that under different circumstances I would have had you and Tharril stay indefinitely as my honored guests. I would have entertained you in a manner befitting your status, but we both know that cannot be. All I can do now is to make certain you arrive home safely.” Erred grasped his hand and held it to his cheek. So cold, it felt so cold to the touch. Whether etiquette permitted it or not no longer mattered. “And what happens after that?” “I do not know.” It was so final, those words. Even their last parting had promised the tenuous contact of letters and small gifts. This time would be different. Beyond this there could be nothing. Only eight years have passed. “Tell me truly,” said Erred. “Forgive

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me, I know it is treason to ask this of a High Prince, but you are not well and I must know the truth before I go. Will you not tell me this much, Thanaj?” He had not thought to use the High Prince’s name, to claim such intimacy with him, but in the desperation of the moment he could do nothing else. “I am weak, and very tired,” admitted Thanaj. “The physicians do not know what ails me. I have seen signs—but I will not die tomorrow, if this is what you fear, and no one will seize power from me while I live. Hathil will have to wait a little longer to take my throne.” After a moment, he continued, “I do not know what will happen after that. Hathil bears you and your people no love. I would rest better knowing you and your ambassadors and priests were safely on your way back to Sirilon.” Smothering a groan, Erred bent over Thanaj’s hand, pressing his lips to the clammy flesh. You are too young to die. “I wish—” “We all have wishes,” said Thanaj. “Yours is the same as mine, but you must go. That is my judgment. We will not see each other again.” **** Midnight came and went before Erred returned. Tharril sat in the atrium with Usha, a half-touched cup of wine on the table beside him as he watched the brass lamps give off their flickering light. Silence pervaded the apartment, even after the servants withdrew for the night. Usha tried to talk to him, chattering on about inconsequential matters until Tharril barked at him to be silent. Almost at once he rued his sharp tone and apologized. “I am not in the mood for conversation.” At length Usha rose, went to the door, and came back. “Here he comes.” Erred entered, shoulders slumped under his muffling cloak, eyes red-rimmed. Tharril threw off the sheepskin coverlet Usha had brought him to ward off the desert chill, leaving it on the chair as he went to Erred’s side. Usha followed with gentle admonishments to go upstairs and rest. “I will,” said Erred, “but first I must speak to Tharril alone. It is late, go home. I will be fine.”

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Tharril waited until Usha collected his cloak and slipped out the door before commenting. “What’s wrong, Erred? You look terrible.” “It has been a trying evening.” The words, the very tone, urged Tharril to press for details that a wilting Erred did not want to yield. He held his curiosity in check long enough to give Erred his vacated seat and cover his lap with the sheepskin still warm with his body heat. “Now tell me what happened.” “We must leave Tajhaan,” said Erred. Tharril stared at him. “Shanju is already seeing to it.” “Yes, but this command comes from the High Prince. We are to be banished. Tell Shanju he can cancel whatever arrangements he has already made. Akkil is open again. The High Prince is sending us home by sea.” Whether they were banished or allowed to leave freely, it made no difference to Tharril as long as they could actually leave Tajhaan. But that did not explain Erred’s exhaustion or his extended absence. There had to be more. “What else did he say to you?” “He knows the truth, Tharril, and to him it is witchcraft. There is no other word for it in this land.” Erred tightly clutched the sheepskin to his breast. “He has no choice. He must either banish us or surrender us to the priests for trial and execution. This judgment is the only way he can save us.” So they would be able to leave after all. “You don’t sound pleased.” “There is more,” said Erred. “I did not want to tell you this anymore than he wanted to tell me, but he is dying.” Silence, absolute and heavy as an anvil, descended on the room. The next thing Tharril heard was his own pulse hammering in his ears like a brass cymbal. Why he even cared he could not say. “Are you sure?” Erred gave a slight nod. “The physicians do not know what is wrong with him, but he is tired and weak, more than I have ever seen him. He has had his share of grief and shock, and I am not certain that he is not being slowly poisoned by enemies at court. While he still can he means to send us out of Tajhaan—

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the priests, the ambassadors, everyone. Once he is gone there will be no one else who can protect us.” Now that Erred mentioned it, Tharril recalled the subtle signs of exhaustion and illness he had noticed in his few meetings with the High Prince. He sat quietly, absorbing this information. It felt disquieting. Grief could kill a man, yes. As a child he had seen his own grandfather pine away after his grandmother’s death. The High Prince had lost a beloved child, watched him and untold thousands die of a plague he could not stop, but this felt wrong, all wrong. Fragments of memory found him, foremost among them pieces of remembered darkness, hateful words dripping into a basin of water along with droplets of his own blood. A moment of madness Tharril never expected to bear fruit. And now it has, it has. With an astonished cry he started from his seat. “Tharril, what is it?” Whether the High Prince lived or died, it meant nothing to him. Now that Tharril had met the man, Thanaj ked Muhal Dharu inspired neither love nor hate in him. Erred’s news should not have mattered, should not have startled him so, but the possibility that he could kill so easily, with just a few words and a drop of blood, repelled him. Death should not be that simple. “I don’t believe it,” he whispered harshly. “What is wrong, Tharril?” The explanation froze in his throat. Murderer. Tharril clapped his hand over his mouth, stumbled out of the atrium to the colonnade, and vomited over the side onto the grass. Sorcerer. Still clutching the marble balustrade, leaning his cheek against the cool surface, he sank to his knees. Behind him he heard footfalls and a moment later felt Erred’s presence looming behind him, questioning. Tharril did not want to speak, did not want to reveal the truth. What will he think of me then, when he knows I murdered the man? But it was too late to conceal what he had done. “I killed him,” he rasped. “What are you saying?” With the back of his hand he wiped his mouth. “I killed him, Erred.” “Do not be absurd. That is not possible.”

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Bile soured his mouth, burning the back of his throat: a bitter taste for bitter words. “Yes, it is. I cursed him. Back in Akkil, the day you almost died. I didn’t even know what I was doing. I cursed him, and now—” Fingers gripped his shoulder hard enough for pain. “What are you telling me, Tharril?” Erred’s tone steadily grew more frantic. “Are you saying you performed witchcraft against him?” Tharril wrenched free. He avoided looking at Erred, did not want to see the expression accompanying that pained voice. Gods, I really am guilty of doing what the mob believes we’ve done. “You don’t know how angry I was. I cursed the men who hurt you, and I’m not sorry for that. Then I cursed him, too, because once I started I couldn’t stop, because I blamed him for not protecting the hrill. But then I forgot all about it. I forgot everything I did and said that night. I didn’t know anything would come of it. I thought they were just meaningless words.” So profound was the ensuing silence that Tharril felt compelled to turn around, to ask Erred for a response. He climbed to his feet. “When I was taken from my village I cursed the men who took me and used me. I cursed them in my heart. I did the same with Satu, and all the others who hurt me. No one answered my prayers then. Why should I have thought this time would be any different?” “Because you are a shumadi!” spat Erred. “No one told me I had any real power.” Erred did not appear to hear him. “How did you curse him? Tell me how you did it, Tharril.” “I went before your little shrine and I cut my hand with a knife. With my blood I cursed his life, his body, his breath.” Tharril shut his eyes as though by doing so he could shut out the memory of his foolishness. “I didn’t think the Lady would hear me. I didn’t think it would be so easy to kill someone. After the way She let you go out there and nearly be killed, I truly thought She’d forsaken us.” To his amazement a blow cracked across his face, snapping his head back and making his eyes sting with pain. “You know nothing! How could you do such a thing?” cried Erred. “You did not even know him.”

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“I thought I did!” Tharril pressed his hand to his cheek. Erred had never hit him before. “He was this person who kept you as a slave, who wouldn’t leave us alone once you were free, who couldn’t protect you, or our people from slavery, or even the hrill, no matter what laws he says he made. I saw a monster like Satu. My only thought at the time was you.” “No, your only thought was your own anger, the same as it has always been,” snapped Erred. “You have absolutely no idea what you have done. Our embassy was attacked this afternoon by a mob who believes the plague was caused by Shivarian witchcraft. Yesterday that same mob swarmed the palace demanding the High Prince hand us over to them to be killed. And through it all he has defended us, and sworn we are not sorcerers. Only now you have made a liar of him, and if he dies before we reach safety we are finished. Do you understand? If he dies so do we.” Tharril looked down at his hands, shaking, bunched into fists. His cheek throbbed as though Erred had punched him. “I don’t know what I’ve done.” “You know perfectly well what you’ve done, but don’t bother asking me for forgiveness. Only he can forgive you.” That was not what he wanted to hear. Their safety was such a fragile thing he might shatter it with his confession. Tharril sucked in a deep, shuddering breath to try to still his nausea. If he could wish himself anywhere it would be someplace a thousand years and miles away from Tajhaan, away from Erred’s icy condemnation and the thing he must do. It could all go wrong. With my luck, it will. “Then I have to go to him.” “You cannot. He will have you put to death.” “I understand.” “No, you do not,” said Erred. “He does not want to harm you. Go now and you will give him no choice. You might not return.” Erred’s beseeching look told him everything. The High Prince did not bear him the same love, and had no reason to spare his life. But I have to do this, or it will always come between us. “No,” he replied, “I might not.” **** Priests swarmed the royal apartments. Thanaj had not

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summoned them, did not want them near, but in the matter of his life and potential death he had no say; he was no longer a man but the High Prince, his every breath and bodily function on public display. Aben’s servants set up an altar in the foyer, and as they chanted began to burn a fortune in incense in an attempt to summon the god’s presence. As expected, with Shakhar arriving alongside the royal physician, Nebukkar saw the vultures circling. With Hathil in tow, the high priest of Belsha’at came on the pretext of wishing the High Prince well. Thanaj knew better. They wanted to hear Anduri’s diagnosis, though for most it seemed to be a foregone conclusion. After his sudden collapse, they had not come to pray for his recovery but to be on hand to swear allegiance to Hathil the moment the Crown Prince assumed power. After more than an hour Thanaj managed to banish the priests to the outer chamber only by agreeing to allow a single priest of Aben to remain at his side. He chose the most senile man present, then smiled at the aghast attendants who protested that a drooling lackwit was no fit nurse for the High Prince. “When I am too weak to argue with you,” he said, waving them from his bedchamber, “you will know I am about to die. Until then you will do as I command.” Custom obliged him to endure the suffocating incense, and the muffled yet incessant chanting by two sets of priests outside his door. The elderly priest claimed a cushioned stool by the lamp, which Thanaj ordered moved lest the old man accidentally ignite himself as he nodded off. With a single disapproving look at the priest, the eunuch placed the lamp on the other side of the bed and withdrew. Hathil claimed his rights of entry, visiting in the middle of the night. Scowling at the priest, who snored and snuffled at his post, the Crown Prince lifted his hand to box the man’s ear. Thanaj diverted him with a stern gesture. “I chose him for that purpose,” he said. “I do not need a nurse.” “You are not well, Father.” How well he feigned concern! Thanaj made a displeased sound in his throat. “I might rest better if those busybodies

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outside my chamber stopped trying to smother me with incense and returned to their temple. I am certain they have enough patients to occupy their time.” “None are as important,” replied Hathil. Thanaj snorted. “Is the god so hard of hearing he needs thirty priests chanting his name before he notices them?” Then, knowing his protests would avail him nothing, he shook his head and dismissed his own question. “I assume you are acting as regent.” Hathil had grace enough to look abashed. “I realize I do not have your leave—” “Do not be absurd,” said Thanaj. “You are the Crown Prince, it is your duty to govern in my absence. But let us be clear about these matters. Someday you will rule as High Prince in your own right—someday, Hathil, but not today. Until then I will not tolerate any further insolence from you. Should I hear that you are countermanding my edicts, or worse, that you have raised a hand against your brothers to try to secure your throne, I will have you strangled alongside them. Is that understood, boy?” “Yes, Father.” At least Hathil looked contrite. Perhaps he even believed his father’s threat. And I would do it, even if it means I have no sons left to follow me. I will not have the boy thinking he can turn on me next. “Listen to your advisors. They have wisdom and experience you still lack. You will remember and honor your mother. She is not to follow me on the pyre, but is to have an esteemed place in your house of women. You will honor Herit likewise and remember your sisters.” “Father, you are not going to die.” You only say so because it is treason to say otherwise. “Tell that to the vultures gathering outside. They are all cunning liars and flatterers. I could have the plague and they would not tell me.” But he had seen the sign, and felt the weakness in his own body. He knew. “Humor me and listen, even if the gods grant that you are middle-aged by the time you succeed. As to your brothers, I do not wish to see you follow custom after I am gone. Shemir is harmless, and the others far too young to be a threat.”

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Hathil demurred over his reply, as Thanaj knew he would. “I have already given my word I would not harm them while you live. But children grow up, Father, and the weak become pawns in the hands of powerful rivals. You know that as well as I.” “When you marry and father sons of your own you will rue that decision,” said Thanaj. Hathil said nothing, merely bowed and respectfully bade him good-night. Thanaj watched the door once he was gone, and wondered how and when his son had grown so cold. It cannot be for lack of love. He has never wanted for affection from me. So it is. Gods know he is not the High Prince I wanted to give Tajhaan. A prince should not prize ruthlessness and coldness above all other qualities. He must also learn how to be generous, how to love. Will he ever learn, even when he is secure upon the throne? In the flickering glow of the lamp, under the weight of blankets his servants had piled on him to try to keep him warm, Thanaj dozed, and stirred at dawn to find the elderly priest gone. A eunuch entered with a tray of chickpea mash and diced chicken, which did not appeal to Thanaj’s appetite at all. Anduri entered, and examined him as he ate. “You do well to rest, sire.” The physician took his pulse, nodded at the result. “Hot mulled wine will help warm your blood, but it will take several weeks for your strength to return. If circumstances permit you might retire to the lake palace where you will be safely removed from the cares and strains of the court. I know you do not find much comfort here.” Here was a suggestion which might do for an ordinary man, but not a High Prince who intended to retain his power until the last possible moment. Go into seclusion, permit Hathil too much control, and the boy might be persuaded to seize the throne by either his own ambition or dissidents who did not like his father’s policies. “I will stay,” he said. “As you wish, sire.” Thanaj flicked his gaze to the tray. “Tell the cooks I expect more appetizing fare. I am not some toothless old invalid to tolerate this mess.” Anduri bowed. “I will convey your wishes to the kitchen.”

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After the physician withdrew, Thanaj nibbled at a bit of chicken and sipped at the hot wine. Warmth spread through his belly, yet it was not enough. At this hour he should have been attending to his correspondence or going to worship before receiving petitioners at court. Now Hathil would do those things. Advisors, men who understood Thanaj’s mind and policies, would assist him, but there was no guarantee the Crown Prince would listen. “Sire,” said the eunuch from the doorway, “forgive the intrusion, but one of your guests, one of the ahiri, desires an audience. Of course, I told him it was out of the question, but he insists.” Thanaj set the cooling wine aside. “What is this?” Erred knew better than to return when he knew perfectly well that last night had been their final meeting. “Go back and tell Erred that I cannot see him.” To his chagrin, the eunuch bowed and pressed his hand to his forehead. “Forgive me, sire, but it is the other one, Tharril ked Dirren. He craves an audience with you and says he will not leave unless you receive him. Shall I call the guard, my lord?” But Tharril had no desire to see him, on all three occasions answering Thanaj’s summons perforce. What could possibly have changed within the last two days to foster such an inexplicable desire? “Has he stated his business?” “I asked, my lord, but he would not tell me. He said only that it was urgent. The guards have already searched him for weapons if you wish to see him, though the priests thoroughly advise against it. One does not know what evil these foreign creatures are—” “Admit him.” Blinking, the eunuch shook his head. “Excuse me, my lord?” “You heard my command. Admit him to the salon. I will receive him there.” With the old priest’s help, Thanaj rose from the bed, washed, and donned a brocade dressing gown. How he despised the sudden infirmity that would not permit him to walk from one room to the next without a supporting arm! Only days before he had gone down to the lake under his own power. Now here he

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was little better than an invalid child. The short walk exhausted him. Catching his breath, he took his place on the divan and allowed the priest to prop cushions behind his back and drape the leopard skin over his lap before dismissing him. As the priest and eunuchs withdrew, the doors opened. Tharril entered, a column of faded blue that paused at the edge of the carpet with eyes lowered. Perfect etiquette, the sight alone made Thanaj tense and lean forward. “What is the matter, Tharril?” “I had to see you.” “Yes, I am told you have been most insistent. Here, take the stool beside me and tell me what is so urgent that you had to insist on this audience.” For reasons Thanaj could not fathom, Tharril looked genuinely distressed as he came forward to claim the footstool. “Erred says you are dying.” It was not like Erred to break a confidence. “Erred draws conclusions he should not draw. But why should this news trouble you so much? As I recall, you have no great love of me.” Tharril twisted his fingers together in his lap, a gesture that more properly belonged to a milquetoast like Shemir than the hot-tempered shumadi of Sirilon. “This is my doing. I had to come.” Thanaj could only wonder what would prompt Tharril to make such a statement. It sounded like the utmost foolishness, a waste of time. “What makes you believe you are responsible for my illness?” What he received was an explanation that bordered on the outrageous, too much to believe and too much to be tolerated. “A curse?” he gasped. “Why would you do such evil to me?” But he was not so naïve that he did not know. Eight years of benevolent surveillance in the Blue House of Sirilon and correspondence with both Erred and Tharril provided answer enough. A curious mixture of jealousy and tenderness fueled the young man’s passion for Erred. He had no contact with the family from whom he had been taken, wherever they dwelt, and did not speak of the time before he came to Sirilon. Thanaj had not had to make many inquiries to learn why. Tharril’s silence was a thin veil masking a deep, burning resentment directed at

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those whose past cruelties he could not repay. I am all the enemy he has left. “I never wished ill upon you.” Wasted words, wasted breath. Thanaj knew he need only summon the guards and they would take Tharril’s head as the law demanded. This time it would be proper, it would be deserved. He is a guest, and a servant of the Lady of the Waters, and he belongs to Erred. For that last reason alone Thanaj hesitated. Erred has suffered this loss before. This time I will not be there to comfort him. “Is your hate for me so strong that you would twist it so?” “You could not protect Erred,” replied Tharril. “For that I hated you.” You despised me long before that. “I did not even know he had come here, or what he intended to do, or I would have protected him. Whatever else you may think of me, you know that. But I knew no more than you did, and my power is not absolute. You saw that with the hrill. I passed laws, I tried to enforce them, but in the end I am only one man.” Tharril made a strangled sound in his throat, the croak of bitter laughter. “You didn’t see how they beat Erred and left him lying, in a midden heap like yesterday’s trash.” His voice quavered on the edge of madness. “Only in this filthy, godless land would men take something sacred and wondrous and ruin it. So yes, I wanted to hurt them, to tear them apart. I didn’t have enough men to go after them and guard Erred, so I attacked them in the only way I knew how.” This filthy, godless land. Only a slave or religious zealot would call Tajhaan so, and only on account of his ignorance. “What have I to do with the men who attacked Erred?” asked Thanaj. This time Tharril did not answer. “Even you in your jealousy should know I never would have laid a hand on Erred. Never in all the time that he was my aktiri did I force him to my bed, or compel him to do anything that would have harmed his body or hurt his spirit. You know this because he has told you. What right had you to call me wicked and curse my name?” Custom compelled him to demand an answer. If he has

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done this in my household then I must put him to death, for witchcraft and treason and violating the laws of hospitality. And then I will have to endure Erred’s grief. I will have to endure the scrutiny of every naysayer in the kingdom who ever called the ahiri sorcerers, the gall of having them tell me they told me so. And after Tharril, how can I stop them from executing Erred in turn? “Once I cut my hand and started, I couldn’t stop myself,” Tharril said miserably. “I was so filled with rage, I didn’t know.” Anger gave Thanaj the strength to lean forward and grasp Tharril’s shoulder. Would you murder me on a whim, as the Lady murdered my son? “You did not know what?” “I’d never met you, I didn’t know.” Tharril dragged the back of his hand over his eyes, but the tears kept flowing. His nose ran freely until he wiped it on his sleeve. Thanaj slowly relaxed his grip, even as he seized upon Tharril’s words. “Then you did not call down this curse here under my roof? You did it in your embassy in Akkil, before we met?” Tharril nodded. “I did it, then I forgot all about it. The Lady punished the others, the ones who really deserved to die, because was what She intended to do all along. She didn’t need my curse for that, I see that now, but I didn’t know that at the time. I was angry and needed to do something, anything to repay what had been done to Erred. I never thought my words had any power. I never thought She cared enough to listen to me.” Rising from the stool, he stood in the middle of the floor and sucked in great breaths, his nostrils flaring. “I never thought at all.” Thanaj tensed to see him straining thus, for he knew what spirit Tharril carried, and how easily summoned. A bull in the royal presence chamber would bring the guards running, cries of sorcery from the priests and eunuchs who had seen Tharril enter, and bloodshed Thanaj would not be able to prevent. So he held his breath and prayed. A moment later, Tharril sagged to his knees and, with a great cry of anguish, doubled over into a fetal position, sobbing into the carpet so hard it drew attention from outside.

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Thanaj curtly dismissed the attendants and priests who stood staring at Tharril from the open doorway. “Leave,” he said, “and do not come again unless I call you. There is no danger here.” For several minutes he left Tharril alone, using that time to ponder the information and his next move. Tharril had not broken any laws of hospitality, and so could not be punished for that. But plotting or even making predictions against the death of a High Prince was treason for which any subject, even the ruler’s own son, could be executed. Only Tharril’s status as a foreign ambassador protected him. The curse, uttered even without intent, was a barb that stung deeply. Thanaj had tried to be patient, to treat his supposed rival with fairness. And this is how he repays my gifts and kindness, praying for my death. Gritting his teeth, he took a deep breath. The time for reprisals was over. “Why do you weep?” he asked softly. His face red and swollen from crying, sticky with half-dried tears, Tharril glanced up. “Because when you execute me you will kill Erred, too.” “No, I will not. I have already absolved him. This changes nothing.” “Just don’t let him see the body after—” Thanaj made no reply. “I have never opposed you. Do you understand that now?” Again, Tharril nodded. “You have no idea how hard it was to come here. But I had to, because I wanted….” You wanted my forgiveness. Thanaj could have finished the sentence for him. But Tharril must ask for his own absolution. He held his tongue and waited. “All I can do is ask your forgiveness before you execute me,” said Tharril. “I don’t expect you to give it, but—” “Hush, child.” Thanaj did not know what possessed him to lean forward and open his arms, but when Tharril fell into his embrace it felt natural. His fingers stroked disheveled white hair, smoothing it back as he might do with his youngest children. He had been too late to save Jhamal, and it was far too late to soften Hathil. Here at least was something he could do. “It is

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all right, Tharril. I know why you did it, and I know what courage it took you to come here. Now you must purge yourself of this poison. Let it go.” He let Tharril sob in his arms until the young man began to hiccup. “That is enough.” Tharril drew back, abashed. “Will you do it here, or have me taken outside?” Thanaj noted the tremor in his voice. “I do not intend to have you executed,” he said quietly. “But I thought—” “I cannot do that to Erred.” “Erred knows I am here, and why.” Are you so ready to die? Thanaj slowly shook his head. Perhaps you are, but I am not so ready to deal out death and judgment as I once might have been. “This thing you blame yourself for, it may not be as you think. Shock and grief will undo any man, and I have more cares than most. I have enemies other than you, and no doubt they have tried to poison me. Your curse may be empty words after all. “Now dry your eyes and wash your face. You will find some clean water and linens on the sideboard there. I cannot send you back to Erred like this.” Still hiccupping, Tharril rose from the couch, wobbled to the sideboard, and obediently cleaned his face. “He is angry with me for what I did.” “I can see why, but he should not be,” said Thanaj. “What you did was wrong, yes, but you would not have done it if you did not love him so strongly. If you are well enough now you should return to him and tell him what passed between us.” Once more alone, the salon quiet but for muffled drone of priestly chanting on the other side of the door, Thanaj leaned back against the pillows, pinched the bridge of his nose against an oncoming headache, and closed his eyes. That he had been cursed did not surprise him, only the source. That it would be his death, he did not know. Other possible causes for his malady came to mind, some unrelated illness or strain his physicians simply did not have the skill to treat, or that perennial favorite of the Tajhaani court: slow-acting poison. Thanaj smiled bitterly at the thought that he had enemies

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enough without adding Tharril’s name to the list. With such uncertainty he lacked the heart to send Tharril away tormented by his own lingering doubts. Men of the desert did not lie, to be sure. High Princes were another matter altogether. **** Erred did not go outside. It was no longer safe to leave the apartment, and even the enclosed garden felt threatening. Had he not been so numb he might have registered the loss more keenly. Warmth and fresh air meant nothing to him now. Shock left him cold, unable to absorb the inevitable loss of his former lover. The signs had been there, yet he could not untangle himself from his disbelief long enough to accept that a man still so young and vigorous could succumb so soon. Tharril’s admission only lent strength to his anguish. Erred had burned with anger through the night, and had been glad Tharril had gone. Now he sat in frozen silence, trying to comprehend how one lover could turn on the other with such deadly precision. It did not surprise him, not truly. Shock came at the method to which Tharril had resorted, and the realization that the Lady had apparently answered a shumadi’s mad prayer. You once prayed for such vengeance, he thought, and She heard you. But Satu, who had tormented and defiled a talevé, had deserved the horrible death inflicted upon him. Thanaj had done no wrong. He had acknowledged the Lady’s divinity and did all within his power to protect Her sacred creatures. He had welcomed Her priests and worshipped Her. After all this Erred found it inconceivable that the Lady could not distinguish between the wicked and righteous when passing judgment. Tharril returned at dawn. Erred did not look at him, did not hear what he said, other than that he was not to be executed. Another time, once they had left Tajhaan and he was ready to listen, he would, but not now. Vaguely he knew that Tharril remained in the room, sometimes heard him pacing or muttering softly. It struck him that Tharril did not force a confrontation, so much so that he almost commented on it. What am I to tell him? That he did not act impulsively, that he is not a murderer in spirit, if not in fact?

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How can I lie to him when part of me believes his curse has power? Erred did not trust himself to remain calm and not accuse, and so did nothing. Tharril gave an unexpected cry. Before Erred could chastise him for bawling, the tenor of Tharril’s utterance changed, deepening into a sound of actual physical pain. Erred took note, turned to see what was wrong, though part of him already knew what he would find before he ever saw Tharril sprawled on the carpet tearing at his clothing. He knew because once it had been him. Bereft of a lover, a future, left only with a ki’iri spirit fighting to emerge. Every talevé knew his animal could manifest in moments of powerful anger or grief. “Erred, help me!” Tharril’s voice was no longer quite human. Nor were the fingers that ripped at buttons and flung off garments. His face was already changing, horns sprouting from his head, his breath ragged with fear, snorting at the tremendous effort of transformation. The bull was coming, whether he would or no. “Oh, Lady, not now!” Erred rose from his chair in horror. “I can’t help it, I—” Those were the last human words he uttered before the ki’iri seized control and the bull emerged. Tharril vanished into a snuffling, pawing beast whose presence sent the servants fleeing in terror despite Erred’s attempts to calm them. Cries of witchcraft, the thing he feared most in this uncertain time, filled the corridors. At any moment he expected to find armed soldiers to burst through the door and run Tharril through, but once the servants were gone and their cries died down the apartment became eerily silent. A bellow rent the air. Tharril tossed his horns, snorting and lowing in distress. With any other bull Erred would have been well-advised to clear the room, yet even in his spirit flesh Tharril retained his human memories and needs. So he stayed where he was and let Tharril approach him, opening his arms to embrace the head that burrowed into his chest. “You foolish, impulsive man,” he murmured. “I still love you, but you never think before you act.” Tharril snuffled, exhaling against him. “It is all right,” Erred said soothingly. “I am not going to leave you. That does

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not mean I will not box your ears later, though.” As he spoke and caressed the head rubbing against his shoulder his senses remained alert, awaiting the return of the servants, or worse, the guards or priests they might summon. “Come, this is not the best place for you.” Just as a hrill needed the open ocean, a bull could not be confined indoors. Erred released Tharril’s head and, ignoring the damp spot the bull had left on his tunic, opened the screen leading into the garden. “Come,” he said, and beckoned. Scenting fresh air, Tharril lifted his head and started forward, then abruptly turned, pawed the carpet, and snorted threateningly, fixated on the figure standing frozen in the doorway. “Do not move, Usha,” said Erred. “He will not hurt you.” White-faced, Usha nodded. “Why is there a bull in here?” “This is Tharril. It is all right,” replied Erred. “Ahiri can change their shapes. Tharril wears the skin of a bull.” “I thought that was only a story.” Erred gave him a half-hearted smile. “It is not a story, and it is not witchcraft. This is a gift of the Lady of the Waters to Her servants, completely harmless. It will pass shortly.” Usha’s eyes, dark and huge with apprehension, never left Tharril, even as he edged his way over to a chair and sat down. Tharril sniffed the air, snorted once, then ambled out into the garden. Usha breathed an audible sigh of relief as he left the room. “Are you sure he does not want to kill me?” “Then he would have already gored you.” Erred thought it best not to add that Tharril would have done precisely that with Usha’s father; the young man probably understood that on his own. “When he returns to his human form he will be weak and unable to walk. I cannot move him without your help.” Usha nodded again, but his gaze remained fixed on the open screen. “Are you not afraid of him?” “Why would I be afraid? He is not going to hurt me.” Going to the sideboard, Erred found a decanter of strong liquor, which he poured into a cup and offered to Usha. “This will steady your nerves.” Usha sipped, recoiled at the taste. “I am not accustomed to this,” he said. “It will make me drunk.”

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“Ahiri do not drink either.” Erred took the cup from him and set it aside, then began to gather up Tharril’s discarded clothing. “This is the worst thing he could have done right now, but he could not help it. The ki’iri comes when it wishes.” “I confess it is very strange,” commented Usha. “Do your people not find it so?” “They never see the transformation. Ahiri are confined to the grounds of the Blue House, so priests are the only ones who witness the change. They give us instruction and assistance.” As he spoke Erred went to the screen to check on Tharril. Pale limbs, naked flesh against green, twitching, lying on the grass told him the bull had withdrawn. Most transformations never lasted above a half-hour. So quickly gone, yet the damage had been done. Turning, he beckoned to Usha. “It has passed now. Bring that blanket on the chair and come help me.” Together they got a naked, half-conscious Tharril indoors and into bed. When Tharril began to shiver under the blanket, Erred removed his shoes and climbed onto the bed, curling around him to lend his body warmth. Soon his chills subsided, but Erred did not leave his side. Usha hovered anxiously by the bedside, torn between fear and a desire to help, until Erred assured him that nothing more was required of him. “He is not sick. He needs only to sleep and regain his strength.” Drowsiness found him the moment his head touched the pillow, and reminded him that he had not slept at all since yesterday. He dozed alongside Tharril, while Usha watched and tended to small tasks nearby. The smell of food roused him in the early afternoon. On the sideboard he saw that Usha had arranged a tray, and brought fresh water and linens to wash. “The servants still have not returned,” said the young priest. “Somehow I do not think they will.” Erred rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stretched stiff joints. “I am surprised you are still here.” “It is difficult to arrange,” admitted Usha. “But I will not leave until you go, or until I can no longer come. My grandfather is preoccupied with the High Prince’s illness, but

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sooner or later he will wonder where I am. We have a little time left.” “Thank you, Usha. As soon as we are able I think we should return to our embassy.” A sound beside him drew his attention to Tharril, who had just begun to stir. “Are you hungry?” Tharril regarded the bread and chickpea mash with disinterest, then turned his gaze to Usha. “You were here before,” he observed quietly. “He came while you were in bull form,” said Erred. “I remember.” Tharril paused, then added, “I had no urge to kill you.” Usha suddenly grew pale, yet managed a polite nod and response. “I am relieved to hear it. I had no wish to die.” “I mean that you don’t smell as I thought you would. Animals can sense things humans can’t: fear or sickness or dishonesty.” Tharril closed his eyes, and sank back onto the pillow. “Erred always told me you weren’t like your father. I never really believed him until the bull came out.” This time Usha had no response. Erred gestured for the young man to leave them, then rose from the bed and went to the sideboard. Under the bandages his ribs ached from lying on his side, and his robe was rumpled. “You should eat something so you can regain your strength. I do not think it will be much longer before we have to leave.” Behind him he heard the mattress shift as Tharril sat up. “I’d rather have the lamb and millet Usha brought for you.” Despite his weakness, Tharril was able to hobble into the next room and sit at the table where they usually took their meals. Usha retrieved the tray and brought it out to them. “There are no servants,” Erred told Tharril. “They have all fled.” Tharril nodded grimly over his plate. “I chased them all away.” After lunch Tharril dozed on a couch in the sitting room, while Erred tried to distract himself by reading or talking quietly with Usha. No one came. Slowly the apartment began to assume an oppressive air, so that as daylight faded Erred’s apprehension grew. Once or twice he caught Usha watching him, and when Tharril awoke it was with a knowing look.

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“I didn’t mean for the ki’iri to come out like that,” he said. Erred shushed him. “You could not help it, you know that.” Once Thanaj heard the garbled account of Tharril’s transformation, he would understand. Under normal circumstances he would already know about the incident, but no word had come from the royal apartments, and Erred did not trust the acting regent to be tolerant. This will be the excuse Hathil needs to seize us and prove his point that we have bewitched the High Prince. The priests and judges will see only that Thanaj is sick, from causes they cannot diagnose. They will insist on destroying us, and they will act without the High Prince’s leave. At sunset Usha began lighting lamps in the apartment. No other priest of Aben had come that day. Shakhar had withdrawn them all. “Do they also think we are sorcerers?” asked Erred. “If you mean this morning’s incident, I do not know what they have—” His last words vanished in an abrupt thud against the latticework screen behind him. A fiery object struck hard, splintering wood and bouncing off in a shower of sparks that Usha quickly smothered with his robe. He opened the screen just enough to stamp out the brand, then ducked inside again as two more sailed over the wall to land on the colonnade. “They know you are here,” he said shakily. Shouts reached them, cries of sorcerer and white demon. Those who had earlier stormed the palace gates and then the embassy had found them at last. Erred shuddered at the memory of what an angry mob could do. “How did they get onto the palace grounds? Where are the guards?” “They must be royal servants,” answered Usha. More insults came over the garden wall, then shouts from the guards who came to break up the disturbance. Erred knew the mob would return, and in greater numbers. “Next time they might climb the wall,” he observed. Usha nodded. “I do not know that even your embassy is safe now.” “This is my fault,” said Tharril. Erred glared at him. “Stop apologizing. People were demonstrating days ago, and the embassy was attacked before

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you went to the High Prince, before anyone knew you would change. Hathil and his faction have wanted to evict our priests for a long time. Our presence coincides with the plague in Akkil. That and the High Prince’s illness have given them the pretext they need.” Shanju came within the hour. Urgency strained his voice as he issued orders to servants who did not come. “How long has it been since they deserted you?” “They fled this morning,” replied Erred. “They saw Tharril’s animal spirit and thought it was sorcery.” “Then that explains the shouts I have been hearing in the streets all afternoon. You should have sent word to me at once. I would have come and gotten you, or sent men for your protection if your host could not.” Shanju stood aside to admit two Shivarian guards. “You must gather your things and come at once. You cannot stay here.” “We know.” Erred motioned to the leather satchels that lay on the floor. Earlier Usha had helped him pack while Tharril, allowed only to dress himself, was made to watch from a nearby chair. “But there is no safety in the embassy.” The guards grabbed the satchels, while Shanju directed Erred and Tharril to come with him. “We are not going to the embassy. The High Prince has arranged for our passage to Akkil. There is a boat waiting for us. The ambassadors and most of the priests have already gone. After yesterday they did not wish to wait any longer.” Erred took the cloak Usha handed him. Desert nights were cold, and he would need the hood to conceal his telltale white hair. “Quickly now,” said Shanju. “The mob will return before morning. They should not find you here when they do. You also, priest of Aben.” He nodded to Usha. “Return to your temple and shut your door. If anyone asks where we have gone, you do not know.” Usha threw him a glance that said he had no need to be reminded. Turning, he threw his arms around Erred’s neck and hugged him tightly. “I will miss you.” “Thank you for all you have done,” said Erred. Then Usha turned to Tharril and embraced him also. “I am

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probably the last person you want touching you, but it will make my father’s ghost howl with anger.” Erred glimpsed a smile flit across Tharril’s face before he looked away. An hour later, after hastening down back corridors and through deserted streets without a lantern they were on a barge. The crew sunk long poles into the water to push the vessel away from the dock into the current that would take them south to Akkil. While Tharril, having exhausted his reserves of strength in the flight through the city, huddled under a blanket among the guards, Erred lingered near the stern to reflect on their departure. The last time he left Tajhaan he had ridden into the desert at dawn. Heaped with gifts and honor, accompanied by his brothers, he had gone openly, with each step wanting to turn back to a life and lover who had become familiar. Now he fled into the night to avoid being hunted as a sorcerer, with one lover at his side while leaving another behind on his deathbed. All that had seemed splendid under the sun of memory was now faded and veiled in gloom. So much has changed, he thought. I did not think it would happen like this, or so quickly. Erred peered into the darkness, at the stars crowning the shadowed hills, and the lamps twinkling like fireflies along the heights. It might have been any city in the desert, in any time.

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Part III Too Long a Sacrifice

Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart —William Butler Yeats: Easter, 1916, (57-58)

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Chapter Twelve Tharril wondered how a ship as large as the Tajhaani bireme he now occupied did not sink to the bottom of the ocean under its own ponderous bulk. Although a hundred and fifty oarsmen toiled below decks to propel the ship through the water, it amazed him that the vessel could move at all. Crimson sails, bright gilt paint, and luxurious quarters indicated the bireme was a royal transport, the same used by the ambassadors who sailed each year to Sirilon. Two hundred yards off the port side a second bireme carried those passengers and items that could not be accommodated aboard the first. Tharril observed from the deck, trying to determine how the oarsmen managed to work the double banks of oars without getting hopelessly entangled. Once the captain noticed his curiosity he swiftly stepped in with an explanation. “The rowing benches are not aligned. The men on the bottom are not directly below those on top.” He demonstrated with his hands. “The men are specially trained in synchronized techniques, and we rest them in shifts.” From there he went on to show Tharril the paddles at the bow which steered the vessel, and the two masts, one main and a smaller foremast. “Naturally we’re larger than an ordinary bireme or any of your sailing ships,” he commented, grinning broadly. “Yes, I see that.” All Tharril cared about was the mystery of the oars, but he graciously went where the captain led him. However dull it might be, the tour gave him something to do. “For our size and lack of armament we are no good in battle,” said the captain, “but our princes insist on traveling in luxury.” Luxury meant hot meals prepared in a galley below deck, two immaculate privies, and spacious quarters furnished with amenities one would find in any Tajhaani palace. There was

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even a hip bath, though strict water rationing meant it could only be used on alternate days. Had he a choice, Tharril would have traded any number of silk beds and marble commodes for the caravel in which he and Erred had arrived. Autumn meant potentially rough seas, and he did not trust this foreign vessel or its crew to safely navigate the coastline around Sirilon. Nevertheless he smiled and nodded when the captain assured him that they would make good speed as long as conditions remained favorable. “Your priests pray daily to their sea goddess,” the man said, gesturing to the trio of Sartel, Talian, and Bennar gathered by the stern. By their casual posture Tharril doubted they were praying, but seized on the opportunity to excuse himself and join them. “Erred is not with you,” observed Sartel. Tharril tried to remain nonchalant. “He prefers to remain in his cabin.” Sartel leaned forward and dropped his voice. “You know what I mean.” “Our visit to Tajhaan wasn’t a pleasant one,” replied Tharril, “and he isn’t looking forward to what the high priests will say about what happened in Akkil.” “I should think that nothing will happen with the priests,” said Sartel. “Erred did the Lady’s work. No one can dispute that, especially when we are witnesses.” Tharril shook his head. “I know, but talevé have to be physically perfect.” “The scar is barely noticeable.” In Akkil the Shivarian embassy remained much as it had been before the plague. A halfhearted attempt had been made at breaking down the gate and looting, and some of the servants had fled, but when Tharril walked through the entryway and called out he found the three priests in cheerful spirits. They gladly received the news of their departure and at once began making arrangements to leave. “It is good to be going home,” said Sartel, “though I admit the circumstances could have been better.” The two ambassadors, Keturil and Demasa, made no comment about the situation, even when Sartel reproached the former for neglecting to send word to Akkil. Tharril gratefully

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saw the ambassadors board the second ship, along with Amerel and the priests from Tajhaan, but at his insistence, and over the captain’s loud objections, the guards stayed. When Erred tried to side with the captain, he explained, “They were assigned to protect us, and that is what they are going to do.” “We are quite safe, Tharril,” said Erred. “The High Prince gave his word.” Tharril gently took Erred by the arm and steered him to one side. “I trust his word,” he said, “but I don’t trust the priests, or the son who’s ruling in his place. Hathil didn’t promise anything. Once on the open sea, who’ll be the wiser if the crew doesn’t murder us in our beds and dump our bodies over the side? They can return to Tajhaan with any lie they like.” “That does not mean they will.” Erred turned his face to the sea. Tharril wished he would not look away. “Shanju told me that the High Prince ordered the captain to obtain a statement from the House of the Water that we arrived safely. No one on this ship would dare harm us.” “Erred, by the time these ships return to Akkil—” At the last moment Tharril caught his tongue. “No, I won’t say it.” He tried his utmost to be tender and project his remorse for all that had happened, from his unthinking madness in Akkil to the transformation that had hastened their departure from Tajhaan, but Erred refused to address the subject again. In the days and weeks that followed, however, Tharril noticed his increased watchfulness. When we get home we will discuss this. We can’t go on avoiding it, and each other. Tharril sighed and gazed out at the waves. While in his bull form he thought Erred might have forgiven him, yet where he had not been able to understand human speech he could not be sure. Meanwhile he dealt with the captain, negotiating on behalf of the Shivarian guards, whom he argued were simply passengers, nothing more. “Of course they’ll put their weapons away. They’re on their way home, just like the rest of us.” Tharril spent his days much as he had in the embassy at Akkil: talking with the priests, gambling with the guards, who cheerfully relieved him of his money, and pacing the deck in thought. If Erred was preoccupied with the double questions of the High Prince’s fate and the homecoming he would receive in

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Sirilon, then Tharril found these issues no less perplexing. Erred might worry about the scathing comments the priests would make when they saw his scars, but as far as Tharril knew his concern did not go beyond this to the potential political fallout of a talevé being attacked on foreign soil. Bad enough that Erred had been captured and sold into slavery, an act for which the conservative city-state of Altarmë still refused to receive Tajhaani ambassadors. Now the shedding of sacred blood would bring demonstrations and possible reprisals from those who still distrusted the foreigners. Talevé had nothing to say about such affairs. Erred would not be consulted. Wary of asking outright, Tharril guessed that Erred did not care what relations were between Shivar and Tajhaan as long there were no hostilities. Curse or not, the High Prince’s death was now a certainty. By the time the Shivarian city-states reacted to the news Hathil would have been installed as the new High Prince. Tajhaan would withdraw its emissaries, the trade routes would close, and Altarmë would seal the Haban Pass against incursions from foreign invaders or slave traders. It should not have ended this way. Tharril leaned against the ship’s rail and peered out into the foaming gray-green water. The High Prince’s forgiveness brought more pain than comfort. I should never have wronged him in the first place. What a fool I was. Lavish gifts were piled in the hold. These were for the ambassadors and priests being forced into exile, and even for the guards who accompanied them. Fine wine, bolts of rich cloth, spices, and trinkets of inlaid wood, and jewels—treasures fit for a prince, his share of which Tharril was too embarrassed to claim. The only item he valued was the one Thanaj himself had pressed into his hands before sending him away: the miniature painted on ivory, Erred’s beauty captured by a Tajhaani artist. Tharril had not wanted to take it, knowing what it meant to the High Prince to surrender it. **** Sirilon’s harbor came into view on a gray, misty day. The first sight of home was the ruined spires of ancient lookouts clinging to the cliffs. Then as the biremes rounded a bend the coastline opened up and broadened into a panoramic view of the

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city and the waterfront. As the two ships sought anchorage among the smaller caravels, fishing dinghies, and barges, Tharril remained on deck, his hood drawn up to avoid detection by the tiny figures gathering along the docks to gawk at the foreign ships and speculate as to why they had come so late in the year. “You must be glad to be home,” commented Sartel. For the occasion he and his fellow priests had donned their blue-gray robes, the first time Tharril had ever seen them dressed so. Tharril stepped back as the deck came alive with activity. Anchor lines went out, to be caught and secured by dockhands. A shout from below, a command to the rowers to halt and draw in their oars; the ship glided in the last few yards under its own momentum. “We’ll see what the homecoming is like.” “Yes, we’ll see.” Once the gangplank came down, the guards disembarked ahead of the other passengers. Lais boldly pushed his way through the crowd to flag down an empty cart. “We need transport to the House of the Water.” The driver regarded him with disinterest and not a little disdain. “Looks like you’ve got two perfectly good legs.” Stepping forward, Tharril set one hand on the reins and pushed his hood back with the other just enough for the man to catch a glimpse of his white hair. “And you’ve a perfectly good cart for our baggage. I take it you’re not interested in earning a bit of coin?” The driver choked back his surprise. “You’re a talevé?” “There are two of us,” continued Tharril, “and we really don’t care to walk all the way to the top of the city. Our guards will get our baggage. All you have to do is be agreeable and drive.” From his pocket he produced two pieces of silver, holding them up where the man could see. “One now and the other when we get to the House of the Water.” As the guards went down into the hold for the trunks and bundles, Tharril offered his arm to Erred, who wobbled down the gangplank muffled in a gray cloak. “Not used to being on land?” he asked, blithely indicating his own unsteadiness. “It’ll pass. I’ve got a cart for us. Climb up next to the driver. Once we get loaded we’ll be on our way.” “Should we send a messenger?” asked Erred.

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“I’ll ask one of the guards to go.” Tharril helped Erred mount the cart, where he took a seat beside the flustered driver, then motioned to Tul, who with his long legs was the fastest sprinter. “Run on ahead to the gatehouse and let them know we’re coming.” He tossed the young man a silver coin, which Tul tossed back. “That’s my duty, sir.” Late autumn brought an early dusk. Sunset lengthened the shadows along the narrow, twisting streets leading up to the House of the Water, and the cart jolted uncomfortably as it lumbered over the uneven pavement. Tharril and Erred rode with the luggage, flanked by the guards who kept pace alongside the cart to discourage those onlookers who seemed to sense that its hooded occupants were talevé. Tul awaited them at the entrance to the gatehouse. The resident sentry and eunuch lounged in the doorway beyond, only stirring when Tharril leapt down from the cart, threw back his hood, and immediately inquired if the Blue House knew of their arrival. Both sentry and eunuch leapt to their feet, then dipped into the requisite bow. “Yes, holy one,” said the eunuch, whom Tharril recognized as Zanir. “We saw the ships arrive in the harbor. Have the guards leave your baggage here. We will bring it in.” Lais helped Erred from the cart, then instructed the men to begin unloading. Erred retreated to the gatehouse, yet did not remove his hood. An expectant cough from the driver reminded him of the fee yet to be paid; he tossed the man his silver with a smile and compliment before striding over to the gatehouse. “Do you want me to go in first?” he asked Erred. “That is not necessary. Everyone will see me sooner or later.” “Then take your hood off. We’re on the Blue House grounds now. You’ve nothing to hide.” Erred lifted a hand to his hood, fingering the edge, yet still he did not remove it. “Tharril, it is cold out,” he said quietly. Tharril laughed at this. “Of course it is. We’ll go in together.”

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Once the guards finished their task Tharril went over and thanked each one for their service. Erred followed, partially drawing back his hood out of politeness. They stood and watched the guards depart until Zanir approached. “I will escort you in, holy ones, and have your things brought upstairs. I believe you are in time for supper.” The grounds were silent, the gardens deserted in the deepening dusk. In the dark atrium Tharril saw the beckoning glow of candlelight spilling from the dining room and heard the murmurs of mealtime conversation. Tharril took Erred’s hand. “I hope they are ready for us.” Whatever message had gone ahead it immediately became apparent that the other talevé had not been notified. Surprised gasps rose from the table. Before Tharril could speak, he and Erred were swarmed, jostled, and assaulted by questions. In the background he heard Madril calling for order, a command no one seemed to hear, while beside him Erred did not respond to the queries directed at him. “Enough!” Tharril finally shouted. A respectful space cleared around him. Circling around the table, he found his customary seat and noticed that no place had been set for him. “We are hungry and tired. Save your questions for later.” “Tharril,” said Dyas, “no one told us you’d arrived. We didn’t know when to expect you.” “I can see that.” Tharril doffed his cloak and draped it over the back of his chair. “Is that vegetable soup?” he asked the servants. “Bring me a bowl.” After supper, Tharril went upstairs to his room, changed his clothes, and enjoyed his first real bath since leaving Tajhaan. His baggage waited to be unpacked, and the servants had turned down his bed, but he was not yet ready to retire. Instead, he went down to the sitting room, where he noticed that Erred was not among the talevé gathered by the hearth. “Now I will answer your questions,” he said. As shumadi, Tharril exercised some control over what the other talevé said to Erred, as he always had, and explained the situation insofar as he was able. Some details he omitted. No one needed to hear about his misguided curse or anything else that did not relate to Erred’s mission. The talevé listened, with

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the promise that what they heard they would not repeat. “This isn’t the first time you’ve asked us to keep Erred’s secrets,” said Dyas. “Are you certain it’s what he wants?” “If he wants to discuss it, he will,” replied Tharril. “But I know how difficult it’s been for him, wondering how he would be received after what happened in Akkil. If the way Madril looked at him before is any indication, the priests will do enough criticizing. Erred shouldn’t have to feel that he isn’t a true talevé simply because he has scars or his ki’iri is gone.” Olveru cleared his throat. “What Dyas means is that Erred is not a child, and is perfectly capable of making his desires known.” “I know, Olveru. I just want to spare him the pain of having to mention it.” “You assume we would be insensitive enough to mention his scars or the loss of his hrill once we were told. Give us some credit for being tactful. We care for Erred as much as you do.” Whatever he might say to the talevé, Tharril could do nothing about the priests. For the time being he kept his peace and observed, noting their coldness. He knew they questioned Erred, for he saw his lover’s strained look when he appeared for meals or went about his daily routine in the Blue House, and had been told by others that Erred had not resumed his duties in the House of the Water. “Because of his broken fingers he cannot hold a pen to copy texts,” explained Ninion, “so he cannot rejoin us until he is able.” Drizzle misted the grounds, forcing all activity indoors on the afternoon the healers removed Erred’s bandages. Tharril followed Olveru and Haeran upstairs, and took a place in Erred’s chamber even though he had not been specifically invited to attend. Erred glanced up at him, a refusal forming on his lips that died the moment Tharril flashed him an encouraging smile. “We do not see many broken bones in the Blue House,” said Olveru, “but I still remember how to do this.” Carefully he unwound the linen bandages from Erred’s torso, handing the strips off to Haeran as they came loose. “It was six ribs, you say?” Fingers gingerly prodded pasty flesh, testing for discomfort or telltale signs that the bones had not knit properly.

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“Take a deep breath. All right, now again. Yes, they seem to have healed well.” Next he undid the splints immobilizing Erred’s fingers, and unbound his wrist. “Flex your hand,” he said. “Good, now try your wrist.” Erred obediently rotated his wrist and wiggled his fingers until Olveru instructed him to stop. With both hands the healer felt the knitted bones, searching for imperfections. He found none. “Whoever bound these did excellent work. The sutures on your face also, well done.” Tharril could not resist grinning. “I told you, Erred.” “They are noticeable.” “That is unavoidable,” said Olveru. “But I do not see why you need worry. No one here has commented on it, and when you go out in public the crowds will be kept far enough away they will not see.” A eunuch entered with a basin of steaming water. Haeran took the basin, brought it over to the table where Olveru worked, and helped bathe away dead skin and encrusted ointment. “Rub oil into the skin if it starts to itch,” said Olveru, “and do not exert yourself. You should be able to return to your duties in the scriptorium within the week.” When the healers withdrew Tharril remained behind. “Everything healed well.” “Yes, perhaps.” Erred absently touched two fingers to his cheek. Tharril immediately caught the gesture, with all it implied. “Has someone said something to you about it?” “The priests question me,” Erred answered softly. “They ask me the same questions over and over again as though they do not believe me when I tell them what happened in Akkil. Of course they do not say it aloud, but they imply it every time they repeat a question. They want proof. I do not know that they believe Sartel and the others who were with me, and I have no other testimony to offer them.” “They won’t listen to Sartel?” “Apparently not,” replied Erred. “Then why don’t they ask me? I was there with you.” Erred spread his hands out before him to examine his fingers. “I do not know, Tharril. I have said as much to them.”

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“Don’t let them bully you,” said Tharril. Erred glanced sharply at him. “I cannot imagine punching Madril in the nose. He is an old man and might not survive the blow.” “That wasn’t what I meant. Answer their questions once and tell them you’re done with it.” “Trust me I have expressed my displeasure, with the very finest arrogance a princely education can offer. I told them yesterday I was finished being interrogated, but it is their tone that troubles me. To hear them speak one would think I was being accused of heresy.” Blasphemy was a concept Tharril understood. One simply avoided making certain disrespectful gestures or epithets, but heresy touched on things intangible, the questioning of beliefs, so it was considerably more difficult to avoid the charge. Even he as a talevé and shumadi was ill-equipped to engage the priests in theological arguments regarding this tenet or that. Nonetheless in his mind the talevé were the very embodiment of the Lady’s will, superior to the priests. That they could even be accused of heresy seemed implausible. “That’s ridiculous, Erred. You were the Lady’s vessel. You did what She ordered you to do.” “Yes, but I cannot prove it,” answered Erred. “I know what I saw and did, but I cannot prove that the hrill were truly changed, or that the plague in Akkil was the Lady’s doing.” No more than I can prove the curse was real. “You’re a talevé. Why should you have to prove anything to anyone?” asked Tharril. Smiling bitterly, Erred shook his head. “Because I went to Akkil, and I let those things happen to me. I let others do blasphemy. The priests cannot decide if my going was for a good cause, or for nothing.” “It’s not for them to decide,” Tharril said hotly. “If they doubt you, let them go down to the harbor, lay violent hands on a hrill, and let them see what its blood does to them.” Had he been close enough, he would have reached for Erred’s hands, taken them in his. “You are a servant of the Lady of the Waters who did Her will. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.” ****

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Rain pattered against the latticed screens, a constant backdrop to the chanting priests and murmured conversations throughout the corners of the room, the soothing, life-giving sound the only one Thanaj truly wished to hear. Gasping at the reek of the incense the priests burned as offerings to the gods, precious myrrh and costly frankincense, he yearned for the cool, moist fragrance of water, falling water that brought back memories of scarlet poppies and the desert in bloom, lush gardens, and hours with cherished lovers. No longer did he have the strength to dismiss the priests or those courtiers whose rank entitled them to be present. His whispered commands went unheeded. So he decreed, so it was not done. No mystery. His son, nineteen years old, too young for wisdom, too young to occupy a throne, now ruled Tajhaan in all but name. Yes, Thanaj understood how it was to be. Allegiances had already been transferred. Everyone was simply waiting for him to die. Once or twice the priests moved aside and Hathil knelt beside him. Thanaj did not know whether to laugh or cringe at the grotesque tableau of father and son, artful lines of concern worrying Hathil’s brow, tender words spilling from his lips that could not possibly have come from the cold, dignified young man Thanaj knew. Someone had coached the Crown Prince well. Thanaj drew mixed comfort from those visits. His other children did not come to him. Custom demanded that wives and daughters refrain from a man’s deathbed, and Shemir’s face did not appear among the mourners and sycophants. Had it already happened then, before he even drew his last breath? Had Hathil sent men with silken cords to his younger brothers, impatient even though his succession had never been in doubt? With no wife or sons of his own he could not empathize with his father’s pain at this terrible and savage tradition. Circumstances had been kind when Thanaj took the throne; his brother and halfbrothers were already dead, save for the one usurper whose deeds demanded execution. No innocent blood stained his hands, no kindred ghosts cried out to him in the shadows of his palace. Other High Princes sought to conquer, to build monuments,

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to glorify their own names. All Thanaj ever wanted was to bring life and prosperity to the desert, to be remembered as a just ruler. This was not how he wished to end, too young, too soon, leaving so much undone. Poppy syrup would end his ordeal if he wished it. So said the priests who thought he languished in pain. His only infirmity was weariness, bone-heavy exhaustion that shortened his breath and left him cold yet muffled all fear and most regrets. The Lady takes our lives early. Mingled with the soft rain he thought he heard Erred’s voice caressing his ear. We do not live above forty. On their last night together, when Thanaj confessed his mortality, Erred had revealed a secret of his own. After this there will be nothing I have withheld from you. Our lives are blessed threefold with the Lady’s grace, but there is a price to be paid. She takes us early, before old age and sickness can claim us. That is a bitter gift, to have your beauty extinguished so soon. Many things are fragile that are also beautiful. Erred’s lips parted in a secretive smile, his loveliness apparent despite the scar healing on his cheek. But we do not find Her will to be so bitter. She comes in gentleness, and those She blesses go without fear or pain. When his time comes, a talevé understands and has no regrets because he understands that She comes for him. It is considered a great gift, greater than beauty or the ability to change one’s shape. It is the Lady’s own mercy. Thanaj craved silence in which to revisit those words and absorb the odd comfort they offered. Last night the message had come: Erred and his beloved had reached home safely. There was no longer any need to cling to this temporal existence. I offered the Lady my life. Let Her now take it if She wishes. His eyelids drooped, shutting away the priests and jeweled courtiers, allowing his other senses to open. Life-giving rain beckoned, more powerful than the burning incense, the incantations. All other sounds receded into the background until there was only the primal water, and one final conscious thought, an amazing spark of comprehension: She comes. ****

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His senses open to the sun’s warmth and the greenery burgeoning around him, Erred sat on a bench near the lily pond and looked out over the garden. His duties among the sacred texts in the House of the Water had resumed, though not to the same extent as before. His interrogation by the priests lasted only a few days, the talk of heresy came to nothing, yet in their measured words and looks the priests remained skeptical. Tharril chafed at the perceived insult, yet Erred continued his routine unperturbed. Whether or not the priests believed him, it mattered nothing. Their doubt wore at him, as did the occasional night terrors, but did not change the truth. No one else in the Blue House commented on his altered appearance. The eunuchs and the other talevé were either uniformly tactful or they had received instructions. Erred suspected the truth lay somewhere in between, with Tharril as the instigator. He treats me like glass. I am not so fragile that I cannot bear a few looks or questions. At least they would have believed me when I told them about Akkil. Peering down at his reflection he caught himself smiling. Tharril did not always consult his wishes beforehand. Stubborn as a bull. The trite saying drew forth another smile, bringing unexpected beauty to the face mirrored in the sun-and-shadowdappled water. Erred accepted this quirk of Tharril’s personality, even found it endearing sometimes. Madril’s wavering image appeared over his shoulder. Startled, Erred drew back and turned to face the high priest. “I did not notice your approach.” “I have a message for you.” Erred accepted the slip of parchment yet left it unopened. “It is not like you to deliver such things.” “No, but under the circumstances I deemed it appropriate, as you will see,” Madril said colorlessly. “Tharril has returned and will come to you shortly. I believe you may want his company.” Erred knew Madril would not provide any more information than he already had, which was more than a high priest would ever do. The situation piqued Erred’s curiosity. But why does he assume I want Tharril with me? Tharril cares nothing for the letters I receive.

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In silence he watched the high priest leave before unfolding the parchment. It came from Shanju, who had not accompanied them home but had somehow returned to the Tajhaani embassy. Four lines, no more, yet within them was contained a world of grief. I regret to inform you…. His breath hitched in his throat, a fevered chill shuddered through his body, and suddenly he wanted…. No, he did not know what he wanted, or where to turn. For this news, though not unexpected, he had no answer. “Erred,” said a voice. Tharril stood at his elbow, even though Erred had not heard him approach. Knowledge of the message’s contents was written in his careworn expression. “Shanju also sent a message to Madril,” he said. “The Tajhaani embassy is closing. Hathil has recalled all the ambassadors.” Crumpling the note in his fist, Erred pressed his knuckles to his lips and bit down on them to stop the groan threatening to escape him. Tears flowed down his cheeks, no matter how often he had promised himself he would not cry when the news came. I regret to inform you Thanaj ked Muhal Dharu, may the Father keep him forever, has died. He passed at the start of the spring rains. All agree there was no pain. I write to you that no unfriendly hand will pass this news onto you and increase your grief thereby. Arms enfolded him, hugging him almost too tight for breath. Erred fell into the embrace; he heard Tharril’s heart beating through his clothing, and his own choking breath. Then he heard something else, the sound of agony beyond his own tears. It took him a moment to realize Tharril was also crying. “I’m sorry, Erred. I’m so sorry.” It will be all right. Hollow platitudes meant to comfort the bereaved, words that would not come. Tharril did not say it, and Erred could not speak, could not bring himself to utter the phrase, because it was not true.

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Chapter Thirteen Summer brought the holy days, but no foreign ships, no ambassadors to placate or endure. Tharril should have felt relief, not the profound sense of loss that haunted him. Politics did not concern him, and he cared nothing for the looming economic panic gripping the upper classes who craved exotic eastern goods. As far as he was concerned Hathil ked Thanaj could do what he liked within his own borders. Shivar had already reclaimed its priests and envoys, and sealed its mountain passes against unwelcome incursions. Tharril pictured the new ruler of Tajhaan breaking apart his father’s exquisite alabaster shrine and whitewashing the murals to erase every reminder of Erred’s existence. Hathil could denounce the Lady, as no doubt he would, and overturn his father’s laws. But those things did not matter. It is done, thought Tharril. With Thanaj ked Muhal Dharu’s death the last links to Tajhaan had been severed. Those days belonged now to the realm of memory, to be forgotten if one so chose. It should have been all I ever wanted, yet now that I have it I wish I could undo it, make it so it never happened. Erred remained quiet and contemplative throughout his mourning, his grief one more spiritual observance. From the servants he obtained candles and lit them in the atrium shrine where he kept vigil. Though he did not ask Tharril stayed the night with him before the Lady’s altar. In the middle of the night, when the only sounds to be heard were the candles licking at the air and their own breathing, Tharril spoke. “Erred, do you think the Lady really heard—?” “The Lady knows what should be, Tharril. Speak no more of it.” So Tharril never again broached the subject of the curse,

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though he often thought of it in years to come, and what might have been had he not been so rash. As the Lady’s holy day drew near, uncertainty returned to the Blue House. Neither Erred nor the priests said anything, and Tharril did his utmost to remain tactful. This was not his concern. “It does not matter to me one way or the other,” said Erred. “If I am permitted I will walk in the procession, but if not then I will accept the priests’ decision gracefully.” His tone revealed his mind plainly enough. Erred viewed exclusion as a just punishment for the pain he had caused in Tajhaan. How nauseating, thought Tharril, and ridiculous! You did the Lady’s will, nothing more. Those who caught the plague and died deserved it. “You’re not going to sit here and be a fucking martyr. I’m not going to allow you to be left behind.” “And I imagine you will break Madril’s nose if he decides otherwise.” “You told me it might kill him, or I probably would.” Erred offered a grim smile. “So much trouble for such a little thing, when in truth I never really enjoyed appearing in public that much.” Censure did not come. On the holiday morning Erred donned his formal blue-gray robes and, without further comment, descended into the atrium alongside his identically dressed brethren. Tharril offered his compliments with a smile and chaste kiss on the cheek. “You look lovely this morning.” Olveru approached them. “You will walk on my left side,” he told Erred. Madril and the other priests appeared. Tharril sucked in a breath and braced for a confrontation, yet apart from a curious look the high priest gave Erred there was no comment, no attempt to alter formalities. The procession wound its way from the sacred heights to the waterfront with Tharril at its head, and the rites proceeded without incident. Afterward, as the city reveled in the streets below, the talevé enjoyed a picnic in the Blue House gardens. Tharril threw off his shoes and flopped down on the grass to massage his sore feet. Erred joined him, smiling in the shared warmth of friends and the holiday atmosphere, his joy a treat Tharril had not witnessed in a long time. Music from the House of the Water drifted over

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the walls, stately rhythms soon broken by tunes of a more boisterous sort, belted out by Olenwë and two others, fisher-folk who had not left their bawdiness behind with their old lives. “I can’t imagine the Lady wants you for your singing, Olenwë,” muttered Dyas. “You’d scare the scales off fish with your bawling.” Tharril turned to Ninion. “How do you put up with him?” “Fortunately he does not screech in bed.” Dusk brought the party to an end. Weary and sated, the talevé retired indoors, where lovers inevitably paired off together and crept upstairs to continue celebrating in private. That night Erred and Tharril slept apart, alone. Lovemaking would have offered a pleasant end to the day, but Tharril had not been expecting it and found he did not mind as much as he might have. It was enough that Erred was happy, and free of the doubts and nightmares that still troubled him. Business resumed the next day, though the festival air still hung over the city. In the House of the Water Tharril noted the garlands still twined around the pillars and looped across the arches, here and there wilted blooms having drifted to the floor during the night. A scene from his own village the morning after a harvest festival; it drew a smile from his lips. Priests began to congregate in the halls, ready to attend to the day’s affairs. Tharril tended the main shrine, removing old offerings to make way for newer ones, and received supplicants, not a few of whom were still hung over from the day before. Dyas found him in the shrine at midday. Carrying a sheaf of legal documents under his arm, he wore a harried look. “There you are,” he said. “You aren’t going to like this, Tharril, but I thought you ought to hear it from me directly, not as a garbled rumor later.” Tharril read enough alarm in his friend’s expression to know he should hear the news in private. As the last supplicant left the shrine, Tharril shut the doors behind him and returned to the altar. “Now tell me what’s wrong.” “I just passed by the main vestibule. Right now Madril is getting an earful from a dozen or more noblemen who want to complain about Erred walking in yesterday’s procession.” Tharril drew a deep breath and reminded himself to remain

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calm. This isn’t necessarily your concern. Dyas probably should not have come to him. “What are they saying?” “I heard them telling Madril they only want to see proper talevé honoring the Lady. They claim that Erred represents their city and they want perfection,” said Dyas. “The whole business is absurd, as though a talevé was a merchant’s wares that could be labeled defective.” There was more. “Go on,” said Tharril. “This isn’t what it seems, you know that. Someone in the Tajhaani embassy talked before they all left. The nobles don’t really care that Erred has a tiny little scar on his cheek, and nor should they. But they know his actions in Tajhaan are the reason diplomatic relations with the east have ceased, and that’s something they do care about.” Money, it all came down to money and trade. “That isn’t true,” replied Tharril. “The Tajhaani think we’re sorcerers. They hate us for our foreign ways, and their new High Prince is a spoiled little brat who wouldn’t know common sense if it hit him in the face. The plague was just a pretext to evict us all.” Dyas nodded. “I know, Tharril. I wanted to cut in and say something, but under the circumstances I didn’t think it wise to interfere. My next thought was to come find you.” I thought you ought to hear it from me directly, not as a garbled rumor later. Another might have assumed that Dyas, as a jilted lover, took pleasure in bringing the news. Tharril knew his intentions were as sincere as his apprehensions were credible. Dyas strayed from the ritual path so often he could ill-afford to publicly antagonize Madril by confronting him in front of half a dozen noblemen. “And what is Madril saying to them?” “That’s just it, Tharril. He isn’t saying anything. He’s just listening.” Whatever complaints were made in the vestibule Tharril had no doubt they would eventually find their way back to Erred. Yesterday’s carefree hours, punctuated by Erred’s drowsy smile as he laid his head in his lover’s lap and dozed in the sun, tugged at Tharril’s heart. From the beginning the priests had been too ready to doubt and criticize. Dyas immediately laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t confront them, Tharril. Have a private talk with Madril later, but don’t

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make a scene. You’re not above scrutiny, even though you sometimes behave like you are. If these men were commoners it might be different. These men are nobles and princes, and they can create difficulties for the House of the Water if the shumadi antagonizes them by turning their visit into a public row. “Let the House of the Water handle the matter. I didn’t want you to step out of here and walk into the situation. I knew what you would say or do. I know how easily you unleash the bull. I can’t say I blame you, but I can’t let you make a scene. Let the priests defend Erred, or let Erred defend himself, if it comes to it. He knows how to deal with them.” Remembering the scrutiny Erred had been forced to endure from the priests offered little solace. “That isn’t the best advice,” said Tharril. “If the priesthood has to choose between keeping a group of powerful nobles happy and defending one talevé, which is it going to be?” “It will be a compromise, Tharril. It can’t be any other way. Madril will remind the nobles that the Lady governs all life in Sirilon. Ships can’t sail and business can’t be conducted without Her grace. Not even Prince Carancil would risk offending Her by insulting a talevé in such bold terms. These men will not deny Erred the honors due him because they know how foolish it would be to do so. Madril will nod and pretend concern, but nothing will come of it. Erred will continue to receive every honor he’s entitled to.” And if he hears of this, it will cause him needless pain. Inaction went against his deepest instincts, yet Tharril sat down on the steps below the altar and forced himself to stay there. “Dyas, if I take a single step toward that door, you have my permission to hit me.” Dyas gave him a crooked smile. “You know I’d never raise a hand against you.” “You’re the second person who refuses to knock sense into me,” said Tharril. “Gods know Erred won’t do it.” “Why should he hit you when there are so many other ways to chastise you?” Tharril sank his head into his hands. “Don’t make light of this. He ought to bloody my nose for everything I’ve done. I suppose he didn’t tell you that the reason the High Prince of

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Tajhaan died is because I cursed him?” Dyas fell silent, pondered the statement for several minutes before answering, “That isn’t possible, Tharril. He died of a long illness.” “The man was barely fifty.” “And fifty-year olds are immune to illness?” Dyas snorted in disbelief. “From what I’ve heard, poison is a Tajhaani prince’s worst enemy. I’m sure this one was no different. He made unpopular laws and alienated the priests who protested. Either they poisoned him, or it was that arrogant, greedy son who strangled his brothers to become the new High Prince. That you could have killed him with a curse is absurd.” Tharril wanted desperately to believe that, had even tried to assuage his guilt with those very same arguments, but in the end his heart told him he was to blame. “When Erred was attacked in Akkil I was so angry I didn’t think. I was filled with hate and jealousy. I’d never even met the man, and when I did I realized how wrong I was. I didn’t deserve his forgiveness.” “You told him?” “I had to, Dyas. I could have kept quiet, and I probably should have.” For several moments Dyas did not say anything. “Tharril,” he finally replied, in a soft yet persistent voice, “there is no way you can prove a curse.” “Don’t play the lawyer with me.” “I’m only doing it because you’re so intent on blaming yourself. The truth is if I or anyone else had to try the case in court we couldn’t convict you, not unless there’s something you haven’t told me,” said Dyas. “Think about it, Tharril. Do you honestly think the Lady would grant you that power, knowing how impulsive you are? Do you really think She would let you kill this man if it wasn’t also Her will? As I recall, a shumadi has no special gifts. Don’t be arrogant in assuming you can take a man’s life that easily.” Tharril stared at his hands, wide with short fingers better suited to farming and hauling heavy loads than writing or making offerings. A peasant’s hands, he thought bitterly. Hands that could wring a chicken’s neck or break a man’s nose. “That’s me,” he grumbled, “arrogant and stupid. How I want to

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believe you. I’m just not sure I can.” “You can’t go on punishing yourself for something you might not have done,” said Dyas. “At some point you’re going to have to forgive yourself.” Dyas remained with him in the shrine until it seemed safe to leave. Minutes seemed to stretch into hours, and Tharril could not say how much time actually passed until he ventured outside and saw it was well into the afternoon. With Dyas still at his side he entered the vestibule only to find it empty. From a passing acolyte he learned that Madril had led his visitors into a side office to continue their conversation in private. That evening Tharril encountered the high priest on the way into the dining room. Very well, he would draw Madril aside and talk with him after supper, but then he noticed that Erred had not come down. Tharril signaled to one of the eunuchs, who informed him that Erred had withdrawn to his bedchamber and asked not to be disturbed. Gods, he knows. A cooler head might have pointed out that Erred might have learned about the incident while performing his duties in the House of the Water, but even Tharril, who never picked up a book or entered a library unless he had to, knew the scriptorium was nowhere near the vestibule. Word should never have reached Erred by chance. Someone had to have told him. Clenching his jaw, waiting a space to let the others in the dining room note his anger, Tharril let his gaze move down the table, measuring each talevé, each priest, until he came to Madril seated at the opposite end. “Who told him?” “What are you talking about?” asked Ninion. Right away Dyas tried to dissuade him from making a scene. “Tharril, you can’t be certain that anyone said anything. Erred might simply be tired.” “He felt fine yesterday.” Others around the table began to stir impatiently. “Would someone please explain what is going on?” Olveru asked sharply. Without looking away from the high priest, Tharril answered, “Several high-ranking noblemen came to the House of the Water this afternoon to make a fuss about Erred’s scars. But it isn’t his scars they really care about. They’re angry about

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what happened in Tajhaan, and blame Erred for the expulsion of our ambassadors and the loss of trade. Madril spoke to them in private. Apparently that isn’t all he did.” “Tharril,” Madril said calmly, “you should listen to Dyas and not make assumptions. I sent one of my assistants to tell Erred that I would speak to him later. I meant to do it after the evening devotions.” A message. “And do you know what the man said to him?” Madril swept the table with a single glance, reminding both priests and talevé of his authority. “You are assuming I am going to chastise Erred,” he replied. “I mean to reassure him. The lords of Sirilon can protest all they wish, but they are in no position to criticize a talevé.” “Then you should have gone and told him directly, not sent some incompetent underling to do it!” Tharril rose and flung down his napkin. “I can only imagine what he thinks now.” Upstairs he found the door to Erred’s chamber ajar. A single candle burned on the sideboard, throwing more shadows than light. Erred, dressed in a linen shift, his hair damp and fresh from the bath, sat in his chair by the window. Tharril had no need to ask what had happened or what he thought of it. His slumped posture gave the answer away. “Erred, I—” “I asked to be left alone.” A small voice, bereft even of a prince’s habit of command, answered. Tharril cringed at how dispirited Erred sounded, how unlike the previous day’s joy. “I didn’t come up here to be sent away again.” “Kyrin was here earlier,” said Erred. “He told me the nobles of Sirilon have complained because I have ruined diplomatic relations with Tajhaan and come home less than a true talevé.” Tharril stepped across the threshold, and slammed the door shut behind him; the sound caused Erred to flinch. Tomorrow a certain priest would have his head shoved into the wall. “Kyrin is full of shit.” At the same moment Erred started to rise from his chair, Tharril crossed the floor in a half-dozen strides and seized him by the shoulders, hauling him up into his arms. “This is for love,” he hissed, and his mouth came down on Erred’s, drinking

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in an unwilling kiss. “If I say you’re beautiful, and perfect, then you are.” “You only say that for love,” gasped Erred. “Why else should I say it?” Tharril took his arm, pulled him toward the mirror, and forced him to confront his own image in the glass. “Look at yourself—look! What is so ugly, what is so horrible about you? Don’t stand there and try to tell me the thing that makes you a talevé is gone—it isn’t the ki’iri and you know it. You are more than the hrill inside you, much more.” His lips found the pulse beating in Erred’s throat, touched it. “Do you think I want you any less because of a few barely noticeable scars? When I first saw you in Tajhaan, you were flawless, unimaginably beautiful, but that isn’t why I loved you.” Erred threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut. “Please do not speak of such things.” “Then stop being such a colossal ass.” Tharril roughly spun him about, kissing him hard on the mouth to silence his protests. The warmth of Erred’s skin through the linen shift, the smell of his skin and damp hair drove him wild with arousal. His kisses grew more heated, deeper, his tongue seeking entrance. Erred’s arms twined around him, yet in every nerve Tharril sensed reticence. “Tharril, no—” “I’m not leaving until you stop this foolishness.” Tharril quickly kissed the corner of Erred’s mouth, found his cheek, and with his tongue traced the path of one faint scar up to his earlobe. Erred shuddered at the hot breath Tharril exhaled into his ear. “Yes.” Somehow they found their way to the bed. Erred removed his shift, while Tharril struggled with his clothing, tugging, almost tearing the garments in the process since he did not bother to watch what he was doing. His eyes remained focused on Erred, caressing him with his gaze, snatching kisses as he fumbled with his buttons. “I am not prepared,” said Erred. Good, then it means this isn’t rehearsed. “We can fix that.” The last garment came off. Tharril flung it to one side and took Erred in his arms, pulling him against his naked body, bearing him down against the pillows. An erection nudged his

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belly. He ground his hips, pushing with his own cock, and Erred groaned. “You want me?” No answer, though it hardly mattered. Tharril could read Erred’s desire, and knew that what started in frustration was not going to end in rape. Just as well. Tharril had no patience for long love-play, not when his arousal was so great. There would be time for tenderness later. Fingers pinched nipples into hardened peaks, hips flexed and thrust. Tharril did not need the oil, wherever it was, did not need penetration to make Erred feel the strength of his passion. He slid a leg between Erred’s thighs, pressing down so their cocks touched, and gazed down into his lover’s eyes. His mouth muffled cries of passion, his tongue swallowing his lover’s utterances and his own grunts until he felt compelled to speak. “Do you believe me now?” he growled. His peak came, that instant of painful pleasure, then the rush of seed leaving his body, all over too soon. A murmured answer which he could not hear above the blood pounding in his ears. Sweat dripped off his forehead, slick on his back and arms, already cooling in the summer night air. “Do you believe me now?” he asked again, softer now, his voice ragged, breathless. Erred reached up, kissed his cheek, then his mouth. The gesture might have meant anything; had he not been so exhausted, so spent by passion, Tharril would have questioned it. Slowly he pulled away and maneuvered onto his side so he could remain close to Erred, lightly touching him, dropping kisses on his shoulder, while ignoring the sticky wetness on his belly. The candle on the sideboard was guttering, going out. Soon total darkness would enfold them. “Do you really care what a few self-centered nobles think?” asked Tharril. “It is not them, but the message.” “If Kyrin behaved like an ass—” “I would have slapped him,” finished Erred. “I do not need you to throw him out a window for me. Kyrin was not rude. In fact he apologized more than once for troubling me with the news. It was I who asked him why Madril wished to see me, not the other way around.” Tharril caught the subtle reprimand in his reply. Once

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again, he had leapt to conclusions, and proved he could not break old habits no matter how hard he might wish. “Then what is it?” “It reminded me too much of the last time I returned from Tajhaan. The day I left Altarmë my father sent me a message. He could not even face me to tell me that he wanted nothing more to do with me.” Erred paused, then continued, “These men are exactly the same. They blame me for things I could not control. Perhaps they even regret that I did not die in Tajhaan.” Erred rarely spoke about his family, least of all about the last time he had seen them. Tharril knew about Alanthas né Camoril’s message, but had never seen it, and never knew precisely what it said. “I’d forgotten about that.” “So had I,” said Erred, “or so I liked to think.” “Don’t think about it anymore.” They lay quietly together in the enfolding dusk. Tharril heard Erred’s even breathing, thought he might have drifted off to sleep until he spoke, “Why do you put up with my brooding, Tharril? It must get tiresome.” “For the same reason you put up with my bullshit, I suppose.” “You would not prefer to be with Dyas?” Rolling over, Tharril silenced Erred with a hard kiss. “I’ve told you before, I don’t want him or anyone else. Dyas is my friend, nothing more than that.” He drew a long breath to steady himself, then added, “To tell you the truth you’re the only man I’ve ever wanted to do this with. You’re the one who taught me how to love this way. I can’t imagine doing it like this with someone else. I don’t want to be with anyone else.” Fingers touched his arm, a whisper of skin in the shadows, but no words came. Tharril took the silence as encouragement to continue. “You will become my consort.” Once again he voiced the request that had led to so many arguments in the past, only now he was not pleading, and it was not a request but a command. “I will not let you refuse. You will be mine, and I will be yours. Do you understand what I’m telling you? We will belong to each other.” With a soft hiss and curl of pungent white smoke, the candle went out. Tharril propped himself on one elbow, trying to peer down at Erred’s face yet seeing nothing in the darkness. No hint

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of a smile, no frown, no indication of what his lover’s answer would be. Then he heard it, little more than a whisper: “Yes.” **** Dressed in the silk robes the High Prince had given them, crowned by rose chaplets woven that afternoon by their brethren, Erred and Tharril stood together in the sanctuary to recite their vows. Erred did his best to concentrate on Madril’s voice as the high priest performed the service, yet his mind refused to work. His senses were awash, acutely aware of Tharril’s fingers entwined with his under the white silk ribbon that bound them, the floral perfume of the garden beyond the sanctuary where a summer picnic would be their wedding feast, even the slight stirrings of the yanati pool before them. The Lady’s ancient image stood presided over the ceremony from Her niche on the far side of the pool. This was the place where all talevé who found lasting love came with their partners to offer their pledges, and the place where Her blessing manifested itself in the ripples and tendrils of mist curling up from the pool’s surface. Erred breathed in the cool air, recovered his wits long enough to give the ritual response, and with his fingers took a pinch of salt from the bowl in Madril’s hands. Erred made his offering, miniscule grains spilling into the water, then peered over the rim of the pool to watch the salt disappear below the surface and mark how the ripples flowed. That the Lady would accept the gift, he had no doubt. She took as much delight in the unions between Her beloved servants as She did in the intimacy of their lovemaking. A fleeting moment of sorrow found him when he glanced at the ranks of assembled talevé and priests, and marked a single absence. Several times Thanaj had expressed a desire to visit the House of the Water in Sirilon and see how the Lady was worshipped in Her own land. Spies among the eunuchs had surely told him that talevé could and did take vows, and Erred knew the romantic in him would have wanted to witness this union. “Erred,” said Tharril, “look at your reflection.” Through the mist and shadows, he glimpsed his face in the

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water. White hair crowned by summer roses, dark eyes, now lips parting in dawning amazement at the sight. Ripples and shadow and mist, they obscured the scars he knew were still there, yet in this one moment he glimpsed perfection, not the white demon who enacted the Lady’s will and brought sorrow to a foreign people but a divine avatar, a talevé in his full beauty. And then he laughed: a full, rich sound whose depth he had almost forgotten. The glamour did not fade, and when he lifted his hand to his face he could no longer feel the scars on his cheek. Tharril’s arm slipped around his waist, turning him about. It took an effort of will for Erred to tear his eyes from the sudden wonder of his reflection, to take his hand from his cheek to return the embrace. “It is the Lady’s wedding gift to you,” said Tharril. When they kissed, Erred forgot his mirror image, the pool reflecting their embrace, and the passionate ripples that were a divine confirmation of their vows.

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About the Author L.E. Bryce was born in Los Angeles, California and has never lived anywhere else. She has a Masters in English Literature from California State University, Northridge, and currently works as an English teacher. Her Jewish mother, two dogs and passel of cats help her keep her sanity. She is a regular contributor to Forbidden Fruit Magazine, and is the author of Dead to the World, My Sun and Stars, Aneshu Concubinage, The Golden Lotus, Snake Bite and Other Dark Homoerotic Fantasies and Those Pearls That Were His Eyes. She maintains a blog at http://granamyr.livejournal.com.

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