West of the Moon (The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars)

West of the Moon L.E. BRYCE

Published by Phaze Books Also by L.E. Bryce A Crown of Stars Aneshu Aneshu’s Folly Becoming Concubinage Dead to the World The Fifth House From This (ight The Golden Lotus House of the Swallows Ki’iri My Sun and Stars Phaze Fantasies, Vol. V Seventh The Red Sash The Water Lovers of Sirilon (print collection) Twice Born

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

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West of the Moon The Sun, The Moon, and The Stars III

L.E. BRYCE

West of the Moon © 2009 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 © 2009 Debi Lewis Edited by Kev Henley eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-60659-188-8 First Edition – August, 2009 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.

Dramatis Personae (Italics indicate the character is deceased)

Rhodeen: The Royal Family: Zhanil Sephides: son of Sephil Brasides and Ketalya kéya Ampheres; junior king of Rhodeen. Saraji: daughter of Dashir Serrides and Terreh, princess of Tajhaan; wife of Zhanil; queen of Rhodeen and mother of Ardal, Thanol, Charnos, and Sephien. Ardal: Zhanil’s eldest son; Crown Prince. Thanol: Zhanil’s second-born son. Sephil Brasides: younger son of Brasidios Charnides and Elian, princess of Khalgar; father of Zhanil and Ellina; senior king of Rhodeen. Brasidios Charnides: king of Rhodeen at the time of the Turya invasion. Killed by the Turyar. Zhanil Brasides: elder son of Brasidios; Crown Prince of Rhodeen. Killed by the Turyar. Dashir Serrides: nephew of Brasidios; first cousin of Sephil Brasides; father-in-law of Zhanil Sephides; prince of Rhodeen. Thano Serrida: niece of Brasidios; princess of Rhodeen; wife of turkan Arzhati and mother of Kargil. Elian: princess of Khalgar; wife of Brasidios and mother of Sephil and Zhanil Brasides. Arzhati: son of Atalash; Turya warlord, or turkan, of Rhodeen. Killed at the battle of Cassiare. Lazphi: son of Atalash. Killed during the invasion of Rhodeen. The Royal Home Guard: Amset: captain of the Home Guard. Amhir: Amset’s son; lieutenant of the Home Guard.

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The Turya Guard: Kalmeki: youngest son of Harunta; captain of the Turya Guard; Zhanil Sephides’s personal bodyguard and lover. Hantili: Kalmeki’s first lieutenant. Harkil: member of the Turya Guard. Puruli: youngest member of the Turya Guard accompanying Zhanil into the Turya-lands. The Usurpers: Irial Callios: lord of Cassiare; member of the royal council. Besan Palassos: military commander; self-styled general. Ethurel Irides: son of Irial Callios. Ardal Melandes: landholder in central Rhodeen; hereditary noble. Elliol Arthandes: new nobility with mercantile background. In Shemin-at-Khul: Penthé: pleasure slave in the royal palace. Tarrel: pleasure slave in the royal palace. Talos: guard assigned to Tal Charne. Hered: guard assigned to Tal Charne. Arian Melisan: elderly Lord High Chancellor. Chalun: Besan Palassos’s chief henchman. Thorus Charmides: junior lieutenant in the Rhodani army. Solis Thanates: lord of Soleb. Bedez: former guard in Sephil’s household. Killed at Mekesh. In Meduin: Uzhena: Turya healer. Shamash: town sentry. Deros: innkeeper. Samnos: groom. Turya Chieftains: Zidanta: high-ranking chieftain in southern Rhodeen. Labarnu: high-ranking chieftain in southwestern Rhodeen. Khalgar:

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The Royal Family: Ampheres ké Eramen: king of Khalgar. Ettarin ké Ampheres: eldest son of Ampheres; current king of Khalgar. Marien: wife of Ettarin; queen of Khalgar. Ketalya: daughter of Ampheres; wife of Sephil Brasides; mother of Zhanil Sephides and Ellina; princess of Khalgar and Queen Mother of Rhodeen. Ellina: daughter of Sephil Brasides and Ketalya; princess of Khalgar and Rhodeen. Lissan: daughter of Ampheres; princess of Khalgar. In Bhellin: Dyri Arrideos: Rhodani ambassador to Khalgar. Lakkel: Rhodeen’s Turya ambassador to Khalgar. Nurad: son of Dashir Serrides and Princess Najai of Tajhaan; currently serving as a priest of Abh. Larien: Queen Ketalya’s chief lady-in-waiting. Piras: Sephil’s groom. Assuras: captain of Sephil’s escort into Rhodeen. Ninhás: member of Dashir Serrides’s escort into Rhodeen. Arlen: member of Dashir Serrides’s escort into Rhodeen. Expatriated Nobles: Stavron Melines: son of Melin Wesares; descendant of Ardahir III, king of Rhodeen. Melin Wesares: Rhodani noble; great-grandson of Ardahir III, king of Rhodeen. Executed for treason. Haran Nelendes: Rhodani noble. Seros: son of an expatriated Rhodani noble; Zhanil Sephides’s page. Eren Salernes: Rhodani noble. The Turya-lands: In Hapaniku: Atalash: Turya warlord, or turkan; father of Arzhati and Lazphi. Kargil: son of Arzhati and Thano; grandson of Atalash.

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Peteku: Kargil’s wife; mother of Lugal. Lugal: son of Kargil. Yhade: daughter of Ningal. Ningal: Turya chieftain; father of Yhade. Harunta: Kalmeki’s father; Turya chieftain. Khilya: Harunta’s wife; Kalmeki’s mother. Azhri: Kalmeki’s older brother; son of Harunta and Khilya. Pezheva: Kalmeki’s younger sister; daughter of Harunta and Khilya. Zapilya: Turya holy man; uncle of Nenikalli. Nenikalli: Turya warrior. Tajhaan: Mahtal ked Armajid: High Prince. Terreh: princess of Tajhaan; sister of Mahtal and first wife of Dashir Serrides; mother of Ninarsha and Saraji. Najai: princess of Tajhaan; sister of Mahtal and second wife of Dashir Serrides; mother of Nurad and several daughters. (inarsha: prince of Tajhaan; firstborn son of Dashir Serrides and Terreh. Killed at the battle of Cassiare.

Adeja ked Shamuz: Tajhaani soldier; bodyguard to both Sephil Brasides and Zhanil Sephides; Sephil’s lover. Killed at the battle of Cassiare.

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Part One

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Chapter One “Sir, we have entered Rhodeen,” said the captain of the guard. Sephil nodded his acknowledgment, though he had no need to be told. More than once he had come this way, and knew that when the barren, rolling hills of Ottabia gave way to greener, more level country the people would no longer owe allegiance to Khalgar. Captain Assuras would lead the party down the rough track into nearby Meduin, where in the town inn Sephil would be able to enjoy a proper bath for the first time in several days and sleep in a real bed, rather than a cot in a drafty tent. Comfort came with restrictions, however. Wherever he went, Sephil did not insist on preferential treatment, but in Rhodeen he was a king. The more he tried to downplay his royal status, the more others honored him. I remember a time when these people neither knew who I was nor cared. Had his father-in-law not ordered him to ascend the throne alongside his son as a living link to the dynasty that had ruled before the Turya interregnum, Sephil might have remained happily in Khalgar as a prince and high priest of Abh, a king’s son and king’s father, and free from the duties that came with wearing a crown. Since then, no one forced him to stay in Rhodeen and rule. Unlike his son, he had never been groomed for power. The inconveniences of a journey to Rhodeen, with its backward system of roads and citizens clamoring for his attention, seemed a small price to pay for the privilege of seeing his grandchildren again. In his baggage were gifts for his two grandsons, and he intended to remain in Shemin-at-Khul until the queen was safely delivered of her third child. As his small party approached Meduin, people paused in the fields and streets to watch him ride by. Curious children

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followed behind, lingering even when the Turya sentries waved them away. Others called out greetings. Here Zhanil would have grinned and waved back, even ridden over to exchange a few words with the townsfolk. Never as outgoing, and thoroughly embarrassed by the attention, Sephil managed a polite smile as Assuras led the way toward the inn. The elderly innkeeper met him on the porch. Two boys led by an unusually dark young man came forward to tend to the horses, while several Turya women, jangling with silver and amber jewelry, jostled forward with gifts. “Deros,” Sephil said to the innkeeper, “I do not recall sending word ahead about my arrival.” Grinning through the gap in his front teeth, Deros nodded. “The sentries see everything, sir.” Gnarled fingers made a cursory gesture toward the mounted Turya archer who had trailed the party into town. “Go on, Shamash!” he shouted. “They’re all right here.” As Shamash rode off in a cloud of dust, Deros chuckled at Sephil. “There’s a good room waiting for you upstairs, sir, and the wife will have hot water for your bath, no extra charge.” “You know I will pay my bill,” said Sephil. “But these gifts…” Embarrassed, he indicated the fine blankets and jars the straw-haired women laid at his feet. “I could not possibly accept them.” “Oh, that’s nonsense, sir.” Deros led the way inside, while the women picked up the offerings and followed. “Just be careful your men don’t get too deep in the jars. It’s been more than one Khalgari visitor who’s spent the next day sick after drinking too much kumiss.” For form’s sake, Sephil sampled the kumiss at supper, taking care to smile through the bitter taste. It truly does taste like horse piss, he thought. Turya cuisine and trappings did not appeal to him. Years earlier, Zhanil had sent him a beautifully embroidered coat, which he only wore once. One look in the mirror, with another from his wife, convinced Sephil that he did not cut a flattering figure in Turya garb. In fact, he thought he looked rather pathetic. “Next he will try to send me one of their bows,” he had muttered. Turya healers matched the priests of Abh in skill, so he

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could not offer his services in payment for the hospitality he received. After a meal of boiled potatoes and roast lamb, he found the woman Uzhena, who had healed Zhanil of an arrow wound, and presented her with a packet of medicinal herbs. Each time he passed through Meduin he remembered her with a gift, however much she demurred and claimed that any debt incurred was long since paid. “You do not travel like a king,” she observed. “The older east-landers complain you should be loaded with gold and silver, and have more servants and guards. They say they have seen a king travel this way before.” Sephil nodded. “That is my father they remember. As a priest I am not accustomed to such ceremony, and I know my son does not care for it, either.” “With turkan Kalmeku you are right,” she agreed. This was the name the Turyar had given Zhanil, which meant ‘little star’ in their language. “Too many servants and too much baggage slow a man down. His wife does not even come with him, or his children.” “Ardal and Thanol are still young,” said Sephil, “but I know they are already learning to ride. As for my son’s wife, I do not believe she knows how.” Not only that, he knew, but like any properly bred Tajhaani royal woman, Saraji did not attend court or even venture far from her apartments. Zhanil had enough to do to get her to remove her veil before company. Uzhena answered with a most unladylike snort. “This is not a fitting wife for a turkan.” Sephil offered a wan smile in agreement. Uzhena was the first Turya woman he had ever met. Since then, others had assured him that most women from the Turya-lands were as bold and outspoken as she. Therefore it did not surprise him to hear such criticism of the queen, especially when his own sentiments toward her were lukewarm. That night, in a dark, narrow room smelling of dried herbs, he slept uneasily. Exhaustion meant nothing whenever he crossed the border into Rhodeen. Even the air tasted green, redolent with memories and regrets. Earlier in the day, he had noticed the young man with uncommonly dark features who took his horse. Something in the

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man’s black eyes reminded him so strongly of Adeja that it gave him a start. “Are you Tajhaani?” he had asked. The groom shook his head and smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. “I am Samnos. My mother was a woman of Rhodeen, sir. My father…” Here he shrugged. “She was married to one soldier and bedded another, or so I’ve heard. It’s nothing to me. I make my own way.” So like Adeja it made Sephil ache to hear it. Even without a Tajhaani accent, the man’s father might have been looking back through those deep, dark eyes and smiling as if to say, I’m still here. Or was the resemblance merely the product of a bereaved lover’s fancy? Sephil said nothing more to the man with his Rhodeen name and accent, and tried to put the matter out of his mind. For everywhere he turned in this green country, he yearned for some glimpse or reminder of his lost love, and the precious months of intimacy they shared before intrigue and dynastic duty pulled them apart. He wrapped his arms around his torso, seeking the warmth only memory could now grant. He could not fool himself into believing Adeja was there with him. Not even summoning Samnos to his bed would complete the illusion. No matter the truth, and Sephil had no doubt how it had come about; those strong arms around him and that firm body pressed against his back would not be the same. Samnos would never understand what his king needed, or care what his nameless father had once been to an unwanted scion of the royal house. Not even Arjuna, Adeja’s legitimate son, too busy with his military career to spend much time with his mother, would have understood. Sephil squeezed his eyes shut, but could not stop the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, or the ache threatening to turn his next breath into a sob. In this way, he finally fell asleep. After a hot breakfast, Sephil set out in the chilly dawn. Meduin’s Turya sentries accompanied his party until the next settlement, then turned back. Sephil did not pause in this town or the next, nor did he announce his coming. Anyone who noted his passing saw only a high priest of Abh traveling under Khalgari escort. Another, larger town awaited him that night, with fewer

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Turya residents and proportionately more fuss once Sephil was recognized. The mayor, a florid old gentleman, hobbled out on his cane, bellowing at scores of grandchildren and greatgrandchildren to get out of his way so he could greet the king. Then came the usual compliments, and the formulaic recitation of which kings had passed through the town when. “I had two grandsons already when Brasidios last slept here, and just newly married when his father rode this way,” the man announced. Sephil patiently listened to his account, smiling blandly when other, even older townsfolk interjected with their recollections. One ancient crone, her milky eyes staring unfocused into space, called forth the memory of Sephil’s greatgrandfather, Ardahir III. But to Sephil, these were not people or even marble effigies in a crypt, only names in books—or, with his father, a collection of humiliating episodes he preferred to forget. His audience, he quickly noticed, did not mention the previous ruler, the Turya turkan Arzhati. No one had to tell him that there were many in Rhodeen who preferred to pretend that the Turya interregnum had never taken place. Word of his approach spread faster than he could travel. In each town, Sephil, tired and hungry from the day’s ride, encountered throngs of people who turned out to greet him. With a gracious smile belying his exhaustion, he sat through longwinded speeches and hastily-arranged pageants before he was finally able to dismount. While his progress during the day remained unimpeded, Sephil knew the closer he got to the capital the more ceremony he would have to endure. After a sleepless night spent tormented by second-rate musicians serenading him outside his lodging, Sephil drooped in the saddle. A rider with greater skill might have slept along the way, but he feared the moment he nodded off he would find himself on the ground. Beside him, his groom Piras sympathized. “River travel would be less burdensome, my lord.” Less burdensome, yes, but not yet possible. Sephil had seen his son’s ambitious plans to modernize Rhodeen. One of these was a project to dredge the estuary of the Tham, the major

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tributary of the great river that bisected the kingdom, and establish a port town to welcome sea traffic. Merchants from distant Juva and Thrindor, and even the continent across the southern sea could more easily do business in Shemin-at-Khul, while a journey from Khalgar that now took weeks might be accomplished in less than a fortnight. Such projects, however, required money, manpower, and support, none of which Zhanil possessed at the moment. Bringing Khalgari engineers in to repair the damage done to Shemin-at-Khul during the Turya occupation had proven difficult enough. Four years later, he still aimed to train native engineers to expand and improve Rhodeen’s antiquated system of roads. His efforts regularly met with resistance from the local nobility who resented foreign intrusion, and from Turya chieftains who failed to see the necessity. Sephil agreed with Piras. “Yes, but sadly I think it will be many years bef—” Shouts erupted in the fore and rear of the train—the hue and cry had been raised. Sephil looked around him, yet saw nothing to warrant Assuras’s sudden wariness. Why is he balking at shadows? Typically a man of good common sense, the captain should have known better. We are in no danger this far into Rhod— An arrow suddenly whizzed out of nowhere, barely missing his cheek, and lodged in the captain’s throat. As Assuras grunted and fell, his twitching hands still clutching at his spouting carotid artery, Sephil felt Piras seize him around the middle. His strangled cry vanished amidst a cacophony of shouting men and the neighing of agitated horses. More arrows cut through the air. Sephil heard the dull thuds as they pierced the earth all around him, but by then he was facedown in the grass with Piras draped protectively over his back. Baggage carts toppled, sending trunks and bundles tumbling onto the ground. A jar shattered, spraying wine, and the draft horses struggled in their traces. Sephil froze in terror, waiting breathlessly for the arrow that would find his sleeve, his head, his exposed arms. Who would do this? This was Zhanil’s kingdom. “What is going on?” he choked. Piras’s body over his meant he could scarcely breathe.

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“I—” Piras’s reply terminated in a grunt and shudder. Sephil called out again, this time yielding no response. “Piras!” Hooves trampled the earth nearby, then heavy footfalls. Sephil heard jingling harnesses and rough voices. A pair of boots halted beside him. He smelled the oil used to keep the leather supple, and churned mud and horse dung. Suddenly the weight lifted off his back, but before he could brace himself on his arms and get to his feet, hands seized his shoulders and hauled him upright. He blinked, gasping for breath, for some support amidst the chaos. It took him a moment to realize the men crowding around him were neither his attendants nor his rescuers. Everywhere he looked he saw carnage. Bodies riddled with arrows lay prone in the grass, some pinned under their fallen mounts. Wounded horses struggled in the turf, ceasing only when a club or quick knife to the throat ended their suffering. Sephil glanced down at his feet to where Piras sprawled on his stomach, an arrow protruding from his back, his eyes staring sightlessly. Sephil started to bend down to close the groom’s eyes, but the restraining hands only tightened their grip, eliciting pain. “You have no time for that,” said a voice. A balding, massively built man came toward him, trailed by several archers and swordsmen. All were light-haired, all native Rhodeen. Staring at him, Sephil could not grasp at what had just occurred, only that the man now looming over him looked like a mercenary, a thug. “Do you know who I am?” he asked shakily. In another moment, he thought he would vomit. To his utter amazement, the brute executed a perfect courtly bow. “You are King Sephil Brasides,” he said. “Yes, we know who you are.” “Then why have you attacked my escort?” While he spoke, channeling every ounce of his failing nerve into remaining calm, Sephil could not help but stare at Piras. His groom had served him faithfully for more than twenty-five years, remaining by his side long after he could have retired. A knot formed in his throat. What am I going to tell his family? “We were on our way to Shemin-at-Khul.”

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The mercenary merely laughed. “And so you are,” he replied. “Except now we will be your escort.” **** From the gallery outside, abruptly shattering the afternoon quiet, came a commotion of hooves, heavy footfalls, and urgent voices. Ketalya looked up from her needlework, then lifted her hand to silence her ladies as she listened more carefully. Few would presume to cause such a disturbance near her apartments, and only then with good reason. “Larien,” she said to the middle-aged woman nearest the door, “go see what the matter is.” Moments later, the lady returned with a disheveled man Ketalya knew well, yet hardly expected to see in Bhellin. “Amset, what brings you here?” The captain of Rhodeen’s Royal Home Guard dropped to one knee, remained there as Ketalya dismissed all her ladies except her chief attendant, and made his apologies. “Madam, I realize this is unannounced, but the circumstances... We have ridden in haste from Shemin-at-Khul, the queen and her children... We have had to flee—” Where Amset would have gone on breathlessly, Ketalya sharply gestured him silent. “Please, get up and start from the beginning. Larien, bring him something to drink.” As the woman went to a corner cabinet for wine and a glass, Ketalya urged the captain to take one of the vacant chairs. “Now why are you here with my son’s wife and children? Why has Zhanil not come with you?” Amset pushed aside a sewing basket to claim the nearest chair. “There has been a coup in Rhodeen, madam. Several dissidents managed to get into the palace with armed men—” “Is it not your job to see that does not happen?” Ketalya’s mind worked feverishly. A coup meant Zhanil had been driven from the throne. His wife and children had escaped without him. Amset never stated that he was dead or taken captive, but that in itself meant nothing. (o, it is too soon to think the worst. The mother must wait. Now she must be a queen.

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“Yes, madam,” Amset admitted, “but they struck while the guard was changing shifts. Those in the barracks were waylaid, and the others your son the king sent with me to protect his wife and children. We got them to Tal Charne when we received orders to ride for the border.” He took the wine from Larien, thanking her with a nod, but did not drink. “One of the king’s Turya guards caught up to us two days later with new orders to seek refuge here. He could tell me very little except that the king and his remaining guard have been forced out of the city. Where they are now, I do not know. My son has gone with them.” A lesser woman would have clung to Amset and pressed for details he clearly did not have or reassurance he could not give her. Etiquette, however, demanded that Ketalya let him rest while she made inquiries. No sooner had Larien closed the wine cabinet than Ketalya sent her to make arrangements for her daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Then she sent for the steward, instructing him to make certain that Amset and his men were comfortably lodged, while a messenger was dispatched to her brother the king. Ettarin would want this information, if he had not already heard it from Rhodeen’s ambassador. “Madam, I will go myself to the king and explain,” said Amset. “That is not necessary.” She raised her hand to stay him. “He will send for you when he is ready.” Larien presently returned. Saraji and her children had been given lodgings on the other side of the courtyard. “I thought it best, my lady.” She went on to explain how the young queen, though exhausted from her trip and heavily pregnant, lost no time in haranguing the staff over every detail. “She does not like the bed or the clothing we offered. The bath is not suitable, the view from her window not acceptable, and I am sure there is more but no one can understand her. As for the children, we are doing our best to comfort them.” “The queen speaks Tajhaani when she is upset.” Amset gave a tired shrug. “Her attendants at court have told me that much of it is not fit to be translated.” How Zhanil tolerated this foreign shrew Ketalya had no idea. “Bring the boys to me, and give Saraji something for her

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nerves. If she still refuses to cooperate, send for her half-brother and have him order her to calm down.” “Had he only been with us from the start,” remarked Amset. “Forgive me, madam, but I have had to listen to the lady all the way from Shemin-at-Khul. It would have been easier to leave her behind at the sanctuary in Ottabia, and I would have had the king’s instructions not been clear. She and the princes are to remain with you and your husband until he sends for them.” “But my husband is not here.” Only then did Ketalya realize the added danger of the situation, for now it went beyond a palace uprising and her son’s hasty flight into parts unknown. What peril is Sephil riding into? “Surely you know he is on his way to Shemin-at-Khul for the birth.” Amset blanched, then slowly shook his head. “Madam,” he croaked, “we have had no word, and we did not meet him on the road.”

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Chapter Two Finally, it seemed, he had room to breathe. Had the Dolmen Pass been wider or not so perfectly situated for an ambush, Zhanil might have felt more secure. Even though this was the nearest route through the mountains, manned mostly by Turyar, for all he knew the coup could have easily extended this far. Not knowing was the worst—how many enemies, or how great their reach. And once he reached the Turya-lands, what welcome awaited him there? His Turya allies, save for the handful who fled with him, were all in Rhodeen, left behind by a turkan who had not stood his ground and fought. Of course, he had had practical reasons for not doing so. Who could say how deep the treachery ran, or who among the king’s subjects could be trusted? The public, however, cared nothing for political niceties. They would look no farther than the surface, and Zhanil knew what they would see there. They will say I am a coward. Zhanil knew only one man in the west, and Kargil was not his friend. Whenever he glanced up he saw the walls of the pass rising eighty feet or more above his head, sometimes separated by so narrow a break that the sky was reduced to a thin ribbon of blue. How odd that this cleft, carved by wind and water and earth tremors over uncounted eons, should be the main thoroughfare between Rhodeen and the Turya-lands. No wonder the Turya invasion had come farther south; this route was barely wide enough at its greatest point to accommodate four men abreast. Any army that attempted to cut through the mountains at this point would be vulnerable to attack on the Rhodeen side. In the years following the invasion, the Turyar had undertaken the maintenance Rhodeen had neglected, clearing

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debris and marking springs. While Zhanil appreciated the supply of fresh drinking water, the path remained rough, and at any moment he expected a cascade of rocks to shower down upon him. “There are no ways up to those heights,” Kalmeki reported earlier. “Our people have searched from both sides.” Zhanil did not trust his optimism. There was no guarantee that his enemies would not find some goatherd who could lead them along an obscure mountain trail above the pass. His fears, coupled with his anger and the persistent ache in his upper arm, made it difficult to rest. Not since before the coup had he slept soundly, and he knew it made him short-tempered. I want to believe him. Kalmeki, as filthy and exhausted as he, maintained a constant vigil, while urging the other guards to rest in shifts. I believed I was safe before. Gods, I want to believe him. I want to be past this danger so I can think what to do next. Near sunset on the fourth day, they left the pass and descended into rolling foothills carpeted in yellow beardtongue, yarrow, and rough fescue. With his knowledge of the landscape, Kalmeki led the way up a weed-choked path to the ruins of a dilapidated fortress built and then abandoned by Zhanil’s ancestors. “We will share lodgings with the owls tonight,” he said, “but at least we will have shelter.” Wearily, he placed a hand on Zhanil’s shoulder, the only one who dared such familiarity. “No one will follow us into these lands. Rhodani fear the sea of grass.” Rhodani: a new word to describe a new people—native Rhodeen and Turyar living as neighbors, exchanging customs and bloodlines. Zhanil had coined the term in the first year of his reign, yet, like much else he tried to do, it never caught on. Harkil, one of the Turya Guard, took charge of the horses, while two others gathered brush and twigs for a fire. With misgivings, Zhanil regarded the ruined central hall. Crumbling masonry and bird droppings had nearly obliterated all traces of the building’s origin; only the fragment of a royal sunburst on the lintel above the entrance hinted at a past as one of a string of fortresses west of the Arpan Mountains. Centuries ago, it seemed Rhodeen had not viewed the grasslands with trepidation.

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Once, this hall would have been surrounded by barracks and outbuildings. Turya raiders had driven the defenders back beyond the mountains, and nature had reclaimed the place. As Kalmeki pulled the remains of a fallen sapling from the ruins of a generous hearth pit, Zhanil saw a snake whip across the broken floor before disappearing into a crevice. “Tomorrow we may be able to hunt before moving on,” said Kalmeki. “I am afraid it is too dark now.” Amhir brought Zhanil’s blanket and a leather bag containing their dwindling rations. What supplies they had been able to grab during their flight had sustained them for nearly five days, but now in this wild country, Zhanil did not know where or how he would survive. Even shelter would prove elusive, for the Turyar kept few permanent shelters, and his guards had neither tents nor a yurt among the baggage. Zhanil had not even been able to grab his Turya composite bow from its place above the mantle before his bodyguards hustled him from his besieged apartments. Kalmeki had given him that bow, made it with his own hands, and it pained Zhanil to picture his enemies tossing it on the fire along with everything else associated with the hated Turyar. Now he sat in a daze before the ruined hearth, too tired for sleep and trembling from the loss of the adrenaline that had kept him alert through the last few days. As his men moved around him, he tried to anchor himself and comprehend what had happened. I took every precaution. The thought cycled through his head, again and again until it became meaningless. They attacked me in my own house. I tried to be reasonable, I tried to give them what they wanted, and they attacked me. “You need medicine, sir.” Amhir nodded toward Zhanil’s injured arm. Bound with a crude bandage fashioned from torn strips of cloth, the wound was a gash that in quieter times would have taken stitches. Lacking leisure and materials, as well as painkillers, Zhanil had tended to his injury by bathing away the dried blood and changing the bandage at each spring. I don’t even remember how I got this. “I doubt it’ll go bad.” “Sir—” “Leave me alone.”

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Any other man would have obeyed, but Amhir belonged to the Royal Home Guard, and was the only one among the group to have been trained by the king’s childhood bodyguard, Adeja ked Shamuz. As a result, he left nothing to chance. When a weary Zhanil tried to dismiss him, he stood his ground and appealed to Kalmeki. “Would you talk to him?” Kalmeki waited until Amhir stepped aside before ordering Zhanil to remove the bandage. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Zhanil peeled away the bandage and the scab that had begun to form, wishing for once that his bond with the Turya warrior did not compel him to obey. Fresh blood welled out. Zhanil, hissing at the sting, dabbed at it. “It’s nothing.” Forced levity strained his tone. “The color is good.” Kalmeki did not speak, simply motioned him over to the fire where he could take a closer look. “Amhir is right,” he finally said. “When we reach the first settlement you will have this properly stitched up or it will not heal as it should. In the meantime, there are herbs in these meadows that will clean the wound and lessen the pain. In the morning I will look for them.” I should care. Blinking back his exhaustion, he forced himself to take an interest. Kalmeki must be his guide now. “How far is this first settlement?” asked Zhanil. “We will reach it tomorrow.” Kalmeki rummaged through Zhanil’s few belongings for the shirt used to make bandages. With his knife he carefully cut one strip off the garment, then another. “It is not a large place. There are beds and food, kept for travelers going between these lands and Rhodeen. Perhaps they already know we are coming.” Zhanil clenched his teeth as Kalmeki cleaned the wound with water and dressed it; the discarded bandage went into the fire. “We’d better tell them that it isn’t safe for Turyar to travel to Rhodeen at the moment.” Kalmeki neither agreed nor gave any other sign that he was listening. Unless it was a matter of security, he never ventured an opinion unless Zhanil asked outright. For four days, he had said nothing about the coup, merely went about his business leading the king and the king’s Turya bodyguards to safety.

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His silence was maddening, more so because Zhanil knew precisely what he thought. Since the beginning, Kalmeki had urged him to take on more Turya guards and advisers. But Zhanil, seeking to reconcile the two peoples who now inhabited Rhodeen, instead opted for balance. His own bodyguard was Turya, but the Home Guard was native, as it had been before the interregnum. Some of the more rigid Turya laws were repealed. Expatriates were encouraged to return. Despite the resistance he encountered from the hardliners among the old nobility, and despite his inability to undertake his more ambitious projects for Rhodeen, Zhanil had believed right up until the last moment that his rule was and would continue to be successful. True, his queen was not popular, but through her paternal line she belonged to the old dynasty and had produced two fine sons; he took pains to stress those points whenever the dissidents began to grumble. “You don’t want a Turya king,” he told them. “Ardal and Thanol are as pureblooded as you could possibly want.” It was also true that his father did not spend as much time in Rhodeen as his royal position demanded. Sephil was naturally reticent, reluctant to interfere in politics, so Zhanil excused his absences, and allowed Saraji to keep her Tajhaani name and dress to placate her. She was a harmless creature. What did it matter that she kept her native customs of seclusion as long as she provided heirs? Rhodeen’s royal women were expected to remain quietly, obediently in the background, and the people loved the young princes. Now, when it was too late, he saw his mistake. Amset, sensing danger, had suggested placing spies in the households of potential dissidents. Although Zhanil agreed, the networks that had existed before the interregnum were no more. The Turyar under turkan Arzhati had not understood the need for spies, and so never used them. Importing trained people from Tajhaan or Khalgar proved ineffective, as their darker coloring made them too conspicuous. I should have had the dissidents arrested and questioned on suspicion of treason. I should have replaced the naysayers on my council at once.

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Frustrated, he dug his knuckles into his eyes. Gods, what am I saying? A king who made the laws was not above them, and a king could not replace his councilors without giving good reason. Zhanil flexed his arm under the bandage until a stab of pain made him wince. Rather than let his bodyguards immediately hustle him to safety he had grabbed his sword and raced for the royal apartments, where the ensuing scuffle bought Saraji and the children time to escape. Before Kalmeki and the Turya Guard could haul him away, Zhanil had managed to order Amset to take charge of his family. Briefly, Zhanil considered joining his wife and sons in Khalgar. However, where Saraji and the children could enter unannounced as supplicants, it went against protocol for him, a foreign king, to cross Khalgar’s borders without express permission. And he could not afford to sit on the border to wait for his uncle’s invitation while his enemies closed in. “I’ve been stupid,” he said quietly. “Yes, you have.” Zhanil glared at Kalmeki. As much as he knew the verdict was coming, and that he deserved it, foreknowledge made it no easier to bear. “You have been soft with your enemies,” explained Kalmeki. “You should have rooted them out the moment you suspected them.” Zhanil chewed thoughtfully on the biscuit Amhir gave him; it tasted like paper. “Rhodeen isn’t the Turya-lands. I can’t just execute or banish nobles who disagree with me.” “You can if they are a threat.” At this, Zhanil snorted. I wish I’d listened to you before. “(ow I can, of course.” He choked down the morsel, took a swig of water, then passed the skin to Kalmeki. “I’m so tired of trying to be reasonable with everyone.” “If you had negotiated more with your sword than with your tongue—” “Gods, you don’t have to tell me.” “This is only the second time I have told you,” Kalmeki pointed out. “Perhaps if I had said it more often you would not be in this situation.”

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Zhanil let the comment slide. “After this settlement you mentioned, where do we go?” Kalmeki took his time about answering, and then the answer was not quite what Zhanil expected. “First we will see my father. He will advise us.” With a twig he stirred the fire. Around them, the men who did not have the night watch had begun to bed down. Somehow in this wilderness, with the dry biscuit sitting like a brick in his stomach, surrounded by fears and night noises, Zhanil had to try to get some rest. “After that there is only one path. You must go to Hapaniku.” Hapaniku. Kargil. Zhanil put his face in his hands. “I might as well turn around and go home.” Kalmeki seemed to read his thoughts. “Your cousin does not rule at Hapaniku,” he said. “No, his grandfather does, and I can’t imagine Atalash will look favorably on some foreigner who not only took Kargil’s throne but then lost it so easily. So I might as well go home.” Kalmeki stared hard at him. “You are very harsh with yourself.” “It was you who once said the Turya-lands were no place for weaklings.” “Are you a weakling, then?” Zhanil did not answer. What could he possibly say that would not be a lie? A turkan who did not watch his back or quell the voices of dissention did not survive. We’re not in the fucking Turya-lands. Once, he would have said it. Now he understood better. Arzhati had kept the peace in Rhodeen through his iron will and a sword to match. I did not want to be like him. I did not want to have to oppress my people to rule them. Now, too late, he realized there might not be any other way. It isn’t enough to want peace. You have to make it happen. “I do not want to have to spill blood.” In the firelight, Kalmeki’s gaze became stone. “Then you have already lost.” ****

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I have been stupid. Yes, you have. That was the least of what Kalmeki wanted to say. Now, in the deepest night, in this ruined place with only the mice and his fellow guards for company, he replayed the conversation, just as he continued to revisit the chaotic events that had brought them to this forlorn outpost. Even as the king’s chief bodyguard and captain of the Turya Guard, at some point he must stop blaming himself for the breach of security that had facilitated the coup. Biting back his anger, Kalmeki glared down at the sleeping Zhanil. Safe now from pursuit on the western side of the pass, he could have bedded down as well. Lack of rest led a warrior to make costly mistakes. It made him short-tempered where he should be calm and observant. But no amount of rest would change the truth: Zhanil tried too hard to be a king, as the east-landers styled it, when the situation demanded the iron hand of a turkan. I do not want to have to spill blood. A turkan who was not willing to strike off an enemy’s head did not survive—even when his enemies were not Turyar. Kalmeki tried more than once to tell him, tried to impress upon him the need for strength and unwavering will, to little avail. Zhanil was too young, too naïve, and too set in his belief that he must obey the law. You don’t understand, Kalmeki. The constant refrain made him deaf to all persuasion or caution. I do understand, Zhanil, and so does everyone around you. More than that, Kalmeki understood how it had happened. Zhanil’s maternal grandfather, not knowing what to do with his troublesome grandson, had banished the youth to the military to give him discipline. All Ampheres had done was destroyed a prince’s ability to lead; Zhanil knew how to follow orders far better than he gave him. Kalmeki felt the sharp sting of shame, for now he must go home to his family and present Zhanil as his keshka, his nametwin, his other half, knowing full well what his father would say: “This man—this boy—reflects poorly on you, son.” I should leave him.

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How easy it was to say, and how impossible to do! All those times before, in the days when Zhanil was merely a prince, when Kalmeki as ambassador to Khalgar tried to avoid him, to hate him—they taught him there was no escape. No matter how hard he had tried, or how far he traveled, always he kept coming back. Leaning into the firelight, Kalmeki knotted his hands into fists—fists to both protect and pummel his king, his love, into seeing common sense. Zhanil, he thought, be worthy of me. **** Although her half-brother Nurad had come from the sanctuary of Abh to translate, Saraji refused to calm down. Shaking his head, the young man explained, “She insists she will be cast out onto the street as a useless widow, and her children will be orphans and beggars.” “That is nonsense,” said Ketalya. “She is a royal woman with powerful relations. What madness possesses her to think this?” Nurad nodded his agreement. “Forgive me, my lady, but her mother is the same. There are many harem ladies who complain this way when some ill befalls their husbands or fathers, because they believe they will have no one to protect them. They are not used to shifting for themselves. I have tried to explain that she is safe and must do as she is told, but Saraji will only obey her husband, or her uncle the High Prince of Tajhaan.” “Surely the foolish woman knows that neither one is here.” “Yes, my lady,” said Nurad. “The only other she might obey is our father.” Ketalya would have liked nothing better than to hand this shrill, irrational woman over to her husband or maternal uncle. As for the other option, she did not want to have to resort to freeing Dashir Serrides from his remote monastery prison just so he could put his daughter in her place. “I do not know what value mothers have in Tajhaan, but kindly remind your sister that I am her mother-in-law, and I will slap sense into her if she does not cease her constant complaints. She will lose her child if she

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does not calm down, and she cannot afford a miscarriage so late in her pregnancy.” As Nurad translated, Ketalya quietly escorted her daughter from the room. Ellina had said very little since learning that her father and brother were both missing, the latter possibly dead, yet even anxiety and her sister-in-law’s aggravating presence could not disguise the obvious interest she showed in the handsome Nurad. Cousin or not, the surviving son of Dashir Serrides by a secondary wife was, by Khalgari standards, a bastard, with no lands or wealth to call his own. No matter that twenty-year-old Ellina would inherit several estates from her parents, Nurad would never make her a suitable husband, no matter how high he rose in the priesthood of Abh. Over the years, Ketalya had hoped her daughter’s youthful infatuation would fade. When it did not, she went so far as to bar Ellina from visiting the sanctuary where Nurad served as an acolyte. In this matter, Sephil concurred, and limited his daughter’s visits to times when he knew his charge would not be present. “Why does Saraji behave so badly?” Ellina asked quietly. “Because your brother tries too hard to win her affection and does not have his mother at court to remind him how a royal woman should act,” answered Ketalya. “Here comes Lady Larien. You two will go outside in this fine weather and exercise. I will not have you confined with this foolish, hysterical woman until she learns to become more agreeable.” Ellina gave her a knowing look, but let the stout lady-inwaiting lead her down the gallery. Ketalya shut out the sounds of rapid Tajhaani drifting in from the salon. Dealing with Saraji, pregnant or not, was never pleasant. Whatever the young queen had learned as a girl in the harem, it had not included how to behave with dignity and good common sense. Ketalya pitied poor Amset for having to put up with the woman, while allowing herself a brief smile at the thought of how Amset’s predecessor would have dealt with her. Adeja ked Shamuz might have been an uncouth desert brute, but he was no fool, and within five minutes would have barked at Zhanil’s queen to do as she was told and keep her mouth shut like a Tajhaani woman should.

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The amusing image was almost enough to make Ketalya regret his death. I am tempted to put that girl out on the street myself, she thought. Yet she would not. For all her complaints, Saraji might indeed be a widow, her children fatherless. Ketalya tried not to dwell on the possibility that her son was dead, not while she still lacked word of her husband. I might be a widow myself. Surely the dissidents who had unseated Zhanil had no reason to harm Sephil, but in these unsettled times, nothing was certain. He should never have gone. Ketalya never liked it when her husband crossed the border into Rhodeen, a land that had never been kind to him. Sephil’s long absence meant her bed remained cold, and Rhodeen’s lack of serviceable roads meant his letters to her often arrived weeks late. In earlier days, when their children were still young, she scarcely missed him, though he usually went no farther than the sanctuary of Abh in Rhodeen. Now she could not bear being parted from him for more than a day, for somehow in their middle age, with his flagging desire and her barren womb, they had found each other, and she could only wonder why it had taken twenty years. Oh, she knew perfectly well. Adeja’s death had dissolved the barrier of silence between them, and driven the heat from her husband’s loins. To comfort him, she sent the boys she knew he liked, only to have him turn them away. All Sephil wanted was her company, perhaps her arms around him at night, and it was enough. He should have stayed here with me until the birth. Zhanil could have dealt with his own mess. Dissident factions in Rhodeen were nothing new. The old nobility wanted more concessions than their young king was willing or even able to give. Rhodeen could not afford to evict the Turyar, who now made up the backbone of its army, and shatter the fragile peace so meticulously crafted by its former ruler, Arzhati. Ketalya understood her son’s position, yet after five years she thought he had done enough compromising. Those who would not cooperate must be put in their place or, if need be, eliminated altogether.

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At twenty-five, Zhanil was still young, still idealistic even after the ceaseless threats to his life in childhood. But a mother understood how to be hard. **** The mercenary was Besan Palassos. A lord of Rhodeen, he was one of the few with military training who had survived the Turya interregnum, and thus had been entrusted with an army command that enabled him to mobilize men both in Shemin-atKhul and in the field. This information he proudly relayed to Sephil, whom he placed back on his horse with his hands bound to the pommel once he ascertained that the senior king was unhurt. “Not all the army is Turya scum,” he said. Sephil did not argue with him. My son entrusted you with his soldiers for the defense of the realm. (ow you have betrayed him. All he could do was wonder who else in Rhodeen had turned against their king. Palassos treated him well, occasionally allowing him to dismount and stretch or relieve himself by the side of the road, but always with armed men watching, and always with the underlying threat of violence should Sephil decide to become uncooperative. Other than his lineage, Palassos offered no information except that Zhanil had been displaced from his throne and driven out of Rhodeen with his Turya lackeys. “Good riddance,” spat Palassos. Sephil gathered enough courage to inquire about Zhanil’s wife and children, while trying not to picture the fate visited on his brother’s family more than twenty-five years ago. Saraji, for all her royal blood, clung to her Tajhaani ways, which did not endear her to her husband’s subjects. Palassos shrugged broad shoulders. “I have no idea where the royal bitch is. You can ask the other regents when you see them.” “And who are these...regents?” No answer came. Palassos clearly enjoyed withholding information, just as he seemed to rue his inability to deliver a

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few blows for intimidation’s sake. Sephil struggled to hide his fear long enough at least to insist that his dead attendants receive a proper burial. “These men have been with me for years,” he said. “They were no enemies of yours.” Palassos cut him short with a gruff threat. “You do as we tell you, not the other way around, and just be thankful you are not joining them. I might not be able to touch you, but if you give me trouble I can still make your life very unpleasant.” To ensure that no one interfered or marked his journey through central Rhodeen, Sephil’s captors traveled by night. On the fifth day since the attack, they exchanged their horses for a boat to take them up the river Khul, and Sephil was confined to a windowless cabin below deck. Palassos refused permission to let him exercise in the open air even after sunset. “Your white robe will attract attention,” he said, “and I will not risk having you throw yourself over the side in some stupidly noble gesture.” One evening, as Sephil stared at an untouched bowl of stew, Palassos entered with four armed men and a dark cloak, which he promptly flung at his prisoner. “Put this on and say nothing.” Above deck, Sephil discerned buildings and towers, black against a twilit sky. We are already here. Even at dusk, he recognized the skyline of Shemin-at-Khul. Water lapped at the boat’s hull, casting languid ripples as the oarsmen guided it to anchor alongside a stone quay. Two torches fluttered in the breeze, mere pinpricks against the overwhelming blackness of Tal Sepha, Pyramid of the Moon. From there, Palassos led him on a short walk to the palace, where they encountered neither guards nor servants, then up a flight of stairs, down a deserted corridor, and into a spacious apartment overlooking an enclosed courtyard. Garishly decorated with silks and gilded trappings, these were not the rooms Sephil had occupied during his infrequent visits. As two servants brought in clean clothes, hot water, and a meal he feared to touch, he quickly grasped that they were deaf and dumb. Hunched deep in thought before the fire, the soup and chicken growing cold beside him, Sephil did not notice the richly dressed man who entered until the visitor loudly cleared his throat. “You will forgive the intrusion at this late hour, but we wished to see that you are settled and comfortable. I am—”

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“Ethurel Irides,” finished Sephil. “Yes, I remember you.” The nobleman, now thicker in the belt with jowls to match, had belonged to his intimate circle during his wild youth. Ethurel was a false friend, a flatterer. Sephil wondered how calculated his appearance was. Did the regents mean to presume upon his old acquaintance with the man, or stir uncomfortable memories to remind him how precarious his reputation still was in certain quarters? Images flashed in his mind—wild parties livened by naked youths dancing in the candlelight, orgies, and the blue haze of kif drifting through the air. “I remember you, Lord Ethurel.” “So you do.” Ethurel offered a tight smile. “And are you comfortable? I see you have not touched your supper. Is the food not to your liking?” Sephil stiffened in his chair. “My attendants were murdered in front of me, denied a proper burial. And I have been hustled along through central Rhodeen by some brute like so much baggage. I have no idea why I have been seized thus, or what has happened to my son or his family. But other than that, I am perfectly comfortable.” The corner of Ethurel’s mouth twitched, as it had so often done when he was displeased. “Sephil, you may be a crowned king, and will receive every consideration due your status, but you would do well to remember that you are a prisoner. These attendants…” He motioned to the two men who went about their tasks oblivious to the conversation. “They may be a poor replacement for the servants you lost, but they do their work well. Of course, we will make certain your Khalgari attendants receive proper burials, and on behalf of the other regents, I apologize for the necessity which forced us to eliminate them and leave them lying. Securing your person was of the utmost importance.” “Other regents? Then you are one of these traitors?” Ethurel glossed over the remark. “Provided you cooperate, you will be allowed to exercise outside, and even visit the temple of Abh and play at being a priest, since you do it so well. For your entertainment, we have pleasure slaves. Unfortunately, the Turyar did not approve of the practice and eradicated the native boys, so we have had to import them from Khalgar and Tajhaan,

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but these delectable morsels know their business. They should keep you well satisfied.” The glint in his eyes hinted at personal knowledge Sephil wished he did not have. “I assume you are going to tell me what has happened to my son and his family?” Ethurel shrugged, then, taking a seat across from Sephil, helped himself to an untouched biscuit on the tray. “I imagine your daughter-in-law and grandchildren are on their way to Khalgar. As for your son, he was last seen running for the Dolmen Pass.” So Zhanil would seek refuge in the Turya-lands. Sephil felt some of the tension drain from his body. The grasslands west of the mountains might be wild country, but if Kalmeki was with him, Zhanil would be safe. “Need I ask why you suddenly decided to overthrow your rightful king?” Frowning, Ethurel chewed, then swallowed before reaching for the decanter of wine. “If you spent more time in Rhodeen you would not have to ask. You would understand our grievances.” “I am not ignorant,” Sephil said coldly. “I am not entirely sympathetic, either. Zhanil has granted you more concessions than you ever had under turkan Arzhati. You should be pleased.” “Pleased?” sputtered Ethurel. “Your son is young and naïve, but how can you, born and brought up in the old ways, possibly think we would be pleased when Rhodeen still suffers under the yoke of the Turyar?” “You forget that I had little to do with politics during my father’s reign.” Ethurel nodded. “Turya chieftains occupy our lands, they have taken seats on our ruling council, and they make laws for their own benefit. No, that most certainly does not please us.” This argument Sephil had heard before, repeated in frustration by Zhanil himself. They want to go back, but going back is impossible. Too much has changed. “And what do you propose should be done about it?” he asked. “It has been more than twenty-five years. Surely you realize the Turyar cannot be evicted so easily. They have intermarried with our people, and they make up most of the army. Should you try, there will be

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civil war.” “There will be no more settlement,” Ethurel said firmly. “Those who are already here may, of course, stay, but under our laws, under a king we choose.” Once again, I am a pawn, reduced to nothing, yet this time Adeja will not come to save me. Sephil could only wonder what part the usurpers intended him to play in all this. Suddenly, watching his former friend glare into the flames as he sipped his wine, he was not certain he wished to know.

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Chapter Three “My apologies, sir, but they will not negotiate.” Dyri Arrideos, Rhodeen’s ambassador to Khalgar, spread his hands in a helpless gesture as Ettarin looked on. Lakkel, the Turya ambassador, sat quietly beside him. Thus far, he had said nothing. Concealing her rising annoyance behind a regal, placid mask, Ketalya wondered how quickly the usurpers in Rhodeen would have dismissed her father’s inquiries. Old Ampheres would have roared at such insolence until the ambassadors shit themselves in terror. “Then how do they expect us to recognize their coup as legitimate?” she asked. Arrideos looked trapped. “Madam, they are using the fact that they hold King Sephil to strengthen their position. While I have their assurances that the king is unharmed, his captors stand on their demands. First and foremost, they want the old line restored—” “They have a king of the old dynasty,” she said sharply. Ettarin cleared his throat. Father would have ordered me to be quiet, or leave the room, Ketalya thought. Her brother, though well groomed for his role as Khalgar’s king, lacked their father’s formidable personality. “I am assuming they mean they want the old status quo restored, with no interference from the Turyar.” At last, Lakkel spoke, “The chieftains and I have tried to explain that this is not possible. These men do not wish to listen to us. We desire peace, but these men do not desire us.” Arrideos continued, “These so-called regents have a further demand, which I am sure neither of you will wish to hear. They insist that you send one of King Zhanil’s sons back to Rhodeen so he can be crowned.”

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“No grandson of mine will be a puppet-king,” said Ketalya. “You may tell them that, if my husband has not already done so.” Ettarin nodded toward the two men. “Thank you, Lord Arrideos, Lord Lakkel. We will return an answer to you within the day.” Once the ambassadors were gone, he turned to Ketalya. “I will not give in to their demands, and I cannot risk war. I have no more options. If they will not negotiate with my envoys, I can only hope these usurpers will listen to a member of their own royal family.” While Ketalya insisted on meeting the ambassadors with her brother, and while as Queen Mother she was determined that Ettarin did not act without her knowledge and consent, maternal instinct tugged strongly at her, urging her to rush back to her apartments to make certain Ardal and his brother remained safe. Amset continued guarding them, yet now additional measures would be required. “Do you honestly think Sephil has not tried to reason with them?” she asked. “I was not thinking of your husband,” replied Ettarin. Ketalya did not care for the other possible option. He cannot be serious. “I do not trust him. He will kill Sephil and seize power at the first opportunity.” “I do not think Prince Dashir would be that foolish, not once we explain the situation to him.” “Once he is beyond Khalgar’s borders, there is nothing to stop him.” Ettarin did not waver. “At one time that might have been true, but consider this: his grandchildren are your grandchildren, and he has nothing to gain by letting them become puppet-rulers. In fact, he has everything to lose. Should he somehow oust the usurpers and clear the way to take the throne for himself, he will face our enmity. Without his grandsons, he has no heirs, and we will not hand them over.” “He could take another wife and begin a new dynasty,” Ketalya pointed out. “(ot while he is still married to Mahtal ked Armajid’s sisters. He cannot afford to have enemies on three fronts, and he will if he betrays his blood-kin.”

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How sound her brother’s logic was, she reflected, and how easily he dismissed her only son, the rightful king. “Zhanil…” Slowly he shook his head. “We do not know at this point, and we cannot wait to find out.” **** Although Sephil knew he was not the only royal held captive by the self-styled regents, he was not permitted to see or correspond with his cousin Thano. “For now,” explained Ethurel, “it is best that you remain apart.” Ethurel remained his sole liaison with the other usurpers. An easygoing man, Ethurel’s past history as part of the senior king’s inner circle made it difficult to negotiate with him, for under his courteous manner always lurked the same condescending tone. He thinks I am a complete idiot. And you want him to think that. “What mischief could we possibly cause?” Sighing heavily, Ethurel explained, “There are those who believe you might conspire to overthrow us.” Sephil did his best to look surprised. “Thano is only a woman, and I have absolutely no stomach for intrigue. My wife manages the servants and the household funds. She even tells the groom—told him, poor Piras—what clothes to lay out for me. You know how little I know of these matters.” “And yet you are a king,” observed Ethurel. “Only because my father-in-law insisted upon it. Ampheres did not think the people would accept Zhanil, young as he was, as sole king. I tried to tell him I knew nothing about statecraft, but no one could ever argue with the old man. Zhanil never had me sit on the council, though. You know that. I would have just been taking up a seat, and bored to tears.” Ethurel waited a moment before answering, “If you continue to cooperate as you have been doing, perhaps a visit might be arranged. However, I make no promises.” Once the man left and the servants discreetly withdrew, Sephil let his calm façade slip away. Whatever hope he cherished—that the regents might see reason or that Khalgar’s

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ambassadors might persuade them to let the senior king leave Rhodeen—diminished by the day. When he peered into the looking glass, he saw a face still youthful at forty-six. Gray threaded his hair, cropped short in the fashion of the priesthood of Abh, and streaked his thin beard. It was not, he decided, the face of a king. In this, at least, he did not have to lie. Taking a seat by the window, he looked out at Tal Sepha. His former prison, selected by his father to keep him as far removed from court and the rest of the royal family as possible, had encompassed a nearly identical vista. Had this room, like so much else, been chosen deliberately to remind him of his own insignificance? A hand fell on his shoulder, squeezed lightly, then withdrew. Startled by the sudden intimacy, and knowing he had not heard the servants enter, Sephil turned. No one was there. I am imagining things. Sadness accompanied his gaze back to the window. He would have liked someone to sit with him and put an arm around him. Sunlight slanted through the glass, yet lent no warmth; the room suddenly felt cold. Sephil drew his robe more closely about him and pressed his forehead against the pane. Had Adeja only been there, even posted at the door two rooms away, the burden would have been so much easier to bear. Unbidden, a tear rolled down his cheek. Exactly what the regents meant by cooperation, Sephil did not learn until the fourth week of his captivity when Ethurel’s father came to see him. In their youth, Ethurel had occasionally mentioned his father in passing, giving Sephil the impression of a shrewd, tight-fisted man who was difficult to please. For once, the perception matched reality. Sephil had met Irial Callios for the first time at the coronation banquet, and instantly pegged the man as someone who might potentially cause Zhanil problems. His instincts were borne out almost at once, when at Zhanil’s first council meeting Callios opposed bringing in Khalgari engineers to fix the damage done to the capital during the Turya invasion. Unlike his son, Callios wasted no time with pleasantries. “We have work for you,” he said. Behind him, a servant brought

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in pen and paper, both forbidden items. “You will write a letter to Khalgar.” Sephil obediently sat down at the desk, but did not take up the pen. “I assume my family already knows I am being held here.” “Indeed,” replied Callios, “and we have assured your brother-in-law’s ambassadors that you are receiving excellent treatment. You may communicate this fact to him and to your lady wife when you direct them to send your grandsons.” “My grandsons?” asked Sephil. “Why in the world would I send for them?” Callios gave him a tolerant look. When he next spoke, he might as well have been explaining to a child. “My son told me you were not very bright. It seems he was correct. It is very simple: Rhodeen needs a king on the throne. Your grandsons are next in line for the kingship, so you must send for them. We will be their loyal regents, and you their loving grandfather.” Sephil hid his irritation behind a bland half-smile. “What about their mother?” “Queen Saraji does not concern us. She may remain in Khalgar, or return to her uncle in Tajhaan. Once her latest issue is weaned, of course, the child will join his or her brothers here in Rhodeen. We are reasonable.” When Callios directed him to begin writing, Sephil quietly refused. “It is no good,” he said. “In Khalgar, they will know I did not write this letter myself. I never presume to give orders like this. My wife will see right through the deception. She will never agree to let the children go, and her brother certainly will not agree.” “Khalgar is not in a position to instruct us,” Callios said coldly. Having made his point, Sephil complied and wrote the letter Callios dictated, able to do so only because he knew it would be exactly as he claimed. Since Callios lacked the intelligence to disguise his demands with the humbler prose of a lack-wit king—precisely the sort of king he and the other usurpers believed their captive to be—neither Ketalya nor Ettarin would ever be fooled into believing those were his words. That same evening, a pleasure slave came to amuse him.

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This dark-haired, supple youth, barely dressed despite the chill in the air, indicated that he was a reward for the king’s obedience. Sephil set down his book as the young man approached and the servants withdrew. “I am Penthé,” said the slave, lisping slightly. Sephil stifled a chuckle at the affectation. “So you are.” Without waiting for leave, Penthé sidled up to him, slid a hand up Sephil’s arm and then down, toying with the sash of his robe. “What is your pleasure tonight?” Had the young man revealed that Ethurel had sent him, Sephil would not have been surprised. Penthé was precisely the sort of delectable morsel he would have devoured in his youth. Now, he simply found Penthé’s mannerisms wearisome. Whatever carnal desire he once felt had died five years ago with Adeja. Since then, nothing. Despite his wife’s good-hearted attempts to please him by sending him partners, despite his occasional attempts to stroke himself and achieve the release his physician prescribed, he had remained celibate. “My pleasure tonight will be a good book and an early bedtime.” Penthé did not take the hint. Laughing, he kissed Sephil’s cheek and undid the sash, his fingers creeping lower, drawing erotic circles around Sephil’s clothed upper thighs, venturing ever closer to his cock until Sephil seized his wrists and firmly pushed his hands aside. “I am dismissing you.” Drawing back, Penthé pouted artfully. “Oh, but I was told that you liked boys.” “Go,” Sephil said firmly, “before I let the servants have you.” Ethurel, as expected, came an hour later. “I understand Penthé was not to your liking.” When Sephil did not respond, he lost his patience. “We meant it as a courtesy. Do not be difficult.” “Then do not send that vulgar little creature again.” Shaking his head and sighing audibly, Ethurel reached for the wine sitting untouched at Sephil’s side. “I do not understand you, Sephil.” “That is because you do not know me very well.” “Oh, come, this business with the priesthood of Abh…” Ethurel acknowledged the book in Sephil’s hand with a derisive

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gesture. “Everyone knows it is a clever bit of propaganda started by your late father-in-law. You need not continue the pretense with me. Have as many boys and orgies as you like. No one will know, and I know you do not have a religious bone in your body.” Sephil closed the book and set it down. “Of course,” he said tightly. I am weary of this business. Weary of being used and misjudged and insulted. “Has it occurred to you that, despite my unnatural lusts, somehow in the last twenty-six years I not only managed to marry but father two children?” Ethurel tossed back the wine, then, when his roving gaze could not locate the bottle, set the glass down. “What we do for duty,” he muttered. “I suppose you were actually reading that book?” “I have read a great many books.” In retrospect, Sephil realized that was not the wisest thing he could have said. Reading implied intelligence, and intelligence could breed a troublemaker. Sephil took care not to mention the subject again. Penthé was not the last pleasure slave the usurpers sent him. A day later, another youth came. Fair-haired, with full, bowshaped lips and blue eyes, he smiled shyly from the doorway until Sephil gestured for him to come in. “My lord,” he said, modestly lowering his eyes, “I was sent to comfort you.” So the regents decided to try a different tactic, replacing brazenness with decorum. “Do I seem to need comfort?” asked Sephil. “That’s for you to decide, my lord. If you don’t wish it…” Something in the young man’s demeanor, perhaps in his large hands or plain speech, told Sephil this was no mere pleasure slave—at least, not in the traditional sense. “What is your name?” “Tarrel, my lord,” replied the youth. On impulse, Sephil indicated a chair. “Sit down—no, you need not undress, and I am not displeased with you. Where is your home, Tarrel?” The question elicited an unexpected catch of breath, teeth clamping down on a soft lower lip, before the young man appeared to remember where he was, and with whom. “There is

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a village just north of Cassaire. That’s where I was born, sir.” Unfortunately, the Turyar did not approve of the practice and eradicated the native boys, so we have had to import them from Khalgar and Tajhaan, but these delectable morsels know their business. Ethurel gave no hint that other arrangements might be made, but in Tarrel’s reserved manner and speech Sephil sensed a market for native pleasure slaves remained—and a trade not averse to seizing comely youths from their families and forcing them into the beds of those willing to pay for the privilege. “Tarrel,” he asked quietly, “are you here willingly?” At this, a second unanticipated question, the young man looked up, then away. A flush crept across his face. “I’m not ashamed to serve the king, if that’s what he wants.” Sephil followed his line of sight, and was not surprised to find it led to the doorway. We are being watched. “That is not what I asked. The pleasure slaves who serve the nobility are always well bred, whether they come from here or some foreign land. There’s no shame in telling me you were born on a farm and seized against your will. I am your king—or one of them— and I assure you that my son, if he knew, would not approve.” Even then, he saw Tarrel would not speak openly, and he understood. Sighing, he rose and, taking the young man’s hand, led him to the window seat. “You know my situation. If I had the power to grant you your desire, if I could send you home and erase whatever ill treatment you have suffered, I would do it in an instant.” Tarrel bowed his head, obscuring his face, but in his trembling frame his anguish remained apparent. Sephil started to speak, yet fell silent when Tarrel scooped up both his hands and brought them to his lips. “Don’t send me away yet, sir. They’ll be angry with me.” The moment his hands were free, Sephil tenderly brushed the young man’s cheek. “You may stay,” he said, “and I will ask for you again. Do you wish to eat, or sleep? You may do both here.” “I would never ask for anything, sir, except to do something for you.” Upon reflection, Sephil never knew what possessed him. At the time, his only intention was to let Tarrel sleep in a warm, soft

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bed without fear of being molested, but when the young man caught him by the shoulders and pulled him into a kiss, the heat shot straight to his groin. “You should not,” he said, drawing away. “Did they threaten to beat you if you did not seduce me? I may not be able to do much, but I can make certain no one lays a hand on you for anything that happens here tonight.” Tarrel shook his head. “No, they don’t beat me. It leaves marks. They only did that once, when they first took me and I fought them. They beat me till I couldn’t stand, then they tore off what I was wearing and…” He could not say the word. “They have other ways to make me obey.” “How long ago were you seized?” “It was last autumn, sir.” Six months. “And you have been here in the palace most of that time? Why did you not approach my son in open court and ask for justice? The law says any subject, man or woman, slave or free, has the right to lay a legitimate grievance before the king.” Again, Tarrel shook his head. “We are not allowed out except to perform, and they told me it was no use, that King Zhanil didn’t care.” Zhanil does not know. “I raised my son better than that,” answered Sephil. He had better not know. “But there is more than one king in the land, and I can also give justice.” How he wished those were more than just empty words! All he could do was take the young man by the hand and lead him into the bedchamber—enough to satisfy the prying eyes the regents set upon them. “I wish I had more to give than this.” Gently he undid the brass clasps that held Tarrel’s robe closed and slid the green silk off his shoulders. Not a mark marred that pale, freckled skin; Sephil bent to kiss the ones that did not show. They lay down together. Tarrel’s arms circled his back, coming to rest when another pleasure slave would already have been undressing him, or reaching down between his thighs. When Sephil drew back long enough to take in the young man lying under him, what struck him was how alternately puzzled and aroused Tarrel was—his cock partially erect amid a nest of light brown curls, the flush blooming across his face and throat,

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the product of more than mere embarrassment. “What do I do, sir?” he whispered. Sephil dropped a kiss on his cheek. “Just lie there, or touch me if you want—however you want. I do want comfort, but not what you think. If you were willing and a slave by birth, I might go inside you, but you are a free man. Not even a king has that right.” He undressed slowly, peeling off each layer of clothing and laying it aside so as not to alarm his partner. “Pull back the covers, Tarrel. It is a cold night.” Under layers of soft linen and velvet, Sephil pulled Tarrel to him and began to kiss him. Just that. Tasting his mouth with the gentlest pressure while his hands caressed firmly muscled arms and a broad back, he willed the young man to relax, even though there was no mistaking the erection rising hard against his belly. “If it is too much I will stop,” he murmured. As his lips nuzzled Tarrel’s throat, he held his desire in check. Tenderness constrained his lust, enabling him to take pleasure in his partner’s untutored responses. Six months was not enough time to train a pleasure slave, and Tarrel was too old. Even when a hand closed around his cock like a warm vise, his need could wait. “Should I—? Do you want to come in my mouth, sir?” Yes, but he had no right to ask. When Tarrel would have ventured lower to burrow under the covers, Sephil stopped him. “You should not be doing this.” “Let me do it a little. Please.” Please. That, and those earnest blue eyes undid all Sephil’s resolve. He wants to do this. So he let the coverlet fall back, just enough so he could watch Tarrel move down his torso to his groin. A broad tongue began lapping him up and down, swirling around the head before dipping down to his balls. Full lips parted to suck in his crown—yet nothing more. That alone should have said something, and afterward Sephil regretted encouraging the youth to continue where he clearly lacked skill or real desire, but in the moment, instinct made him place a hand on the back of Tarrel’s head, urging him to take it all in. Gods, after five years without and at the mercy of such innocence, just the mere sight of those lips wrapped around his

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cock was enough to bring him release. Before he could pull out and fist the cum onto his belly, his orgasm erupted deep in Tarrel’s mouth, forcing him to gag and swallow where Sephil never intended it. “Forgive me.” His groin still aching, his cock not yet limp, he drew the coughing, sputtering Tarrel up to him. “It seems I am only a man after all.” Sephil left the bed long enough to get Tarrel some water and a cloth. Then, once his partner recovered, he rolled the young man onto his back and resumed kissing him. “Sir, you don’t have to do anything for—” A finger laid across his lips produced the desired effect. “I will not do anything you do not like, and more for you than anyone, I think, has ever done.” His mouth followed the trail his fingers made, and before Tarrel could answer he found a dark pink nipple and kissed it softly. A sharp gasp found a response—he nipped and suckled the bud, then moved on to its twin. Tarrel moaned under him. A hand twined through his hair, pulling his head closer. “Do you like this?” he asked. “Oh, yes, sir,” panted Tarrel. “There is more.” Sephil sat up, then, taking the young man’s cock in his hand, began to stroke it the way he liked to be stroked: squeezing the shaft and running his thumb around the crown, then quickening his pace until he was rapidly, furiously pumping up and down. Eyes wide, teeth clenched, Tarrel writhed under the assault. With one hand, the youth cupped his balls; his other hand clawed at the sheets. Had it been seemly for a king to give such pleasure, Sephil gladly would have taken him in his mouth and sucked the orgasm from him. All he could do was watch as the youth arched and thrust, and streamers of cum ribboned his belly. Slowly, he released his partner’s flaccid cock and waited, letting Tarrel catch his breath before dabbing his skin dry with the cloth. “Was it good?” he asked. Tarrel stared at him as though to say: you need to ask? Then he smiled and burrowed under the coverlet. Sephil climbed in beside him, and for the first time since his capture fell into a deep sleep.

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During the day, Sephil had an hour’s exercise in the courtyard below his apartments and a weekly visit from a priest of Abh. Other than that, and Tarrel’s warm body beside him at night, he remained isolated with the two servants and the books the regents provided, listening to and observing what little he could. Sephil knew there were five so-called regents: Irial Callios, Ethurel Irides, Besan Palassos, and two others who remained anonymous. >From Ethurel, who had not learned how to guard his tongue when he drank, Sephil learned the regents were based in Cassiare, Rhodeen’s second-largest city and center of the kingdom’s silk and agrarian industries. There, unobserved by their king, they conspired to overthrow him and restore the old laws. How they planned to do this without inciting a Turya uprising, Ethurel did not make clear, even when Sephil plied him with strong liquor found in a cabinet. Perhaps he did not know himself. Confinement and constant boredom wore at his nerves, despite Tarrel’s gentle presence. No matter how Ethurel scoffed at his insistence on tending to orphans and worthless vagrants, Sephil needed to be in the temple where he could be useful. Promises were made, including repeated assurances that he could resume his ministry once the political situation stabilized, but as the days passed and he remained imprisoned, Sephil could not quite bring himself to believe the regents would allow him any measure of freedom. Had his surroundings not been so garish, or had Ethurel not repeatedly alluded to his compromising history, Sephil might have felt more at ease. Though he wore his priestly attire and continued with his daily meditations, there were moments when he half-expected the sly eunuch Nakhet to appear, or his father to storm through the door and harangue him. I am right back where I began, he thought. Only now, his faithful, beloved Adeja was dead. As his captors intended, he found no sympathy with his servants, and he did not wish to endanger Tarrel by confiding too much in him. On an afternoon six weeks into his captivity, Besan Palassos appeared unannounced in his sitting room. Before he could speak, Palassos brusquely motioned for silence. “You are

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to come with me. Do not ask questions or utter a single word unless one of us addresses you.” An armed guard waited outside to escort him from the palace down a shaded walkway. Before them loomed the immensity of Tal Charne, the Pyramid of the Sun, where the kings of Rhodeen were crowned, held court, and were buried. Within its shadow, Palassos halted and took Sephil roughly by the arm. “The people demand to see you. They do not trust that you are here in the city, or that we have not harmed you. Lord Callios is waiting for us on the platform. He will speak. You will smile, wave to the crowd, and do nothing to incite them. Is that understood?” Because he had no other choice, Sephil nodded. Passing the entrance to the royal crypt, they entered Tal Charne via the doors used by visiting dignitaries, and moved swiftly down a dim corridor. Through the thick walls, Sephil sensed growing unease from without. Once they reached the stairs leading outside to the first platform, where at dawn the priests of the Sun greeted the day and the kings of Rhodeen customarily addressed their subjects, he could hear the crowd: a restlessly murmuring beast that hurled an occasional insult toward the platform. Sephil froze. Never a public figure, the last time he had faced so large a gathering was on his coronation day. What would happen once he appeared, once Irial Callios began to speak, he did not know. But with Palassos’s hand gripping his arm, urging him forward, he could not turn back. Drawing in a long, steadying breath, Sephil composed himself and prepared to ascend. **** The attack came out of nowhere, half a day from the pass and long past the point where an enemy from Rhodeen should have dared tread. And yet, the eight lightly armored riders who barreled down upon them seemed to emerge from the very grasses as though they had taken lessons from the Turyar they so despised.

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Had they approached silently, the outcome might have been very different. In the Turya-lands, however, only the natives knew stealth, and these men were in a hurry. The jingle of harnesses and snorting mounts from upwind betrayed the presence of strangers even before the first arrow could fly. A whoosh of air alerted the Turya Guard, and shields lifted to deflect any incoming missiles from the king. They need not have bothered—Rhodeen’s archers were nothing next to the Turyar and their powerful composite bows. The arrow meant for Zhanil’s back fell short, disappearing into the long grass. A single advantage remained for the attackers. A downhill charge gave them momentum, rapidly closing the distance in which the Turyar could use their bows. Harkil got off a single shot before the riders were upon them; the arrow’s target spilled from the saddle, his leg caught in the stirrup, and he dragged and bumped along the ground for more than twenty yards before his mount stopped. Too close now to shoot, the riders closed the last few yards. Turyar had one weakness, and Zhanil regretted that these men, either mercenaries or levies from Cassaire, had had ample opportunity to observe it. Close quarter combat eluded the horsemen of the steppes; they could wrestle and use daggers with great skill, but they fought awkwardly with swords. On foot, Kalmeki would have had more than a passing chance, however much Zhanil hated the look of the brute leading the attack. On foot, Kalmeki’s height and agility might count for something. On horseback, it counted for nothing. “Stay back, sir,” warned Amhir. Behind him, Puruli, the youngest of the Turya Guard, raised his bow, hunting for a clear shot. Zhanil tensed. Across the short distance, he felt rather than heard the crunch of a mace striking horseflesh. Blood sprayed out, and Kalmeki jerked to one side as his mare buckled under him. Either the impact threw him clear, or he leapt, rolling into a ditch as his mount went down. Ignoring Amhir’s shout, Zhanil surged forward, all his rage and momentum focused on the leering brute with the mace. Dust and struggling bodies and flailing hooves were no deterrent. This was his man, and no matter what else came, Zhanil would have his head.

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Half a moment before he crashed into the man and his mount, an arrow rushed by his head to bisect the man’s cheek; the brute reeled back, stunned, but he did not fall. “This one is mine!” Zhanil flung himself from the saddle and seized the other horse by the reins, dodging under that lethal mace. Twisting and using his momentum, he dragged the wounded man to the ground. Where the mace fell, he did not see. Red eclipsed his vision. Under him, the man fought hard, straining even with his lower face covered in blood. Fists were not good enough; they took too long, and Zhanil’s fury demanded more. Scrabbling for a stone dislodged by churning hooves, he brought it down on the brute’s head. Bone yielded like brittle ivory, a human face disappeared in a mess of blood and splintered gore, and still Zhanil kept hitting him. “How dare you!” Having his household overrun, his wife and children threatened, his kingdom seized after all he had done and tried to do—that was enough to make any man’s blood boil. But this—Kalmeki thrown from his horse, lying motionless in a ditch—this screamed for vengeance. His pumping adrenaline blurred time, until he slowly realized the fighting had stopped. Corpses of men and horses littered the ground, and the Turya Guard stood around him. Zhanil wildly gazed about, then down at his hands, slick with hot blood, and the carnage he had wrought. His gorge rose. Flinging the stone aside, he got to his feet and found Amhir’s face in the crowd. “Aren’t you supposed to watch my back? How did these fools find us?” Whatever answers the stuttering, gaping young man could give did not matter. Zhanil stumbled down the steep ditch where Kalmeki, covered in a thin layer of dust, stirred weakly. Loose rocks showered him as he clawed at dirt and grass in an effort to steady himself. Zhanil grasped his shoulder, then his arm, supporting him as he stood—and froze in alarm at the blood smearing Kalmeki’s temple. Kalmeki put two fingers to his head and blinked repeatedly as they came away wet. “It is nothing.” Above them, the battered and bruised Turya Guard waited for their orders. “My horse…” “Take your pick of the ones our enemies left behind,”

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Zhanil said hoarsely. Small consolation, when Kalmeki had raised that mare from a foal. His grief was evident as he clambered over the crest of the ditch and knelt beside his dead mount. Blood trickled down his cheek from his temple. Zhanil gestured to the guards for water and a cloth, and pressed it against Kalmeki’s head with his own hands when his lover, still in a daze, refused to take it. At length, Kalmeki stood and spoke quietly. “We must go.” More than the blood and dust on his face, or the anguish in his eyes, Zhanil heard the defeat in his voice. More than losing his horse, more than being wounded, he had failed in his duty. Where he should have been strong, he had been weak, and should have been killed. For that, there were no words, no gestures of comfort that could suffice.

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Part Two

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Chapter Four “So this is how you return home!” Middle-aged, with gray streaks in his yellow beard, the man straddled the lookout with both arms crossed over his chest, shouting across the grasslands for all to hear. “I send you to find your fortune in the east-lands and you come home with your tail between your legs, and dragging a foreigner to boot!” Zhanil watched in amazement as Kalmeki dismounted, climbed the low hill, and embraced the man. Moments later, Kalmeki turned and motioned to him to join them, and Zhanil gritted his teeth in preparation for a Turya tongue-lashing of epic proportions. “This is Harunta,” said Kalmeki, “my father.” “So this is turkan Kalmeku, eh?” Harunta made a hacking sound in his throat, then spat to the side. “Does not look like much. Well, speak up, great turkan! My son tells me you know our tongue.” Looking from Kalmeki back to his chieftain father, Zhanil hardly knew what to say, never mind that he spoke Turya well enough to say whatever he wished. “Do turkani always receive this sort of welcome in the Turya-lands?” Harunta snorted. “Do you think respect in these lands is as bountiful as the grass? I will see what manner of man you are, then we will talk about respect. Still, you are my son’s keshka, so you are welcome.” Beyond the lookout, Harunta’s settlement comprised a stockade of sharpened stakes that enclosed a haphazard collection of yurts and thatch-roofed longhouses. A horse corral occupied one end. Just as Kalmeki once described it, this was not a permanent settlement like a village. In fair weather, residents uprooted their yurts and led the horses and other livestock to graze throughout Harunta’s lands, and the chieftain

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himself frequently spent his winters with turkan Atalash at Hapaniku. Harunta led the visitors into the largest house. “We have known about your coming for three days now,” he said. “Word is you were attacked half a day west of the pass. Scouts have already ridden to watch that area; the east-landers will think twice about riding so boldly into the grasslands again.” He gave his son a searching look. “It seems you were not badly hurt.” Kalmeki’s shame was palpable. “The attack came unexpectedly.” “I see your mare is dead.” “Your son is alive,” Zhanil said sharply. “He fought bravely.” Harunta glared at him, then just as quickly glanced away, ignoring the outburst entirely. “You are fortunate, Kalmeki. In another two days you would have found us gone. The shamans received the signs from the Storm God. The medhran is being held this year on Zapilya’s lands.” “I had not intended to ride,” Kalmeki stated quietly. “It is about time you did so. You have been away too long, and others will talk. You are old enough now to marry. It is time you had a bride in your bed, Kalmeki—but what woman will have a man who refuses to prove himself?” Grinning, Harunta nodded at Zhanil. “It is not every year that a turkan participates.” Zhanil stared at him. “I had no intention—” “Nonsense! Any turkan who attends must ride. Did my son not tell you that?” Kalmeki managed to look contrite. “To tell the truth, I had forgotten all about the medhran.” The longhouse was partitioned into cubicles for privacy, though Zhanil judged that the thin walls provided very little. Just wide enough for two men to move freely, the cubicle was furnished with a pair of cots covered by animal hides and a small chest that doubled as a table. “I can’t decide if your father likes me.” Kalmeki placed his bow on one of the cots. “If he did not like you, your head would be stuck on a pole at the lookout. But do not look for him to bow and say ‘my lord’ this and ‘my lord’

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that the way they do in the east. Here, a turkan must earn respect.” Zhanil sighed heavily, knowing how much face he had lost simply by being forced off his throne. And no matter what his lover said or did, Zhanil knew how poorly Kalmeki must regard him. I’ve done nothing to earn his loyalty or love. No matter how many gifts he gave, or how many nights they spent together, he knew in his heart that alone was never enough. He could live without his crown, and would gladly relinquish it if he could— being king was more headache than joy—but losing Kalmeki’s respect and his love stung more than a thousand coups. “Is he always like that with you?” Indeed, the way Harunta brought up his son’s personal affairs in public recalled turkan Arzhati’s penchant for embarrassing Kargil. This must be something most Turya parents did. “I am long past the age where I need to be coddled,” replied Kalmeki. Zhanil read the warning in his tone. “You’ve been injured, and he treats it like nothing.” “This is nothing.” Kalmeki put a hand to the purple-edged scrape marring his temple. “I was thrown without landing a single blow, and lost my horse. A warrior does not fail like this.” “You are not perfect.” Zhanil touched his shoulder, smiling when Kalmeki glanced at him. “Your father can’t expect you to be.” “Mistakes mean death. Surely you ought to know that by now.” The truth stung. Zhanil took his hand away. Since the attack, Kalmeki had refused all comfort. Zhanil’s nerves coiled in frustration at not being able to help him. “This lord your father serves, Atalash, have you met him?” “I visited Hapaniku before I came to the east-lands, so, yes, I have met him. Turkan Atalash is very much like your grandfather who just died.” A Turya version of Ampheres ké Eramen—just the thought was enough to make Zhanil’s belly knot in apprehension. “Gods, I might as well turn around and go home now.”

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“You keep saying that. Are you truly so eager to return and admit defeat?” “Of course not,” answered Zhanil, “but between this man and his grandson I’m not going to find a warm welcome at Hapaniku.” His features softening, Kalmeki approached, took Zhanil’s head between his powerful hands, and kissed him lightly on the mouth, lingering there for a moment before replying, “Perhaps you judge too hastily. Atalash has much to lose with these enemies in control in Rhodeen. Prove yourself here and he will look more favorably on you.” Yes, that was what he must do. “So what is this medhran your father mentioned?” “It is a gathering of all the tribes in the region. There is feasting and matchmaking. There are sacrifices to the gods, but the real reason everyone comes is for the contest among the warriors. I look forward to it.” The wistful smile that lit Kalmeki’s face revealed a lightness Zhanil had not seen in days. “Ah, I see you do.” “Oh, yes, especially since both of us will be expected to take part.” When Kalmeki described the contest in greater detail, Zhanil recoiled despite himself. “You can’t be serious. Turya warriors ride around hurling spears at each other?” Even jousting, with its considerable risks, seemed a more palatable alternative. “The spears are blunted,” said Kalmeki. “The object is to unhorse your opponent, not harm them. Warriors are often injured, but this is part of the medhran.” His forthrightness offered little comfort. “It’s suicide.” A scratch at the partition distracted Kalmeki, cutting short his reply. Turning, he drew aside the hide curtain to reveal a young woman holding a basin of steaming water. Taking the basin, he ushered her inside for a formal introduction. “This is Pezheva, my youngest sister.” Zhanil nodded politely. Pezheva wore a pale green kirtle banded at the collar and hemmed with colorful embroidery, and a cloak of undyed wool pinned at the shoulder with an amber brooch. No matter how mundane the occasion, the Turyar

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insisted on wearing colorful clothing. “So this is your keshka?” she asked her brother. “Yes, this is Zhanil.” Pezheva tried the unfamiliar name on her tongue, then giggled when she mangled the pronunciation. Zhanil waited until she finished before correcting her. “Kalmeku.” “My father says you are a turkan. You do not look like one.” “Thank you for noticing,” he muttered. She continued, “Are you married?” “Unfortunately, yes.” Kalmeki shooed her out with a kiss on the cheek and an admonishment to go see if their mother needed any assistance. “Pezheva has no manners.” Zhanil unlaced his leather jerkin and peeled off his tunic to check his dressing. The healer he encountered at the first Turya outpost had done an expert job stitching his wound. In time, her sutures would leave only a faint puckered scar, but for now his mending flesh was still tender to the touch. “Will I be able to participate in this medhran with an injured arm?” Kalmeki snorted. “I hear your cousin Kargil participates regularly, even without four of his fingers. You will earn no respect if you stay on the sidelines.” Always, it came down to earning respect. No wonder Kargil, with his maimed hand, was so preoccupied with saving face. No one would follow a cripple. And no one will follow a coward either. “Of course, but just suppose I am killed. What will happen then?” “Unless you are extremely careless or unfortunate, you will survive.” Stripping to the waist, Kalmeki dipped a cloth into the hot water and began to bathe, dabbing first at the scab on his temple. Zhanil wondered if the settlement had a bathhouse, or if a sponge bath was the best he would be able to manage. “You probably will be injured. Anyone who hears that you are a turkan will want to test you.” Zhanil seized the cloth from him. “You always know how to make me feel better.” “There is a sweating lodge here,” said Kalmeki. Zhanil swatted him with the cloth. “You should have said

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that before.” Anyone who wished to use the lodge was obliged to fetch their own water and kindling, and heat the stones themselves. For the task, Zhanil recruited Amhir and several Turya guards who wished to bathe, and shortly thereafter they were all sweating on the lodge’s wooden benches. Kalmeki, carrying a stack of linens, joined them. Zhanil chanced a single glance at his lover, taking in that solidly muscled torso gleaming with perspiration, and thanked the gods they were not alone, or else he would not have been able to keep his hands off the man. So long had it been that he could not recall the details of their last encounter. Their trysts were rare, for as a king surrounded by servants and petitioners, he enjoyed little privacy. Even his bodily emissions were subject to scrutiny. At sundown, the community sat down to supper in a longhouse that served as the great hall. While the young adults served the meal, the older women poured ale. A course of lamb with boiled millet and leeks was followed by cakes flavored with wild honey and stewed berries for dessert. Zhanil ate his fill as he conversed with his neighbors, who asked about life in the lands beyond the mountains. Harunta engaged Kalmeki in conversation throughout the meal. Zhanil listened piecemeal, noticing how his host ignored his presence entirely. “Your brothers have already set out for the medhran. You will have to ride hard to catch them.” “You are not going to participate this year?” asked Kalmeki. “I will watch this time,” said Harunta. “Last year was enough, with Atalash riding.” Kalmeki could not conceal his surprise. “The turkan is over eighty years old.” “Let us hope I am that vigorous at eighty. Atalash’s grandson did not last half as long in the medhran as he.” Zhanil chose this moment to enter the conversation. “I did not think Kargil could participate with his missing fingers.” His comment elicited unexpected laughter. Harunta looked dumbfounded, yet waited until the snickers died down to answer. “What nonsense do you learn in the east-lands? Kalmeki, why

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does this boy who calls himself a turkan not know the law? These things are common knowledge.” Before Kalmeki could reply, Zhanil spoke, “I never came here calling myself a turkan. I am a king, and a king in the eastlands is not the same.” Harunta’s good humor evaporated. Within half a moment he became stern, even cold. “Did you not accept the honor from the chieftains who served Arzhati?” “I accepted the title in name only, to reassure my Turya subjects that I respect—” “There is no such thing as ‘name only.’ A turkan either is or he is not.” Harunta was on his feet now, massive and glowering. Everyone in the longhouse, intent on the altercation, fell silent. “You are not merely a traveler in the Turya-lands. All who know of your coming know you seek warriors to take back what you were not strong enough to hold in the first place.” Fuming, Zhanil stood up. “Is this how you treat guests in the Turya-lands?” It mortified him that he did not quite match Harunta’s impressive height. “First you ignore them, then you insult them?” “Insolent boy!” roared Harunta. The rafters reverberated at the sound of his voice. “If you cannot bear a small slight from me, then you had better think twice about going to Hapaniku. Atalash will have you pissing yourself the moment you enter his hall.” Then, amazingly, he laughed. “Khilya, pour the boy some kumiss. Perhaps it will cool his temper while he tells me his tale.” Zhanil’s anger became embarrassment as he realized how skillfully Harunta had played him. Shaking his head, aware that people were staring at his burning face, he sat down. Kalmeki’s mother set a cup before him. The sour mare’s milk went down like gall. Back in their cubicle, Kalmeki stripped the hides from the cots and moved them together. Even partially clothed, Zhanil found it awkward sleeping beside his lover without the promise of lovemaking. Never in Rhodeen had they come so close together and not shared their passion. Kalmeki seemed to sense this. Wrapping one arm around Zhanil’s torso, his lips trailed over bare shoulders, nuzzling a

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naked throat. “It will be all right,” he murmured. Those same lips found Zhanil’s earlobe, and suckled on it. “I am not ready for this. Your father made a fool of me.” “No, you did that all by yourself. When you come to the Turya-lands, you do so knowing our ways.” Kalmeki kissed the nape of his neck. “My father is right: either a turkan is or he is not. You took the title from the chieftains without understanding what it meant.” “Shouldn’t you have been the one to tell me?” Kalmeki made a grumbling noise. “I am not your only Turya advisor, Zhanil. You have many others, but you spent so much time asking what a king’s duties were, it seems you forgot to ask Zidanta and Labarnu and the other chieftains how to be a turkan. How was I to know that while you were busy ordering Turya coats and admiring the bow I gave you that you did not see to the rest?” Irritated, Zhanil rolled over to face him. “Because you’re my personal bodyguard, that’s why,” he hissed. “You’re my fucking shadow, my keshka. You know everything, even when I take a shit.” When he turned back onto his side, Kalmeki hugged his shoulder in a firm embrace. This intimacy was unexpected. “The first thing a turkan has to know is that any warrior can challenge him if that man feels he is not worthy of the honor.” “Wonderful,” muttered Zhanil. “Now I can look forward to a hundred spears pointed at me at this tournament of yours.” “You will survive the medhran. A man risks much in challenging a turkan. Very few would dare.” “Kargil might.” “You are assuming he will be there.” Kalmeki’s hold tightened. “Why are you so preoccupied with your kinsman? He has no reason to challenge you. It is said he cares nothing for the east-lands, and you were not responsible for his injury. Had you been, he would have demanded compensation long ago. No, his ambitions are here, with his grandfather. Perhaps the Storm God did him a favor by taking away his right to rule Rhodeen.” “He wants to be the next turkan?” “There has been talk, but his ambitions at Hapaniku have nothing to do with you in Rhodeen. You should stop dwelling

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on it.” Again, Kalmeki’s lips touched bare skin. “You have too many real enemies to torment yourself with ones that may not exist.” Zhanil shifted and, aware of the clothed erection pressing against his buttocks, groaned a little. Had he not been so frustrated and exhausted, so fuzzy from the kumiss, desire would have undone him. On the edge of sleep stirred a fantasy he often cherished: riding shirtless through the grasslands or some other vast, empty space, with Kalmeki behind him, arms wrapped around his middle, lips nuzzling his throat. Slowly, his lover’s hand moved up, over his flat belly to tease his nipples, first circling and rubbing them lightly, then, as the horse began to canter, pinching them into hard peaks of lust. Groaning, he willed Kalmeki’s hand further down, to unlace his trousers and release his cock. Now the horse broke into a gallop. Sweat lathered its flanks, the wind whipped through its mane, and Kalmeki’s fist closed around hard flesh, squeezing, pumping in time to thudding hoof beats, until Zhanil’s cry of release was swallowed by the endless steppe. Making love in this strange place, with only a thin partition between them and discovery, might have been exciting. Another time, he thought. “We’ll see,” he mumbled. **** “So that boy is your keshka, eh?” “He is twenty-five, hardly a boy.” Kalmeki came to stand beside his father on the lookout. Dawn was still an hour away, the promise of daylight still only a faint lightening over the mountains. Zhanil still slept in the longhouse, burrowed against the chill of the steppes under skins and furs. “The Storm God has willed it.” “Then Kanesh must hate you very much,” said Harunta. “This Kalmeku—this Zhanil—is a weakling. Perhaps he is brave—or very much a fool. It does not matter. Were he a turkan in these lands, he would not last two minutes.” Kalmeki shook his head. “In these lands he never would have become a turkan, Father. I have tried to tell him—”

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“Then perhaps you should try a little harder, with a good, swift knock on the head, or tell him to take the wax from his ears! These men of the east-lands are so colossally stupid that we could have conquered them two hundred years ago and been done with it.” From what Kalmeki had seen that was not entirely the truth. “Zhanil is not as weak or foolish as you think. Warriors in the east are trained differently. Their princes—” Harunta turned, cutting off his protests with a harsh look. “Besotted with him, are you?” he asked, snorting. “I send you to the east-lands to find your fortune and get you away from those who would stone you for your preferences, and what do you do? You lose your horse to some east-lander—here, in the Turyalands—with barely a fight, then you bring home a boy, a fool’s excuse of a turkan, as your keshka!” “I regret disappointing you, Father.” “Kalmeki, I did not judge you then, and I do not judge you now, but if you must desire a man, then at least you should have one who is worthy of you. For nothing else than to make certain he does not embarrass you when you go to take a wife. You do still intend to marry, yes?” Kalmeki hung his head. That his father knew his preference and tolerated it continued to amaze him. “Yes, Father, I will find a suitable bride. It is, I think, the god’s will that brings me back home now. But you must understand it was not my choice that Zhanil become my keshka. The Storm God—” “Do not lay the blame on Kanesh. It was that idiot Arzhati who decreed it.” “He did so only because he saw how bound we were.” And yet, as Kalmeki’s memories reminded him, at the time Zhanil had thoroughly rejected the bond and what it meant. Even now, failing to appreciate that keshkai were equals sharing the same fate or fortune, that it did not matter that one partner was a turkan and the other his bodyguard, Zhanil remembered the bond only when he wanted sex, or when it otherwise suited him. Our ways are not in his blood; he does not understand as another Turya would. I should have made him see long ago what it means to be bound in this way. “I have tried to leave him. The gods keep bringing us back together.”

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Harunta’s hand fell hard on his shoulder, warning him with a sharp squeeze—a gesture Kalmeki so often imitated with Zhanil, except that Zhanil never seemed to understand. “If this boy falls, so do you. Remember that.” **** “Nenikalli is here.” On the sidelines of the dusty open area that would soon become the medhran proving ground, Zhanil looked from Kalmeki to his brother Azhri and back again. “Who is Nenikalli?” Kalmeki scanned the grounds for a long moment before pointing out a warrior with a thick yellow plait and a mouth that seemed to be curled in a permanent sneer. “That is Nenikalli,” he said. “He rides every year, I am told, and has never been unhorsed. He is the warrior to beat.” “I thought you said the warriors compete in teams.” “They do,” replied Kalmeki, “but he will be on the other team. I already have our colors. We are green. Nenikalli rides with the blue side.” One more warrior or less made no difference to Zhanil, as long as neither his kinsman nor turkan Atalash were present. Their absence gave him some room to breathe. Counting the days on his fingers, he tried to reach some estimate. Half a day’s hard ride from Shemin-at-Khul to the Dolmen Pass, four to pass through, then three more to Harunta’s settlement, and now two more days to reach the medhran grounds. Ten or eleven days would give Amset ample time to cross the border with Saraji and the children. A swift rider might already be in Bhellin, but Saraji was not a skilled horsewoman and, with her advanced pregnancy, could not keep a fast pace. By now, she might have reached Abh’s sanctuary in Ottabia. Zhanil knew only that the more time that passed, the stronger the hold the usurpers would have in Rhodeen, and the more damage they could do. I might never see my family or my kingdom again. His instincts urged him to get on his horse and ride for Hapaniku even though common sense told him he

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needed to be here, demonstrating his fitness to lead by engaging in Turya blood sport. At first, the Turyar, seeing the dark-haired foreigner ride into the encampment with Kalmeki and half a dozen others, refused to let him compete. For hours, the argument went back and forth, while the sun rose higher in the sky and the gathered tribes grew impatient. Most clung to the belief that an eastlander had no business entering the Turya-lands, much less participating in the medhran. Others pointed out that any man who presumed to use the title turkan had a duty to ride. Zhanil endured the debate until the agitation of the crowd outside the yurt wore on his nerves. Leaving his stool in the corner, he strode into their midst and informed the elders in fluent Turya that he did not have all day to wait upon their decision. While he did not necessarily want to participate, Kalmeki craved the competition with obvious hunger. However dangerous, the medhran offered a warrior the chance to salve his reputation—or ruin it utterly. “What are the rules for this contest?” asked Zhanil. “You will have a blunted spear. The object is to throw it in such a way that you unhorse a rider from the opposite team. This might mean striking him in the arm or chest, but not in the face, and under no circumstances may you aim for his horse,” explained Kalmeki. “You may not use any part of your body to strike or push him, only the spear.” Zhanil’s gaze went out to the proving ground, where several riders had begun to raise eddies of dust as they readied their mounts. The entire Shedya branch of the Turyar had come for the event. No fewer than seventy warriors occupied the medhran arena. “Is there anything else I can’t do?” “You cannot leave the ground unless another rider unseats you or your team wins, and you cannot remain on the sidelines. Once you enter you must participate.” Kalmeki showed him the spear. It was little more than a slender pole, but when Zhanil realized the riders would wear no protective gear, his heart sank again. At least jousting knights wore armor to protect against splinters that could pierce eyes and flesh.

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When the signal came, he mounted his horse alongside Kalmeki and bound the proffered green ribbon around his arm, while Kalmeki’s brother, who had drawn a blue ribbon, left to join the other team. Warriors milled around him, while Amhir and his Turya guards, not having received his permission to participate, remained on the sidelines with those men who were either too frail or chose not to ride. Women and children jostled for a good view. Everywhere Zhanil spied brightly colored finery: open-front coats, headdresses, and felt shoes lavished with embroidery and tiny mirrors that winked in the sunlight. Faced with such display, one could hardly forget that the medhran was also a gathering place for women seeking virile men as husbands. “See anyone you fancy?” he asked playfully. Kalmeki shrugged. “I have not looked.” Fifty yards away, the warriors on the blue side readied their spears. The moment he entered the arena, Zhanil noticed how every single blue rider stared at him, their intent plain on their faces: they meant to test the mettle of the dark-haired turkan from the east-lands. Zhanil met their scrutiny without flinching, even as he sucked in deep breaths to steady his nerves. Above all, he could not let Kalmeki or anyone else see how uneasy he truly felt. You will survive this. You have to. In the open space between the warriors, a holy man crowned with antlers, his face reddened with ochre, leapt into view. Zapilya not only held these lands under his sway, but he had the reputation of being a powerful shaman as well. Even Zhanil, who allowed the Turyar of Rhodeen to keep their gods but otherwise had little interest in them, felt a charge in the air as Zapilya whirled and danced before them. Droplets of water pink with sacrificial blood spattered the ranks. “Nourish the Earth Mother with the blood you spill today. Ride for the glory of the Storm God. Honor him with your courage!” A shout rang out. Zapilya darted like a leaping deer to the sidelines as the two sides simultaneously charged. Dust swirled in the air, creating a fog, yet before the advancing lines could crash together they came up short and wheeled around each

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other. The first missile cut the air, bouncing off a man’s shoulder. Gripping his spear, Zhanil searched through the dust for a bluebanded warrior. Only green appeared. A young warrior, no older than fifteen or sixteen, tumbled from the saddle. Zhanil barely marked his humiliated departure when a spear whizzed past his cheek, followed by another, grazing his arm above the bandage. You aren’t supposed to aim for the face, damn you! Now he knew the blue warriors were deliberately aiming for him, some with more malicious intent than the others. Pride notwithstanding, instinct told him to get out before he was seriously injured. Once you enter you must participate. Kalmeki’s words stayed with him, as well as the image of the young warrior slinking away from the fight in shame. That might be me next. His mind worked feverishly, sorting through his options, seeking an honorable way out. Moving through the mad melee of horses and riders, wincing at the blow that took him in the right shoulder, jolting him hard to the left, Zhanil searched among the blue-banded warriors for his intended target. And then he appeared, his yellow braid whipping like a tail behind him, angling in for a strike, then grinning in triumph as a green-banded rider fell. Nenikalli. Zhanil maneuvered his mount into position, couched the spear in his right arm like a knight’s lance, and charged. At the last moment, Nenikalli turned, his triumphal sneer becoming surprise. His hands empty, with no time to take up another spear from the sidelines, he had no defense other than to try to get out of the way. The lance swept him off his horse as he tried to twist away. Zhanil barely heard the roars of astonishment and applause from the onlookers. As Nenikalli went down, he gripped the lance with both hands, driving Zhanil forward, and unbalancing him. Before Zhanil could compensate, he was in the dirt along with his opponent. Stunned and gasping for air, he scrabbled to regain his footing before he was trampled. Coughing, clutching his side, he led his horse off the

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medhran ground. Amhir ran toward him, followed by the Turya guards. “Are you all right, sir?” “What is this?” cried the figure that stepped in front of him. “You cannot do that!” “The rules say to strike him with the spear.” Right now, Zhanil had neither wind nor patience to deal with critics, certainly not a holy man who shrieked at him as though summoning forth a demon. “I did that.” The man’s antlered headdress bobbed as Zapilya continued to harangue him. “You are supposed to do it like this!” With the spear he seized from a passerby he demonstrated. “You are supposed to throw it!” Growling, Zhanil snatched the spear from him and stuck it in the dirt. “If you do not like it, then make a new rule.” Off to one side, Nenikalli looked more bewildered than hurt as he fended off jabbering relatives. He met Zhanil’s gaze, looking as if he could not grasp that anyone, much less a foreigner, had unhorsed him so quickly or with such unorthodox methods. Later, he was heard to comment that the east-lands bred madmen and fools. Amhir brought ale in a skin and spiced lamb on a skewer. Thus settled among his guards, his part done, Zhanil watched from the sidelines. In short order, Azhri found him. “Little brother is still out there,” he said, gesturing to the medhran ground. A bruise discolored his left cheek, and the right sleeve of his tunic was torn, the skin worn raw underneath. “I saw you take down Nenikalli.” “I think half the Turya-lands saw me,” said Zhanil. “Is that how they fight in the east?” Zhanil nodded. “It is called jousting. Noblemen do it for sport.” “Does Kalmeki know how to do this jousting?” asked Azhri. “He tells me nothing.” “No, he does not know how to do it. The Turyar in the eastlands have their sports, and the Rhodeen nobles have theirs.” On the medhran ground, horses wheeled about, riders lunged or fell, and clouds of dust obscured everything. “I hope Kalmeki has not been injured.” Azhri merely laughed. “Anyone who lasts this long in the

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medhran is cut or bruised. Only turkan Atalash last year came through without a scratch. Everyone feared to strike him, he is so old and fragile-looking. Hah!” He slapped his knee with delight. “So the snake strikes when men think it is harmless. I would not like to meet him in battle.” Several riders were carried off the field with shattered bones and deep lacerations. Each time a rider passed, Zhanil prayed it was not Kalmeki, then laughed with relief when he saw his lover, dusty and bleeding from half a dozen shallow cuts, holding his own among the dwindling ranks. When at last a lucky cast knocked Kalmeki from the saddle, he deftly regained his feet and left the field. Zhanil sent Amhir to collect him, then went himself when it seemed to take too long. At the edge of the medhran ground, he was amused to find Kalmeki laughing as though he had won. “Gods, you’re filthy.” “I am one of the last ten riders and that is all you can say?” “You’re also bleeding,” Zhanil added with a smirk. Kalmeki shrugged. “I am going to the sweat lodge if you wish to join me.” Laughing, Zhanil waved him on. With less than five riders left in the contest, the medhran was drawing to a close. Zhanil stayed long enough to watch the winner, a warrior from the opposing side, ride a victory lap around the field and claim a horn filled with kumiss from Zapilya, then retired to the yurt he shared with Kalmeki. As he pulled off his boots, the yurt flap opened and Kalmeki, his hair dripping, entered. Naked to the waist, carrying his dusty clothes in one arm, he looked exceedingly pleased with himself. “Does my cleanliness meet with the turkan’s approval?” Zhanil made a show of sniffing the air around him. “You smell like sweat and horse.” Kalmeki paused to drop his clothes by the flap, then, laughing, caught him around the waist and kissed him hard. “You smell the same,” he replied. “You should be pleased with your riding today.” The compliment shot home until he realized he was blushing. Just like a lovelorn maiden. Unwilling to let Kalmeki see him so flustered, he laughed it off. “Oh, I was nearly

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trampled when I fell, and practically every blue rider out there tried to turn me into a pincushion. Other than that, it went well.” “A pincushion?” asked Kalmeki. Zhanil quickly explained, “That silk thing that looks like a fat strawberry. Saraji uses it to hold her needles when she sews.” “I had not noticed. Whenever I appear she usually shrieks at me in her foreign tongue as though she had never seen a man before. I do not know how you put up with her.” “As little as possible,” admitted Zhanil. Kalmeki chuckled. “Already everyone is talking about the dark-haired turkan who beat Nenikalli.” “And I’m sure they’re all complaining about how I broke the rules. That holy man practically bit my ear off scolding me.” “Is that what he told you?” Kalmeki claimed a second kiss. This time, he opened his mouth, hotly seeking Zhanil’s tongue, while with one hand he undid his belt. “Zapilya is Nenikalli’s uncle.” When Kalmeki ground hard against him, Zhanil groaned. “That makes sense.” “Next year,” continued Kalmeki, letting his hand slide between Zhanil’s legs, “it will be against the rules.” “Next year I don’t plan to be here.” Zhanil hitched his breath as his lover’s strong fingers squeezed through his trousers and coaxed his cock erect. “You know, the guards are just outside.” Kalmeki let him go so he could tie the yurt flap shut. Zhanil had his tunic undone when he returned, and the next several moments passed in a frantic tangle of limbs, buttons, and buckles. Lust demanded they shed only as much clothing as necessary, just enough to bare their chests and thighs, to let their stiff cocks slide against each other when Kalmeki pinned Zhanil to the carpeted floor. “One day,” said Zhanil, clutching his lover’s buttocks with both hands, pulling him closer, “we’re going to ride out into the middle of nowhere, just you, me, and a yurt, and fuck each other silly.” Kalmeki bent to tease his nipples with a hot tongue. “You have been saying that for five years.” Zhanil writhed under the assault. “If I thought we could

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ride out tonight…” “We would be seen.” That was always the problem: too many eyes watching. “And tomorrow we leave for Hapaniku,” Kalmeki added. “We must set out early.” “Is that why you’re molesting me now?” At any other time, Zhanil would wrap his arms around Kalmeki and flip him over onto his back so he could savor that firmly muscled body. Now, sensing how little privacy or leisure time they actually had, he merely wanted to come. “I doubt we’ll get any time alone there.” Kalmeki worked his way back up Zhanil’s torso, teasing his collarbone and throat before claiming his mouth again. “Kargil will—” Zhanil groaned, but not from the cock grinding rhythmically against his. “Gods, don’t talk about him!” Any thought of his arrogant, narrow-minded cousin was guaranteed to kill his erection. “He has a wife now.” “Would you just shut up and fuck me?” How Kalmeki could stand to carry on a conversation during sex, Zhanil could never figure out. Lifting his head, thrusting his tongue into his lover’s mouth both to silence him and stifle his own cries, he grunted and trembled through his orgasm. Kalmeki took the hint, pressing him hard into the floor with his need. “What’s going on in there?” Amhir’s voice at the yurt entrance. “Are you hurt?” Zhanil froze. Too late. His will could not make his body obey. Releasing Kalmeki’s mouth with a wink and wet flick of his tongue, he drew a breath and tried to sound casual. “I’m rubbing ointment into Kalmeki’s back.” Smothering his groans between clenched teeth, Kalmeki shuddered and climaxed atop him, their seed mingling. “He insists on being a big baby about it.” In his own voice he heard the quaver and prayed Amhir did not notice. To his relief, Amset’s son only laughed. “Let me know if you need help. Oh, and that holy man—Zapilya—he wants to know if you’ll be attending tonight’s feast.” The shaman probably meant to harangue him further. “Yes,

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I plan on eating supper.” When Amhir withdrew, Kalmeki, now panting and dripping with sweat, rolled away with a groan. “Now I am crying over little aches and pains?” he asked plaintively. Zhanil gave him a friendly shove. “It serves you right for mentioning Kargil.” Spooning up against his lover, he asked, “Are you feeling better now?” “I was hardly sore to begin with.” “I meant…” Unable to articulate his concerns, he touched the fading scab on Kalmeki’s temple. “This is the first time since entering the Turya-lands that I’ve seen you truly happy.” Kalmeki smiled. “It is not easy to come home after so long.” “Kalmeki…” Would he ever admit to the uncertainty once written so plainly on his face? Zhanil shifted, and tightened his embrace. “Do you feel better?” “Yes,” Kalmeki finally said, sighing deeply, “I feel better.”

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Chapter Five An unnatural silence had taken up residence in Shemin-atKhul. Even on the eve of the Turya invasion twenty-seven years ago, the city, then crammed with soldiers and frightened refugees, had not been half as quiet. As he rode up the main thoroughfare toward Tal Charne and the royal residence, Dashir marked the curious gazes that followed him. After so many years, did they remember him? Apprehension seized him at the first questioning glance, then gradually ebbed as he reminded himself that he was now fifty and much changed since he had last passed through these streets. All these citizens saw were his crimson livery and Khalgari escort. To them, he was merely another ambassador from Bhellin. When seeking his aid, King Ettarin ké Ampheres had warned him that the usurpers refused to negotiate and sent previous ambassadors away without an audience. At least, reflected Dashir, Shemin-at-Khul was not Tajhaan, where years earlier the envoys sent by turkan Arzhati had vanished as surely as if they had been swallowed by a sandstorm. Ettarin had warned him, but Dashir’s royal pride refused to believe how, once he actually entered the palace, the officials demurred at his request to see the regents. Then, to his outrage, they ignored him. Rapidly losing patience, he squared his jaw and barked, “Is this how you treat a prince of Rhodeen.” The official, a portly man just old enough to remember the old dynasty, peered at him through squinting eyes. “Sir, do you not come from the king of Khalgar?” Had he not given his name twice on his way in? Does this fool take me for a liar? “I am Prince Dashir Serrides. I did not ride all this way from Bhellin to be ignored, and I certainly have

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no intention of sitting here until some underling has a spare moment. Now go and tell the regents I have a message for them.” Blanching, the official bowed and scurried away. Though his reaction gave Dashir immense satisfaction, he had not anticipated pulling rank, not under such precarious circumstances. And the moment the first regent—a gaunt, elderly man clutching his missive in one fist—appeared, he knew there would be trouble. “I am told,” the man said coldly, “that a Khalgari ambassador claiming to be a member of the royal family wishes to see us.” The royal plural. So the usurpers already assumed prerogatives above their station. “Irial Callios,” replied Dashir. “You have not changed in the twenty-seven years since I last saw you.” Callios took a moment to study him. When he finally nodded his acknowledgment, he stopped short of dropping into an actual bow. “I had not expected a prince of Rhodeen to enter our city wearing Khalgar’s colors.” “Since you did not wish to negotiate with his official ambassadors, King Ettarin decided you might be more amenable to a member of your own royal house, even if he has been a prisoner these last few years,” said Dashir. “I assure you, I would have preferred to enter Shemin-at-Khul in a more appropriate manner, but you will understand that I was given little choice in the matter.” Gesturing to his escort, all potential spies, he continued, “These men have ridden far with me. I know they will receive the hospitality of the palace while we talk.” Callios gave orders to the stewards to lead Dashir’s Khalgari guards away, yet did not soften. “Either you are a prisoner, Prince Dashir, or an ambassador for Khalgar. A true prince of Rhodeen is neither of these things.” For now, Dashir let the slight pass. Smiling tightly, he held up his hand. “Lord Callios, you are as shrewd as I remember. I am not Ettarin’s lackey, not by any means. However, as you will recall, my cousin Sephil married into Khalgar’s royal family. His wife and brother-in-law are concerned for his well-being,

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and believe I am in a position to negotiate for his release where others are not.” Callios’s perpetual frown deepened. “And why should they believe that? Perhaps your time in the monastery has blunted your wits, but here and in many other places you are still viewed as a traitor. If Ettarin ké Ampheres is not a fool, why should he trust you?” Dashir forced himself to keep smiling, to drape an arm around Callios’s thin shoulders and gently but firmly steer him over to the window that commanded a fine view of the city and the eastern flank of Tal Charne. Any visiting dignitary would be impressed with what he saw. “I understand what you want, Lord Callios. You want Rhodeen as it was before these unwashed Turya savages took over. You want the old laws and customs observed again. Khalgar finds it easier to make peace with the Turyar. They have never lived through the horror of an invasion, so they do not view things as we do.” Now he let his voice become wistful. “It is good to look upon my home again. I know my mother is buried in Tal Sepha. Perhaps I might pay my respects before I leave?” “That depends on how soon you depart,” said Callios. “I doubt the other regents will welcome your presence.” Dashir had no doubt that was true, just as he knew why. So did Callios. Traitor or not, he was a prince of Rhodeen, and for a brief time had been Crown Prince. And, unlike the malleable Sephil, he was someone to be reckoned with. Oh no, they would not welcome him at all. “Of course not,” he answered. “But I am sure you will understand that at the time I was young and foolish, faced with savage enemies. I can never forget what the Turyar did to Zhanil Brasides, or how my uncle took the news. Can you blame any young man for being afraid? “I assure you, I have regretted my decision to flee all these long years. Whatever you may have heard, my stay in Tajhaan was hardly a pleasant one. My eldest son was no credit to his bloodline, and my daughter—well, you have met her. Saraji is exactly like her mother. I imagine her husband spends as little time as possible with her.” “Enough to breed two sons, and another on the way.”

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Callios turned away, dislodging Dashir’s arm in the process. “Any ambassador sent by Ettarin will have viewed our demands, so we assume you have done the same. We ask for no assistance in driving out the Turya savages. All we desire is to have our legitimate princes returned to us. It is a perfectly reasonable, civilized request, yet Ettarin balks and holds them hostage.” On the surface, any sensible man would have agreed. Dashir knew better. “You may be sure the Turyar will not go peacefully. There will be fighting, and Ardal and Thanol are so very young, too young to be placed in harm’s way. You remember what happened to the sons of Zhanil Brasides? Surely you can understand why Ettarin would delay when matters here in Rhodeen are still so far from settled.” Callios snorted. “With Queen Mother Ketalya leaning on him, he will delay until the princes are middle-aged. I am told she has attended every meeting with our ambassadors.” Having met Sephil’s wife before departing Bhellin, Dashir could see how Callios and the other regents would be concerned. Both strong-willed and intelligent, Ketalya was a lioness—so much so that Dashir found it difficult imagining her with a lackwit like Sephil. “Release her husband and I am sure both she and Ettarin will be more amenable to your demands.” “The princes need their grandfather here,” replied Callios. “They must not be utterly deprived of their family. King Sephil has already written explaining this to his brother-in-law. What further explanation does that Khalgari dunderhead need?” Dashir briefly wondered what tack the usurpers would have taken with Ettarin’s father. Only a fool dismissed Ampheres’s ambassadors—or attacked the royal family. His own father-inlaw, overconfident in his ability to defeat Khalgar in the field, had made precisely that mistake. These men will not last half as long as Armajid. They are too weak to stand without a legitimate king. The divine solar cult demanded an adult male ruler, a Sun, at the head of the realm. Surely they must know this? “Yes, I have seen the letter, but there are many in Khalgar who do not believe Sephil wrote it himself.” Then, before Callios could take umbrage, he added, “Perhaps you will allow me to see him and discuss the matter with him?”

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Callios hesitated. “Unfortunately, the senior king has suffered a serious accident and is not well. You may see him, of course, but I doubt he will be alert enough to discuss matters with you.” With the regents assuring previous ambassadors that Sephil was receiving the best possible care, Dashir could not imagine what sort of accident his cousin could have had that was not orchestrated. Long years in Tajhaan, surrounded by poisoners and oily eunuchs, had taught him that royalty did not fall victim to chance. “I should also like to see my sister, Lady Thano.” Callios’s face darkened, and he turned away. “Sadly, I regret to inform you that you are too late.” As Dashir listened to the old man’s account, he fought to keep his emotions in check and his expression bland. Thano had been kept in an isolated apartment in the west wing of the palace, where she had allegedly been discovered passing messages to Zhanil’s sympathizers and Turya dissidents within the city. “She was encouraging them to send word to her son in the Turyalands,” Callios explained. “Kargil has become influential at his grandfather’s court. Should he decide to invade on his mother’s behalf, the conflict would tear the land apart. She would not see reason, so I am afraid there was no other way but this. She has, of course, received all honors and will be buried at Tal Sepha.” Another moment and Dashir did not know if he would have been able to contain his anger. Too late, he had arrived one day too late. There was no other way but this. Liar. It was all a pretense, an excuse to strike a blow at the Turyar, among whom Thano remained popular even after Arzhati’s death. It was the first step toward purging Rhodeen of the Turya taint. “I hope these events had nothing to do with Sephil’s accident.” To Dashir’s disgust, Callios chuckled at the question. “Whatever you may have heard about a conspiracy, the timing of these unfortunate events was mere coincidence. The king was subdued on the platform at Tal Charne when he tried to incite the crowd. During the altercation he was injured.” What Sephil was doing on the royal platform in the first place, Callios did not say. Dashir noted the omission. “I see.” “Of course, you know we have no wish to see King Sephil come to harm,” Callios continued. “His ministry has made him

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quite popular here. We want him alive as a link to the old line, and his grandchildren should have the consolation of his company.” “Of course,” Dashir said coldly. Callios suddenly pursed his lips and changed the subject. “I trust you will negotiate for the safe return of our princes?” Dashir avoided giving a direct answer. “As I said before, Khalgar will not release them until they are certain that the situation here is stable. I know my daughter certainly will not agree.” “Queen Saraji’s opinion does not concern us.” From what little information he gleaned from Ettarin and the guard captain who had accompanied his daughter and grandchildren from Shemin-at-Khul, Dashir knew Saraji had done remarkably little to endear herself to her husband’s people. Now he could see how her sharp tongue—inherited from her mother Terreh—and stubborn adherence to her Tajhaani ways had earned her enemies. Zhanil, not knowing what else to do, tried to be conciliatory, and so did not insist on her learning the language or otherwise behaving like a proper queen. Dashir could have told him he was wasting his time. Saraji needed a firm hand, else she would never improve. “Saraji will not trouble you,” he said. “Queen Mother Ketalya, however, is another matter. She wields considerable influence in Khalgar, perhaps too much. This news about King Sephil cannot be allowed to reach Bhellin.” Once more, Callios answered with his infuriating chuckle. “Too many people witnessed the accident. I imagine the news is traveling north even as we speak.” “Do they know how gravely he was injured?” “Of course not,” Callios said dismissively. “We cleared the plaza and removed the king at once. Our ministers of information have spent all day spreading the word that it was but a minor injury.” “Where is he being lodged, if I may ask?” Smiling coldly, Callios replied, “He is not here in the palace. Our physicians thought it best to have him remain in the royal apartment at Tal Charne.” Dashir pondered his next move. Staring out the window,

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his gaze focused on the pyramid’s shadowed east flank, and an idea occurred to him. Nebulous, half-formed, it slowly began to take shape. Yes, it might work. “Those apartments are not secure. Servants, guards, and even physicians can be bribed for what they know. Leave him there and the truth—if it is as grave as you say—will certainly get out. I can, however, offer you an alternative.” “There is no alternative.” “The crypt under Tal Charne is one of the most secure places in the entire city.” The predatory look that passed over Callios’s face repelled Dashir. “Do you mean to bury your cousin alive?” Dashir clasped his hands behind his back to suppress his growing urge to throttle the old man. “There is a suitable chamber just within the entrance. Surely you are familiar with the royal Sun Chapel? A cot and brazier can be set up there, and you can limit the number of guards and attendants.” His mouth twitching, he forced himself to smile. “If he dies there you will find his death easy to conceal for as long as you deem necessary.” Now it was Callios’s turn to place a hand on his shoulder and lead him away from the window. “Prince Dashir, I think it is time you met the other regents. Let me show you a place where you can wait in comfort while I announce your arrival to them.” In a salon upholstered in leather and crimson silk, servants brought wine and other refreshments, which Dashir hesitated to touch. Had he not been wary of arousing his host’s suspicions when he had just expended so much effort gaining his confidence, Dashir would have insisted the servants taste the food first. My years in Tajhaan have not helped me, he thought. Books and art objects were scattered about the room for his amusement, while a window offered a view of an inner courtyard and gardens. Rising high above the trees and casting the ornamental walkways in perpetual shadow, Tal Charne offered a grim reminder of what darkness lurked beneath the sunlight. Dashir found a decanter of brandy in a cabinet and, pouring himself a glass, stood by the window. No matter the success or

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failure of this mission, regardless of his personal opinion of his son-in-law or ineffectual cousin, he had genuinely wanted to see Thano again. Tipping the glass back, he emptied the contents in one shot. Warmth spread into his belly, but did not dispel his churning anger. No meek ambassador was he. If Ettarin expected him to deliver his message and then obediently ride back to Khalgar and his monastery prison—well, the king badly underestimated Dashir Serrides. His sister’s death he could not change. Other work, however, remained. In all his discourse of bringing the young princes back to Shemin-at-Khul, of providing them with a loving grandfather, Irial Callios had apparently forgotten one crucial fact. I am also their grandfather. Dashir allowed the omission. Whether Sephil lived or died—and at this point it did not really matter—Dashir had no intention of leaving his grandsons to these vultures. So the usurpers wanted the old line restored in the most traditional sense of the word. Dashir smiled over his empty glass. Tradition meant an adult royal male on the throne. Too bad Callios failed to realize just how much the former Crown Prince was capable of negotiating. Within the hour, the old man returned. His relaxed manner told Dashir the outcome even before he spoke. “Prince Dashir, I do believe we may be able to negotiate with you.”

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Chapter Six The shot, which seemingly came out of nowhere, ripped the leather bag from his shoulder and pinned it to the wooden post behind him. Startled, his guards rallying behind him with swords and bows at the ready, Zhanil sighted the mounted figure who appeared on the path before him. Kalmeki had his bow drawn. “He is your kinsman. Shall I shoot him anyway?” Zhanil shook his head, then called out, “You missed, Kargil!” “I never miss.” “Is this how Turya nobility greets visitors to Hapaniku?” Zhanil’s right arm and shoulder ached from the shock of having the bag torn from his arm. Gods, why must the man always be so disagreeable? Kargil, bow in hand, calmly rode toward them. “Had you sought a warmer welcome, you would not have left my mother behind when you ran for your life.” Although tact urged him not to look, Zhanil could not help letting his gaze stray to Kargil’s left hand. A leather glove concealed the missing digits, and the bow’s construction allowed him to clench it between his stumps and intact thumb. “I did not leave her behind. I sent men to see her to safety with my own family.” From his quiver, Kargil withdrew a second arrow and carefully fitted it to the bowstring. “But you do not know if she escaped, do you? You do not even know the fate of your own wife and children.” How true that was, and how much it stung! Gods, if they are dead or captured... “The man I sent is the captain of my own Home Guard—”

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“A turkan never abandons those who rely on his protection.” Sighting, Kargil let the arrow fly. It whizzed past Zhanil’s head, thudding into the post mere inches from the guard who held the leather bag. Half a heartbeat later, a second arrow sliced through the air, grazing Kargil’s cheek before disappearing into the brush. “The next time,” warned Kalmeki, “it will be through your throat.” Zhanil put up his hand. Kalmeki could not fight his battles for him. “Kargil, you either intend to riddle me with arrows or let me pass. Which will it be?” Ignoring the blood streaming from his lacerated cheek, Kargil shrugged, then slung his bow over one shoulder and turned aside. “Do not try to play the king here. Atalash may receive you, or he may not. Word has come ahead of you. We all know the cowardly stunt you played at the medhran. It is not worthy of a turkan.” With his cousin towering over them like some disapproving Turya demigod, Zhanil and his guards passed into the precinct of Hapaniku. A wooden stockade faced with stones enclosed a lower settlement of yurts and longhouses. Turya masonry could not compete with its Khalgari counterpart, and Zhanil doubted the Turyar even understood the principles of dressing stone or mixing mortar, yet the men who had constructed Hapaniku’s outer defenses placed the rough ashlar so precisely that not even a sword’s blade could have been wedged between the stones. For a people who built their homes in wood or sod, or not at all, it was an impressive feat. On a natural bluff, the stronghold proper loomed over the settlement. The turkan’s residence covered half an acre, built of stone and timber and encircled by a second stockade. From this height, Atalash could gaze far over his dominion, from the grasslands of the west and south to the mountainous meadows and snow-capped peaks to the north. As they ascended the rough track to the stronghold, Zhanil felt bold enough to inquire, “Who built this place?” Kargil offered little explanation. “It has stood here two hundred years.”

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Grooms rushed out to take their mounts. Amidst the activity, Kargil vanished, and with only Kalmeki at his side, Zhanil entered the warren of dimly lit corridors that comprised the turkan’s palace. After taking more turns than he could count, he received lodgings in a windowless room only slightly larger than the cubicle he had shared with Kalmeki in Harunta’s longhouse. Felt tapestries insulated the walls, and a brazier illuminated one corner. Despite the fire, and the spring day outside, the room was chilly. Kalmeki inspected the brazier. “It is freshly lit,” he said. “The room is small and will warm quickly.” As Zhanil dropped his bag onto the hide-covered bed, he noted the damage done by Kargil. “I suppose if he really hated me he would have put the arrow between my eyes instead.” “He is posturing,” replied Kalmeki. “I am told he demonstrates his prowess where and whenever he can.” “I am no threat to his position here.” Even as he said it, Zhanil did not quite believe his own words. How or why, he could not explain exactly, but it seemed he and Kargil were destined to be rivals. “You think not? Men desiring land may decide to follow you east, as they followed Arzhati and his brother.” “If I had land to give, don’t you think I would have already given it to the expatriated Rhodeen nobility?” Kalmeki shook his head. “What happens in the east-lands has never much concerned us here.” “Then it should.” Zhanil upended the bag, only to find the tear extended beyond the leather. Kargil’s arrow had torn into his spare tunic, the one he intended to wear before turkan Atalash. “Is there anyplace where I can buy or barter for something to wear?” Kalmeki studied the tunic. “Perhaps in the settlement below,” he said. “I will ask. About your question earlier, it is said that Hapaniku was built by a turkan who entered the eastlands and saw its cities and strongholds. He spared only one man who knew how to build in stone.” So Khalgari engineering had come to the Turya-lands, for despite the absence of mortar, the construction resembled that

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found in the valley of Aring, the westernmost region of Khalgar. “The turkan chose an excellent location,” said Zhanil. “The settlement here is very old. These people are the descendants of the men and women who built this place. It is said they dwelt here before the turkan came with his followers and subjugated them. Normally, turkani seize land for grazing, or they make raids for horses, cattle, or women. All those who heard the tale thought this turkan was mad for taking so barren a place and its people. His enemies laughed and judged the time had come to ride against him, but from this height he saw them coming. When he mounted their heads in the high places as an offering to the Storm God, no one laughed at him then.” “And Kargil couldn’t tell me this?” “I am told he is not a storyteller.” Kalmeki shrugged. “I will go see what clothing I can find for you. It may not be much.” What Zhanil received were trousers, a linen tunic, and an open-front coat, all secondhand items. Kalmeki also managed to obtain new linen underthings and a set of spare clothing for himself. “Your coin does not buy as much as in the east-lands,” he said. “Here it is only good for decoration.” As the clothing fit and was clean, Zhanil had no complaints. “It will do. Thank you, Kalmeki. I know I don’t reflect well on you here in the Turya-lands.” Kalmeki looked visibly surprised. “I never said that.” “You don’t have to say it. When we were at your father’s settlement, and when we rode up to the medhran grounds, I saw how others looked at us, and then at you. Most of them were shaking their heads as though you could do better. It isn’t merely that I’m an east-lander, an outsider. They all know who I am. I heard the insults when the elders thought I couldn’t understand them. They questioned your breeding and good judgment in allowing yourself to become my keshka.” Just speaking the words stung. “It can’t be any easier for you here.” “Those men have never been to the east-lands except in their youth, to raid and pillage. The only east-landers they know are the corpses they left behind. My father…” Red-faced, as flustered as Zhanil had seen him, Kalmeki paused before continuing, “Yes, it is true. My father thinks I could do better.

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Those who have never been keshkai do not understand that we have no choice.” (o choice. Gods, you do regret this. “I’m sorry.” “Do not be sorry. Be…” Kalmeki gritted his teeth and shook his head. “Be worthy. My father calls you a boy. Atalash will call you a boy—though I am told he does this to Kargil, too. You cannot afford to have him think ill of you. You must be worthy of respect. Be a turkan.” “I have tried—” “Then stop trying and do.” Afternoon turned to evening with no summons from the turkan. A servant brought supper, which Zhanil ate with Kalmeki at his side. Kalmeki offered no false reassurances. “I am sure Kargil will try to prevent Atalash from seeing you.” Zhanil disagreed around a mouthful of millet. “His anger at me over his mother clouds his judgment, but even he can’t be that stupid. Lady Thano won’t be safe unless the usurpers are driven out.” “You are assuming she did not escape with the queen and your children.” To be honest, Zhanil did not know that any of them had gotten safely to Khalgar. “My point is that Kargil knows his mother is not popular with the traditional hard-line nobles. The best choice of helping her is to make certain we see Atalash.” “Let us hope he is that wise.” Zhanil nodded and swallowed. “That business about my cowardice at the medhran—he knows very well that isn’t the talk we heard.” Only now did Kalmeki show concern. “It appears that Kargil knows how to lie.” “Surely his grandfather will realize he isn’t telling the truth.” “One should never anticipate the turkan in anything,” replied Kalmeki. “Atalash has ruled fifty years through cunning and brute force. I do not doubt he knows.” Cunning and brute force: the model Kalmeki wanted him to follow. “And he approves this?” Setting aside his supper, Kalmeki drew out a stoppered clay

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bottle and placed it on the table between them. “Your mind is racing ahead of you, wondering why Atalash has not yet summoned you, wondering what Kargil will say and do, and how you will be received when—” “If, Kalmeki, if he summons me.” Kalmeki rose and, to Zhanil’s confusion, took up a position behind him. “Remove your shirt.” Confused, Zhanil obeyed, slowly unlacing his tunic and pulling it up over his head. Only when Kalmeki placed both hands on his shoulders did he understand. “Do I really look that tense?” “Yes. Now hand me the bottle.” As Kalmeki kneaded slick hands into his trapezius, Zhanil did his best to let the tension drain out of his body. How could he not, when his lover’s fingers worked such magic? A massage was one of the few intimacies warriors were allowed to share. “Atalash allowed you into his stronghold.” Kalmeki’s warm breath feathered his throat, and the touch of moist lips against the nape of his neck made Zhanil instantly erect. “Of course he will receive you. For now, I believe he is merely observing you—” “Not now, I hope.” “There are no locks on the doors.” That warm voice tickled Zhanil’s ear, even as those powerful hands ventured across his collarbone to his deltoids, circling downward as if to knead his nipples then abruptly withdrawing. Kalmeki knew exactly how to drive him wild, how to prolong the teasing until Zhanil grew impatient. Leisurely lovemaking might come later, once their initial desire was spent—only they rarely had enough time or privacy to come together a second time. Seizing Kalmeki’s hand, Zhanil turned his wrist over to nibble at his pulse point. “Then you’d better stop before I decide I need your attention someplace much lower.” Still holding Kalmeki’s hand and aware that his erection pushed through his trousers, he stood up. “It’s your turn now.” Kalmeki hesitated. “But I do not need—” “Yes, you do. I’m giving you a royal command.” “You cannot command me,” said Kalmeki. “I am your keshka.”

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“Then I am asking you as your keshka.” Zhanil took his turn, and lavished attention on the powerful body now under his control. Taking a little oil from the jar, he warmed it between his palms, then worked it into Kalmeki’s shoulders. Teasing, kneading, drawing circles around Kalmeki’s firm muscles before dipping down to pinch his nipples, Zhanil grinned at the gasp of pleasure he elicited. “It’s only fair you share my torment.” Then his hands stopped and he bent down for a kiss. When Kalmeki seized him and turned, standing up, Zhanil made no protest. This was exactly what he wanted, to be pressed up against the door, holding it shut with his body, while Kalmeki ravaged his throat and mouth. “I want—” Either Kalmeki never heard him or did not care. With his tongue in Zhanil’s mouth, swallowing his words or any other sound he might make, his fingers unlaced their trousers, tugging once on Zhanil’s throbbing cock before grinding against him. Zhanil gasped for air. I want to come in your mouth. But when Kalmeki was roused enough, he took what he wanted without stopping, and now he thrust against Zhanil’s belly, slamming him hard against the door until they both came. Afterward, Zhanil sagged to the floor, his head slumped against the doorjamb. “You certainly enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?” Kalmeki went to the table for a clean cloth. Zhanil managed a weak smile at the sight of his trousers still open and pushed down to reveal his firm ass. What fucking him would feel like Zhanil dared not contemplate. Not once in six years had the subject come up between them, because Zhanil knew that, as a Turya, Kalmeki would never consent to do what he considered unnatural. Men only entered women, not other men. Such had the Earth Mother decreed. In truth, Zhanil had no desire to press that kind of lovemaking on him. Had he wanted a smooth, tight ass, there were pleasure slaves, boys and girls brought in from Khalgar and Tajhaan, who could serve that purpose. With Kalmeki, he could be a man, not a husband or king or seducer with ulterior motives. In Kalmeki, he had an equal, someone with whom he could share

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his thoughts, and someone who would not flatter or lie to him. “You seem more relaxed now,” Kalmeki observed. “Yes, quite, but next time…” Turning, Kalmeki treated him to a sight guaranteed to make his erection return, had he not been so tired. With the cloth in one hand, he slowly, sensuously wiped the cum from his belly before gripping his cock and, pulling back the foreskin to reveal the delicious pink tip, cleaning that as well. “You were saying?” “Next time suck my cock. It’s been forever since anyone did it right.” “Your wife does not know how to do it?” Apparently Turya women were expected to know how to suck their men, just as men were expected to reciprocate. “Saraji thinks the only fit place for my seed is in her belly. I’ve tried showing her there are other pleasures besides fucking, but the subject just makes her uncomfortable. I wish I knew what they told her growing up in that Tajhaani harem. I don’t know the words to ask her, and I don’t know what she’d tell me even if I did.” Kalmeki rinsed the cloth in the washbasin before coming over and dropping it in Zhanil’s lap. “She should speak with a wise woman.” Even in the damp cloth Zhanil could still smell his lover’s essence. “Do Turya men always discuss their wives as freely as this?” “No, but we are keshkai. I think you will sleep better now. Do not worry about Kargil or Atalash,” replied Kalmeki. “The turkan will do as he wishes, when he wishes, and Kargil will have nothing to say about it.” Morning came to Hapaniku with a bitter chill and a breakfast of hot porridge. Zhanil ate alone, then received directions to the sweat lodge, where he spent half an hour in the presence of two warriors who seemed pleasantly surprised to find that a dark-haired east-lander could speak their language. And it was just his misfortune that this was where the turkan’s messenger found him: half-naked and sweating, thoroughly stunned at the summons. The warriors merely laughed at his consternation. “Atalash always waits until you are either taking a shit or fucking your woman to call you,” said one.

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“So you are very lucky indeed.” Kalmeki awaited him outside with his new clothing. “Put it on, quickly,” he said. “Atalash may find this amusing, but he will not wait forever.” Zhanil combed his fingers through his hair while Kalmeki did up the laces and buttons. “You are not coming with me?” “I was not summoned. There. It is not your blue coat with the stars, but you look more like a turkan than you did when you arrived.” Kalmeki threaded the last button, brushed off an imaginary bit of dust, then stood back. “Remember who you are, and try not to vomit all over Atalash. He will not appreciate it.” In a room bright with tapestries and carpets, two braziers burned. Seated in his carved chair between them, the old turkan seemed not to notice how stuffy the chamber was. A sheepskin rug lay across his lap, and a walking stick leaned against the arm of his chair. Kargil, dandling a toddler on his knee, occupied a second chair under a shelf lined with bleached skulls. Zhanil surmised the boy was Kargil’s son, Lugal, and the plump, pretty woman standing at the turkan’s elbow his wife, Peteku. Zhanil’s thoughts about this family arrangement, so obviously staged, scattered the moment Atalash butted his stick against the floor to get his attention. “So the east-landers think they can appoint turkani now, eh?” So much for a formal greeting. “Turkan Atalash,” said Zhanil, “I was appointed by the Turya chieftains in Rhodeen.” “Those chieftains are men chosen by my son, with my permission.” Atalash tapped his chest with gnarled fingers. “They have nothing to do with you, and they certainly are not here with you now. Now what have you to say for yourself?” “Rhodeen is not the Turya-lands.” “No, it is not,” agreed Atalash. At nearly ninety, gaunt with years, he seemed barely able to stand unaided, much less ride in the medhran, yet age could not diminish the authority he exuded. Such a man was not to be underestimated. “So do not behave as though we are equals, boy. I ruled these lands when you were still a newborn pissing yourself in the cradle.” Indeed, Kalmeki had been right: Atalash was Ampheres in Turya dress. And just like his late grandfather, Zhanil doubted the old turkan would give him much credit. “Yes, so I have

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heard.” Atalash snorted. “You speak Turya with a terrible accent. Even my great-grandson speaks better than you, and he knows only how to babble for his mother’s teat.” Waggling his fingers at the toddler, cackling when Lugal grasped at them, Atalash appeared to take genuine delight in the boy. Though he had never heard complaints about his accent, Zhanil gracefully accepted the criticism. Losing his temper as he had done with Harunta was not an option here. “I must confess it is not my first language, or even my second. That I speak it at all is a rarity in my land. Not many east-landers take an interest in the Turyar, or wish to come to the Turya-lands.” “And that is exactly how it should be, boy,” Atalash answered sharply. “There is nothing for you here. Do you eastlanders not have great cities that far surpass this humble stronghold? Do you, as a so-called turkan, not live in splendor that makes our simple Turya ways seem primitive? So do not play the flatterer with me. You east-landers may desire our secrets, even our warriors as mercenaries, but you would not have us settle among you.” “There are many places in Rhodeen where the Turyar have been welcomed,” Zhanil pointed out. “And yet,” finished Atalash, “here you are, driven out by those who want nothing to do with Turya ways or those who embrace them. Come, we will discuss this further over dinner. My belly is grumbling, and I see no reason to wait simply because I have company. Whatever we have to say to each other can be said before others.” Atalash pushed the sheepskin aside and, leaning on his stick, rose with an audible creak from the chair. Standing erect, with scarcely a stoop, he towered inches above Zhanil. What a giant he must have been in his youth! Even Kargil, formidable in his own right, seemed small in his presence. Peteku took Lugal from Kargil’s arms and left the room. Zhanil did not see her again until she reappeared in the main hall, this time alone. Kalmeki met them at the entrance. When Atalash acknowledged him, he bowed from the waist. “So this is your keshka, eh?” observed the turkan.

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“Kalmeki, you are aware there is a man here with your name, yes?” “I have met him, turkan, but the Storm God has decreed no bond between us.” Atalash made a disapproving sound. “So now you know the will of the god, eh?” “I claim no such honor,” replied Kalmeki, “but it was your son who saw that the gods kept bringing Kalmeku and me together. It was he who told us we were keshkai.” “Arzhati was not always the wisest man.” Zhanil marked the insult and bit back his anger. Atalash is a crabby old man who complains about everything, just like Grandfather. It means nothing, except that he’s testing you. Ignore him. The main hall was richly decorated with tapestries and painted woodwork depicting gods and mythical creatures. A meal at the royal table was a simple affair, with only two courses and none of the delicacies Atalash might have imported from the east-lands. Both Khalgari wine and Rhodeen silk had been sent as gifts to Hapaniku, but the only foreign luxury Zhanil had seen since arriving was the thick-woven Khalgari rug in Atalash’s chamber. No canopy of state hung over Atalash’s place, and his chair, padded with well-worn cushions, might have been found in any yurt or longhouse in the Turya-lands. Over his boiled chicken and stewed berries, Atalash said little to Kalmeki, and nothing at all to Kargil, who ate his meal in dour silence. Zhanil knew that Arzhati had often thrust his son into the public eye, frequently addressing him on personal matters. Whether Atalash consulted with his grandson or held him in any regard, Zhanil did not know, and he would not have been surprised to discover the old turkan kept his own counsel. Certainly he understood the concept of dynasty, as evidenced by the family tableau in his chamber, even though turkani were traditionally chosen for their fitness to rule rather than the strength of their familial connections. High-ranking chieftains, with not a few women among them, occupied trestle tables nearby. Atalash was shrewd enough to have men like Harunta spend part of the year under his

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watchful eye at Hapaniku so they could not gather opposition elsewhere. All watched Zhanil with polite interest. Turyar were naturally reticent around strangers. Zhanil’s Turya councilors seemed unable to master the art of political small talk, and so rarely communicated with their native counterparts. If only they could learn to talk to each other. So he often lamented to Kalmeki, or to his father through letters. I do not think I am asking too much. Somehow Atalash seemed to read his observations. “You expected something livelier, yes? Did you think you would be the center of attention?” Age and rank excused his tactlessness. “They may not be talking to me,” said Zhanil, “but they are watching.” “You think so? Perhaps they are merely wondering why an east-lander who calls himself a turkan arrives without his chieftains and dresses so shabbily.” “Lord Kalmeki is with me,” Zhanil replied coolly, “and I am not ashamed to wear used clothing. In fact, I notice you are dressed no more richly than anyone else.” Atalash snorted, then belched into his fist. “Is this how you talk to your Turya nobles over dinner?” “I would prefer they talk to the other nobles, but unfortunately they do not seem to know what to say to each other.” “And do these nobles, these men of Rhodeen, know how to speak Turya, or are they all ignorant savages?” Zhanil could see Atalash already knew the answer. “They cannot even pronounce Turya names correctly.” “Neither can you, boy, but that is not what I asked.” Boy. Everyone in the hall bore witness to his humiliation. “I have tried to encourage—” “A turkan does not encourage—he orders!” Atalash’s roar drew the attention of the entire hall, and raised goose bumps along Zhanil’s arms. Lowering his voice, he continued, “I know for a fact that the Turyar in the east-lands speak your tongue. Arzhati my son ordered it so. Why do you not order these lazy nobles of yours to learn Turya?” “As I said before,” Zhanil replied weakly, “I have encouraged them. There is no law requiring that they become

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bilingual, and I do not wish to offend them by ordering them to do so.” “You should become accustomed to giving orders, or accept that you have been overthrown and prepare to die,” Atalash said sharply. “Your people speak the tongue of Khalgar, and perhaps that desert land in the south whose name I keep forgetting. How difficult can it be for them to learn one more language?” Heat rose to Zhanil’s cheeks, his embarrassment compounded by the fact that Kargil’s predatory gaze was fixed on him. Either the man never explained the situation to his grandfather, or Atalash simply wanted to hear the answer from his own lips. “Suppose Rhodeen or Khalgar invaded these lands and set up foreign princes here at Hapaniku? Suppose then that their turkan ordered you to learn their tongue. Would you be so willing to obey?” “Perhaps I learn anyway, no?” For a moment, Zhanil could not believe what he heard: Atalash addressing him in heavily accented Khalgari. “I had no idea you spoke another language,” he said in Turya. Grinning, showing his yellowed teeth, Atalash reverted back to his native tongue. “In my youth I fought your grandfather—both of them, I think. I fought them on the plain to the east where the mountains part like a woman’s breasts, but long before that day, I took prisoners and brought them here to teach me the tongue of Khalgar. It is always good to know what the enemy says. Translators are for fools, men like your lazy nobles. If they are not willing to do what you command, perhaps they should not be allowed to keep what they have.” “I intend to remove them.” Atalash chuckled, low and dry. “You should have done that before, boy. Then you would not be sitting here in your used coat looking for my help.” Then, signaling an end to the conversation, he returned to his meal. Zhanil sensed the dialogue would continue in private, if only because the turkan seemed to relish his discomfort. A young, shapely woman approached bearing an ale pitcher. Mirrors winked from her headdress. Zhanil started to smile and compliment her, as he always did when noble ladies approached the king’s seat, but to his amazement she addressed Kalmeki

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instead. “You rode in the medhran.” “Yes,” Kalmeki replied. “You rode quite well.” Taking his cup, she refilled it, leaving Zhanil’s untouched. “I believe you placed tenth?” “I did not count.” A flush spread over her cheeks as she smiled. “So you are not a braggart. Good. I do not care for men full of hot wind.” As she walked away, her swaying hips setting her mirrors and silver ornaments twinkling, Kalmeki’s eyes followed. Zhanil momentarily forgot his empty cup in his wonder at the rare sight. Turya women rarely came to court, despite his repeated invitation. Only the wives and daughters of the old nobility frequented the palace, where Zhanil had to endure their complaints that Queen Saraji denied them their due privilege of serving her in favor of her own Tajhaani attendants. “Was that woman just courting you?” he asked. “I believe so,” answered Kalmeki. “She’s rather pretty.” Kalmeki nodded. “She rides well, too.” “So you know her?” Another nod. “She is Yhade, daughter of Ningal.” Kalmeki never discussed marriage, and never expressed a desire to lie with a woman, yet every Turya warrior was expected to marry, no matter what his preference. “Well, if you want horses to court the lady, I’ll be happy to provide—” “A man only offers his own horses,” Kargil said sharply. “A sensible woman will not accept a man who relies on the charity of others.” At once, Zhanil realized the insult was directed at him rather than his keshka. Still, he smiled and maintained a pleasant tone. “If Lord Kalmeki brings this woman horses that I give him, he will have them because he earned them through his loyal service to me.” Nodding toward the gold cuff encircling Kargil’s wrist, he added, “I assume you won that in battle or through some other deed, and did not receive it as charity from your grandfather.” “My father gave it to me,” said Kargil. “It must have been some brave deed you performed to win such a lavish gift.”

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“I have performed many brave deeds,” Kargil answered quietly. “What, I wonder, have you done?” Zhanil refused to take the bait. “Being a king is not the same as being a turkan.” “Then perhaps you should not use the two titles together as though they were.” “Does it bother you that the chieftains in Rhodeen choose to address me as turkan?” Half a second later, realizing what he had said, and to whom, he waited for the explosion, but Kargil only set his jaw and did not answer. **** “You need Kargil’s support, whether you think so or not. Take care what you say to him.” “No matter what I say, he’ll find some reason to be offended.” Zhanil had his back to the door, leaning over the washbasin. “I never intended to mention my being turkan, or even discuss politics with him, but then, he chose to interrupt the conversation.” Kalmeki exhaled a long, tense breath. “Had it ever occurred to you that Kargil might be testing you?” “Every time we meet,” grumbled Zhanil. Water splashed in the basin; he reached for the cloth beside it with a dripping hand. “As I said, I never meant to drop the word turkan in his presence, but he makes it so easy. When I asked him what brave deed he had done, he could have laughed and told me some story—but no, he chose to impugn my courage, and call my gifts to you charity.” “No, he insulted your ignorance of our customs,” said Kalmeki. “You should never have offered to provide bride-gifts. Not even my father would have done that.” Zhanil turned, still dabbing at his face, and snorted. “Kargil knows perfectly well that I wasn’t born here, and that I made the offer according to my custom. This woman you met tonight, are you interested in courting her?” Kalmeki slowly nodded. “It is time for me to take a wife,” he replied. “I know Yhade from my previous time here. She is a good woman, who would be willing, I think, to come to

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Rhodeen. What she and her father will think of my keshka, or his appalling lack of good sense, I have no idea.” Silent shock became outrage. “I hope that’s a joke, Kalmeki.” “I do not make jokes about such things.” Gritting his teeth, Zhanil balled the cloth tightly and flung it at him. The curious mix of frustration and fascination that had dogged Kalmeki since that long-ago day in Meduin when he first spied Zhanil from a boarding house doorway, the same heady pull that made them keshkai and kept him from leaving altogether, often made it difficult for him to be completely forthright. Now he saw his mistake. “I should have boxed your ears and smacked sense into you long ago—and I would have, had I thought it would do you any good. Kargil insults you because you are not ruthless. He laughs and broods knowing the Turya chieftains chose you over him. Your people do not want to hold hands and be friends, just because you want it so. Your lords will not learn Turya because you encourage them. Atalash criticizes you because no selfrespecting Turya would make the mistakes you have made. If you are wise you will listen to what he says. If not, I certainly will not make excuses for you.” Zhanil’s face became a mask of black fury. “Then don’t,” he hissed. “Don’t fucking do anything for me. I don’t care what Kargil thinks. He had his chance. As for Atalash, he’d like me to line the road from Shemin-at-Khul to Cassiare with the heads of my enemies.” “Then take his advice and do it. At least then your realm will be secure.” Kalmeki left a fuming Zhanil and went for a walk. In the entryway just outside the Great Hall, he encountered the turkan’s grandson. Warily, he inclined his head and started to speak a customary greeting, only to pause when Kargil put up his hand. “The Storm God has cursed you, son of Harunta. You are a far better man than he.” I will not make excuses. “I do not know that.” “I thought him a fool years ago, when we first met. Now I know for certain.”

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“That he may be,” said Kalmeki, “but he believes you hate him.” Kargil laughed harshly. “And why should I not? Look at him! He has Turya warriors to fight for him. He has the love of his people, yet he cannot hold his kingdom. He does not deserve to rule.” “Rhodeen is not an easy land to govern.” “You should never have gone east, Kalmeki, unless it was to bring back enough plunder to buy a bride—that is all the eastlands are good for.” So the older generations still said. To hear such sentiments on the lips of a man like Kargil, who was not even thirty, was surprising. “Those days are ending.” Kargil snorted. “Some things do not change. That is precisely why I wanted nothing to do with Rhodeen or its fussy native lords. Either I had to placate them or wipe them out. One I would not do, and the other the chieftains would not tolerate. So there is my kinsman’s problem—he tried too hard to compromise, to be reasonable, and failed miserably, because it was not enough. It will never be enough. But where I would mow them down and replace them with lords of my choosing, Kalmeku sits back and broods because the laws will not let him move unless they attack first. Oh, yes, he insults me, thinking I am his rival, but I understand perfectly.” “Then go to him and tell him,” urged Kalmeki. “Tell him you are not his enemy.” When Kargil made a disparaging noise in his throat, it hardly came as a surprise. “Let him beg my pardon for his insulting words, then perhaps I will talk to him.” “Had you not fired two arrows at him yesterday afternoon, he might not have attacked you.” “Had he not left my mother to the mercy of the east-men, I might have left my bow at home. I would have sat down with him as my kinsman had she come with him, but he came alone and I know nothing of her fate.” Kargil spread his hands, where Kalmeki could see his disfigurement; the turkan’s grandson seemed to feel no shame. “So there we are. I would tell you to leave Kalmeku to the gods who hate him, but I know you cannot. I know how bound keshkai are.” Then he laughed again, as

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bitterly as before. “I wish you good fortune. You will need it in the days ahead.”

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Chapter Seven Through dreams lanced with pain, blurred with indistinct voices and sharp odors, Sephil gradually regained consciousness. Darkness, heavy and musty, enveloped him. Embers glowed red in a nearby brazier, tinting empty walls the color of blood, and evoking an air of dread. This was not his bedchamber with its airy draperies and sunlit view of Tal Sepha. Somehow, his surroundings had been reduced to a cot, a stool, and a stone slab set against one shadowy wall. Footfalls approached his bedside. Wood scraped against stone; someone took the stool beside his cot. Sephil turned his head slightly, then recoiled as he recognized his cousin, a man he had not seen in five years, and never thought to see again. “Dashir—” Dashir laid a finger against his lips to silence him, then offered him water. “Drink slowly, Sephil, and try not to move. The physician will give you something for the pain when he arrives. For now, you need to keep warm.” Sephil felt the weight of a fur-edged blanket drawn over him. Only then did he realize how cold he was. As awareness crept over him, his limbs began to tremble uncontrollably and aggravate a dull ache in his side. “What is this place?” he whispered. “There is no light—nothing.” “This is the Sun Chapel, near the crypts under Tal Charne. The king’s platform is just above us. Can you remember what happened to you?” Vague images took shape within Sephil’s drug-fogged thoughts. Besan Palassos had marched him up to the platform, from which he could see the crowds clamoring in the plaza below. Someone spoke—he could not recall who, or what they said—and then it was his turn. With a knife pressed against his side, Palassos hissed at him to address the crowd, to denounce

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his son as king. Sephil could not recall what he had said, except that he had raised his voice, and scarcely said anything at all before being interrupted. Irial Callios drowned him out with shrill cries that demons had possessed him. Something had gone wrong. Either he turned into the knife or Palassos had simply stabbed him. Scarlet bloomed against white, blood seeped through his robe, and stained his hands when he pressed them to his side, yet he remembered no pain. The platform tilted under him, the heavens turned, and he tumbled away from his own body into a thick darkness, falling toward a distant light, desperately wanting to reach it even when a pair of strong arms caught him up and carried him away as easily as a child. Gravity returned him to his body. Cold lips touched his forehead, a kiss whose giver he did not see, but in his ear he heard the cobwebs of a voice: (ot yet, love. “There is too much to remember,” he replied. “But you— you should not be here.” Dashir responded to the unasked questions, “I arrived only yesterday. Your wife and brother-in-law asked me to negotiate with these regents. They thought perhaps a prince of the old blood might succeed where Khalgar’s ambassadors have failed.” Sephil tried very hard not to think about what his cousin meant to do with his new freedom, not with his strength at its lowest ebb. Should Dashir wish to smother him with a cushion, there was nothing to prevent him. “What are you negotiating?” “Some peaceable resolution that does not involve sending Zhanil’s sons back here,” Dashir answered. “The regents insist on having the boys and Saraji’s newborn once it is weaned, and they also insist on your remaining here in the city. Ettarin refuses to capitulate, the regents refuse to release you, and so everyone is deadlocked. I brought you here for your own safety.” Shivering now, feebly clutching at the fur blanket with one hand, Sephil turned away. To his left, the altar lay dusty from years of neglect. High upon the wall, a bas-relief sunburst, whose gilt had been stripped by the Turyar, paid homage to the ancient celestial cult. Brasidios had led his two sons down the pyramid’s descending ramp and into the Sun Chapel forty years

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ago, and he instructed them to leave a votive offering for their ancestors before entering the crypt. Sephil remembered the gleaming gold and candles, the smell of myrrh in the brazier, and how his brother took his hand when they went into the place of the dead. “The regents—the usurpers—want me dead.” “No,” said Dashir. “From what I can tell, what happened two days ago was an unfortunate accident. The regents know your death would accomplish nothing. In fact, it would only make the situation worse.” “Then why am I here in this tomb?” “The crypt is the most secure place in the city. I did not trust the regents to keep you safe in the apartments above. There are too many spies, too many people with access.” Dashir bent closer, until Sephil felt his breath hot against his ear. “I did not bring you here to bury you alive, cousin. Trust me, if I wanted you dead I would have smothered you as you slept. No, I brought you here because it is the safest place for you at the moment.” Sephil wanted more than anything to believe him. “This is a prison.” “No more so than the palace was,” said Dashir. “What I am telling you is the truth. If you do not believe me, the guards will verify what I say. They are Ettarin’s men and have no allegiance to me. “The entire city saw Besan Palassos stab you, and there were too many people upstairs who had access to your chambers, your servants, and your physicians. Bribery will loosen any tongue. Suppose your relatives in Khalgar discover how badly you were injured? Ettarin will keep Ardal and Thanol under his protection, just as he should, but if he decides to mass troops on the border to make his point… Do any of us really want war?” “Ettarin will not go to war.” “No,” agreed Dashir, “but when these regents realize Khalgar will not meet their demands I imagine they will threaten your brother-in-law with military action, either thinking or hoping he lacks the spine to counter them. So we must prevent that. You must get well, and you cannot do that surrounded by spies or overzealous regents.”

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By the time Dashir withdrew, Sephil felt nauseous with dread. That the guard at the door was Khalgari or that his cousin meant to spare him offered little reassurance. Just outside the chapel lay the black silence of centuries, the passage to the underworld. So it seemed to him, hazy from drugs and bloodloss, that his ancestors, men whose names meant no more to him than dust, were gathering in the darkness beyond the door, waiting for him to join them. **** Dashir knew Sephil did not trust him. Body language told the story more eloquently than words ever could. His cousin truly believed he had been carried down into the darkness to be murdered. Why should he believe otherwise? Dashir blinked as he emerged into the brilliant spring day, shielding his eyes from the sun until they adjusted to the light. He has little reason to love me, and his father taught him nothing. How little practical knowledge Sephil had about Tal Charne! Had he understood that the massive Pyramid of the Sun served not only as temple, tomb, and royal treasury, but was also a fortress, he might not have panicked. The shadows have eyes and ears, thought Dashir. I dare not tell him, even to comfort him. On that terrible day twenty-seven years ago when Zhanil Brasides died, Brasidios had led his eldest nephew—now his heir—down the steep walkway into the crypt. Since there was no time in those last, besieged hours for reverence, they bypassed the chapel and descended into the tombs. It was in that darkness the king revealed the secrets of Tal Charne. “Long ago,” he said, “this place was a stronghold. There are entrances and exits only the royal sons know. There are hidden chambers and cisterns. Once the double doors are shut and barred, only an army of Khalgari engineers can break open these lower levels. Zhanil knew these secrets. Sephil…” Here the king’s face grew strained, and when he spoke again his voice trembled with every syllable. “Now you must learn them, Dashir, and quickly. And

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when the time comes, you must pass the knowledge on to Zhanil’s sons.” Zhanil’s sons…yet not the ones Brasidios intended. Not his grandsons, doomed by his misguided refusal to evacuate his widowed daughter-in-law and her children, but his greatgrandsons through a line he thought extinguished. Dashir pondered the irony, even as he calculated how best to make use of his secret knowledge. One day, if need be, he would take Ardal Zhanides by the hand and show him the crypts, the chapels, the hidden passages, and cisterns shrouded in the darkness. But first he had to survive. The regents, like most others, gazed upon the pyramid and saw only four hundred feet of architectural splendor whose methods of construction had long been forgotten. They saw the massive Sun Throne, the royal treasury, and the king’s platform. They heard the priest of the Sun calling out at dawn. In those things, they saw centuries of tradition, which must be upheld at all costs. Foreigners built those pyramids, and built the wealth that filled our treasuries. Our kings have married into Khalgar’s royal line for almost a thousand years. Our power would not exist but for our foreign ties. Dashir smiled at their ignorance, even when Besan Palassos, a thug if ever a nobleman could be called, chortled at the thought of burying the senior king alive. “I told him to keep still, keep his mouth shut, and do as he was told.” Of the five regents, three were agreeable men with more-orless reasonable demands. Callios could not be trusted, and Palassos fueled Dashir with an increasingly persistent urge to smash his head into a wall. No one claimed responsibility or assigned blame outright, yet the regents treated the true circumstances of Thano’s death as an open secret. Dashir had only to observe a short while to learn Palassos had given the order, and without unanimous consent. Callios supported the action, while the others, more concerned with public opinion, did not. “You must understand, Prince Dashir, we had no choice.” One, a middle-aged merchant, practically stumbled over himself

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making apologies to the lady’s brother. “She was determined to be difficult.” “Too difficult for five powerful men to control?” Dashir made no pretense, and voiced his disapproval freely. Had he sided with Palassos and Callios, or tried to hide what must have been written on his face, the regents would have suspected him. “I find that somewhat hard to swallow.” Palassos snorted. “Swallow it you will. None of us had time to play chaperone to a princess who insisted on forgetting her place.” “Oh, please, spare us your heavy-handed diplomacy, Besan. The lady could have been moved to a more secure location, without access to pen, paper, or loyal servants,” argued the youngest, a man Dashir later identified as Callios’s son Ethurel. “This was not necessary.” “The woman was a rabble-rouser and a traitor,” Palassos answered sharply. “We will have no more reminders of the Turya occupation among us.” Dashir had not attended the funeral or visited the tomb afterward, not with his anger so close to the surface. Whatever the outcome, whether Zhanil returned or the regents prevailed, Dashir would find some way to make sure Palassos paid for shedding royal blood. Removing all signs of the Turya occupation had not yet extended to stripping the palace of its felt tapestries and carvings, which Arzhati introduced from the west and Zhanil kept, or forbidding the military their Turya-bred horses or composite bows, neither of which the soldiers appeared to have mastered. Callios, replacing the elderly Lord Chancellor, who had retired perforce to his house near the river, seemed more concerned with bringing native-born nobles into the capital, while Palassos prepared for the retaliatory strike they all knew would come from the west. “If not Zhanil Sephides, then his half-breed cousin,” he told Dashir. “The Turya chieftains are already on the move, headed west over the mountains to swear allegiance to one or the other. Their women have gone into hiding, but we will find them. The chieftains will think twice about attacking us with their loved ones in our power.”

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With Thano already dead, Dashir did not think anything would stop Kargil, should he choose to invade. As for Zhanil, his father made a valuable hostage. “I am told Arzhati’s son has no interest in Rhodeen. My son-in-law, on the other hand, is another matter. For the moment, Sephil is secure in the Sun Chapel, where you will not require so many guards to watch over him. I have appointed the men from Khalgar to this task. This way, no native guards will be able to leak information we would rather keep private.” Palassos remained skeptical. “How do I know these foreigners will not try to escape with him?” “Because, thanks to you, my dear cousin is in no condition to be moved,” replied Dashir. “He needs someone to bring him a jar to piss in because he cannot move to use the privy. My escort certainly will not risk making an escape attempt when it is altogether likely the king will die from it.” Or not. “I do not understand, my lord.” The head physician, upon first meeting the king’s cousin, shook his head at what must have been an unpleasant recollection. “He should be dead by now. Thanks be to Abh that his woolen robe turned aside the worst of the blade, but even so, it should have sliced through at least three major organs. He should have bled to death. Some god or benevolent spirit truly loves him to have shielded him like this.” In the palace, far from the royal apartments or other heavily trafficked areas, Dashir enjoyed a stately suite of rooms, the finest accommodation he had seen in five years. Obviously, the regents meant to keep him from the public eye, which did not trouble him quite as much as they might have imagined. The two servants, both deaf and dumb, were as good as useless, but in their absence Dashir rediscovered the room’s hidden treasure, a passage concealed behind an arras which, judging from the settled layers of dust, no one had used in decades. That evening, after supper and a hot bath, the regents sent him a gift. Having heard what the Turyar did to the pleasure slaves of Rhodeen after the conquest, the last thing Dashir expected to see was a lissome boy dressed in scraps of silk that revealed more skin than they concealed. Kohl-rimmed eyes lowered in seeming

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modesty, a faint smile ghosting carmine-reddened lips, the youth bowed. “What is your pleasure, sir?” The regents would naturally send him a Tajhaani import. In the desert tongue, Dashir replied, “What is your name?” Surprise flitted across the young man’s face. “You know Tajhaani, sir?” “Yes, now answer my question.” “I am Penthé, sir.” Honey. A name commonly given to Tajhaani whores of either sex. It would hardly be the first time Dashir bedded a boy called Penthé, or one sent to spy on him. For when he could not bear Terreh’s sharp tongue or when Najai could not service him, his wives sent a boy to his bed. Not a girl—they would not tolerate concubines in their harem—but a boy, whose overeager caresses and pillow talk did little to conceal his true purpose. “So either your kisses taste like honey or you are sweet in some other way,” he said. “My mother named me so, sir.” Only a whore would give her son such a name. Already this boy was a liar. “Well, then,” replied Dashir, “kneel here before me and show me how well you perform.” As he opened the front of his robe, Dashir drew a linen square from his pocket and tossed it to Penthé. “Wipe your lips clean. There is only one thing I want to see smeared on my cock, and it is not some akesh’s cheap paint.” Penthé complied, rubbing away the carmine while his eyes drank in the cock pointed at him. “Oh, how well my lord knows our ways of love. You will fill me so deeply.” Shut up. I know a liar and flatterer when I see one. Dashir was not yet erect, and indeed had no desire at all for this boy. His own hand would have given him greater pleasure than that lying mouth, for he had no doubt that the moment Penthé wiped away his cum and left his chamber, he would scurry straight to the regents with his tale. Dashir could just imagine Besan Palassos chuckling over the scene. Five years was a long time to go without sex. Whether or not he truly wanted to, whether or not it was wise to let this delectable serpent into his bed, Dashir would fuck this youth. “Make me ready,” he ordered. Unless Penthé aroused him,

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he would never get the job done, and then Palassos would truly have something to snicker about. Penthé took him in hand, expertly stroking him up and down before flicking his tongue over his slit. “I am so pleased my lord wants me when the king refused.” Dashir, his eyes closed, preferred to concentrate on his pleasure, but this was information he might be able to use. “So Zhanil Sephides did not want you. What a shame.” “Oh, no, sir.” Now Penthé’s tongue traveled down his cock, practiced lips nibbling at the veined underside while his hand pumped the shaft. “It was the senior king who sent me away. I thought priests of Abh could have boys. There are plenty here who have fucked me—though not as well as you will, sir.” So Sephil, with his penchant for male lovers, had refused. This would bear further investigation. “Do you think I wish to hear about your other conquests?” Dashir asked sharply. “I have only one use for your mouth, and it is not to hear you talk.” Now that he was fully erect, he gripped Penthé’s long hair and slid his cock between the youth’s succulent lips. There would be no more conversation, and no mistaking who controlled this encounter. Penthé sucked him in to the root, slurping noisily while his hand reached between Dashir’s legs to fondle his balls. His groin tightening, Dashir frowned at his impertinence. So here was one who pretended to submit, yet even now sought control. “No more play,” said Dashir. “Hold still.” With his fingers still tightly tangled in the youth’s hair, holding him motionless, he pumped his cock in and out, faster and faster, fucking Penthé’s mouth as deeply as he dared. Watching Penthé’s lips clamp down on his cock and feeling his partner’s hands clutch at his thighs for support gave Dashir immense satisfaction. Even though he came sooner than he expected, flooding the boy’s mouth with cum that dripped from the corners of his mouth, he smiled. “Swallow it, boy,” he ordered. “It is a royal gift, or did your masters not tell you that I was a prince?” Coolly, he watched Penthé struggle to maintain his composure as he choked down the offering. “Oh, I am honored, sir.”

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I doubt that. Dashir slowly unbuttoned his doublet, peeled it off, and tossed it over a chair; he did the same with his other clothes before lying naked amid the bed’s many cushions. Penthé’s hungry gaze never left him—or his cock. Dashir gestured for the youth to join him. “Now tell me what you did for the king. Did you come to him as shameless as this?” With one hand, he traced a path from Penthé’s collarbone to his left nipple, which he pinched and rubbed until the boy gasped. “I did only as my masters bid.” That told him nothing. “And what did they bid you to do? Show me, if you have not the words to tell.” Smiling, veiling his eyes with his long lashes, Penthé languidly rose, straddled his partner, and began to rub against his groin with his firm ass. Within moments, Dashir felt his erection beginning to rise again. Penthé bent down, so his hair fell forward like a curtain, and licked Dashir’s lower lip with a pointed tongue. What a brazen little slut! “And the king did not like this?” Penthé pouted artfully. “He did not even get hard, sir,” he said. “But you like it, my lord. Would you have me suck you again, or do you wish to put your spear in my ass?” “Had I two cocks, I would do both.” Dashir wrapped both arms around the boy’s middle and nipped his earlobe. “If you want me to fuck you, you had better know where to find some oil.” Not that there would be much need. The akeshi his wives sent him had come from the best schools in Tajhaan, and over the years he gleaned enough information from those boys to know no akesh, regardless of his background, ever went to a man’s bed unprepared. Penthé dutifully brought him a little vial, but when he rolled onto his belly and thrust his ass into the air, Dashir saw oil glistening between his cheeks. From the vial, he took a little onto his finger, then leisurely inserted it into the youth’s tight hole. After five years without such pleasures, he meant to take what he could, no matter that the boy writhing and moaning under his assault could not be trusted. Penthé was an object, a sex toy he could bind or gag at will. Had I two cocks, I would do both. Just the mental image of two men fucking this boy, one in the ass, one in the mouth, made Dashir’s erection throb.

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“Do you like my fingers?” he asked. “Do you want me to fuck you harder with them?” Already he had two digits buried inside the boy’s ass, and was sawing them in and out for all he was worth. “Oh, yes, sir!” Instead, Dashir withdrew and, when Penthé cried out in frustration, smacked him sharply on one cheek. “I have something else for you.” Penthé said nothing, only arched his back and shifted to spread himself wider. At that moment, presented with that clenching, luscious opening, Dashir wanted nothing more than to bury his cock deep inside. Gripping his cock, Dashir pressed the tip against Penthé’s puckered hole, and teased the sensitive flesh before slowly pushing inside. Only when he was buried to the hilt did he seize Penthé by the hips and begin to thrust. With most partners he went slowly, letting his pleasure build while making certain he caused no pain. Penthé, however, excited no tenderness in him. As he slammed into the youth, pressing him into the mattress, his hand cracked hard across those perfect, round cheeks. Honey-colored skin reddened, and Penthé screamed in ecstasy. His muscles began to contract, milking the cock hammering his slick hole—never mind that a properly trained akesh should never come without his master’s permission. Groaning, thrusting himself back onto Dashir’s rod, he came all over the cushions, and his release triggered Dashir’s own. Covered in sweat, Dashir pulled out and slumped onto the coverlet beside his panting partner. What the servants would make of the cum spattering the silk, he neither knew nor cared. Penthé, curling onto his side with a sated smile, did not seem to notice either. “Oh, my lord, that was wonderful,” he purred. “You must do it to me again.” Dashir did not think the boy would have minded had another man seized him and shoved his hard cock inside. In fact, he probably would have begged for it. “You saucy little slut, I think you like any man’s rod.” Penthé did not bother to hide his smile. “Yours is the best I have ever had, my lord.” Oh no, Dashir did not trust this boy at all.

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Chapter Eight “How do I know you will not come crawling back here again in six months?” asked Atalash. “Perhaps I should send my grandson back and let him take the throne you cannot seem to keep.” So now they came to the heart of the matter, where Zhanil struggled to phrase intelligent answers that did not make him sound like an idiot. Only a lion like his maternal grandfather could have sat in that room and regarded Atalash as an equal. “Kargil does not want to rule in Rhodeen.” “I am not interested in what he wants. He will go if I order him to.” While in his private moments Zhanil had begun to believe that Rhodeen needed a Kargil—a strong-willed, royal half-breed whose position meant he could negotiate equally with both factions—he recoiled at the prospect of the chilling, singleminded ruthlessness his cousin would bring to bear as a ruler. “Arzhati at least showed respect to those he conquered,” he explained. “Kargil would turn Rhodeen into a killing field, slaughtering anyone who so much as disagrees with him.” Atalash met his gaze with full knowledge of the chaos his grandson was likely to cause. “Then who else would you set up as turkan in your land, if you cannot rule and you do not find Kargil to be a fit replacement? At least he was born in Rhodeen.” This criticism, which Zhanil had heard many times before, was unexpected from the ruler of remote Hapaniku. Born and raised in Khalgar, with only a quarter Rhodeen blood, he knew his outlook was thoroughly Khalgari. As his enemies saw it, a foreigner ruled in their land, with foreign gods on his personal altar and a foreign-born queen at his side. Zhanil knew he had

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become king not because he was the most qualified choice, but because no other feasible candidates bearing royal blood existed. “I did not come here to ask you for warriors. I came seeking sanctuary while I gather support from among my own people.” Atalash wagged a finger at him. “Ah, you cannot be so thick-headed that you do not know I take your part merely by giving you refuge. So let us say that I do not send Kargil to clean up your mess, but trust you, a soft boy, to restore order. What assurances do I have that you will not come back sobbing and crawling on your belly six months from now? I may be a fool once, but I will not be taken twice.” “I am done negotiating with these men,” said Zhanil. “I have given them numerous chances to cooperate. I have eased the burdens Arzhati placed on them, and did this as a show of good faith, but they have not kept faith with me. Here in the Turya-lands, enemies come openly, whereas in Rhodeen they sneak—” “Are you so certain of this, Kalmeku?” At least Atalash no longer addressed him as ‘boy.’ Hearing his Turya name on the old turkan’s lips gave him some hope. “I have been told that the Turyar do not use spies or assassins. They do not hide their grievances. These men pretended loyalty and obedience, and then attacked me in my palace, my home. They tried to seize my queen and children to use them against me. They nearly killed my keshka here in the Turya-lands, where they do not belong—” “One might argue that you do not belong here either.” Zhanil stiffened against the insult, but kept to his course. “If this is how my lords repay my generosity, then they may expect no mercy from me.” “Such brave talk,” chortled Atalash, “but are you ready to make examples of these men, to hack them to pieces and hang their limbs from your gates? Only a leader who is prepared to do these things is truly a turkan. A leader who only talks is not worth the air he breathes. “Perhaps you have not considered that my son laid burdens upon these men precisely because he did not trust them. Arzhati understood the situation better than you think. But we will see

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what happens. I have had news from the south. Turya riders have been seen coming through the narrow pass. I know well who these men belong to, as do you, and by the look on your face I think you expected them.” Zhanil was not about to divulge that he truly had not known his Turya chieftains would come looking for him at all. I’d thought to send word to them from here. (ow it appears they’ve anticipated me. “The situation in Rhodeen must be grave indeed if they have come so quickly.” “A man riding hard with only what he needs can make the trip in a few days,” observed Atalash. “My scouts tell me they are not burdened by wagons or other possessions.” “Were there any women or children among them?” Atalash shook his head. “I expected there might be, but no.” Zhanil took the moment he needed to absorb this information. Women and children left behind could, in fact, become hostages or casualties in some misguided massacre. Either the worst had already happened, or the chieftains had taken measures to protect their people before departing. “I will send my own messenger to find out from them what has happened.” Atalash gave him a skeptical look. “Whatever you intend to do, it must be soon. Turyar can ride in any weather, but I do not want these men and their horses crowding my lands, eating through my supplies, or causing trouble through their restlessness. They followed Arzhati and Lazphi into the eastlands to take land of their own; they were not to return to dwell here again. Since they have named you their turkan, they must ride with you, or choose another to lead them. I will provide what I think proper, but you will have no warriors from me. So I told my sons, so I tell you now.” “I did not expect you to provide me with men,” said Zhanil. “Then you will not be disappointed. Now, I see you looking at something behind me.” Zhanil did his best to avert his gaze from the skulls arranged over the hearth. “No, I was thinking.”

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Atalash frowned. “Even you east-landers who master the art so well are sometimes bad liars. You are interested in the skulls, yes?” “It is not a custom we practice.” “So you think me barbaric for keeping the heads of my enemies?” Zhanil tensed at the turkan’s warning tone. “I never said such a thing.” “I have taken many more than this,” said Atalash, “but these are the skulls of great warriors and chieftains. Yes, your grandfather and uncle once sat among them. Arzhati sent their heads to me as a token of his victory. Does it disgust you?” The old badger won’t be satisfied until I admit it. Damn him! “I do not know what I should think.” “Only a worthy enemy may look down on a turkan. Your kinsmen were greatly honored by their place here,” said Atalash. “Only the turkan of the Vashyar has taken more heads than I. Were I but ten years younger I would ride to Sallaka with the finest bride gifts and make her mine!” Zhanil did not think he had heard that last part correctly. “The Vashya turkan is a woman?” Atalash grinned lustily. “And a magnificent one, too—too good for the man she has now,” he replied. “But you did not answer my question, Kalmeku. Do my trophies disgust you?” “Why is it so important for you to know?” With his walking stick, Atalash butted the floor beside his chair. Zhanil noted how worn those boards were. “I will not drink kumiss with a man who shows me two faces, that is why. I will not clasp hands with a turkan who is not ruthless enough to hold what he has. You say you are ready to make an example of your enemies, yet you flinch when you see what that means.” “I am not a liar or a coward—” “My grandson thinks differently. You do not like him, do you?” Forced to tell the truth, Zhanil shook his head. “I disliked him the moment I first met him.” “And why is that? Kargil is a perfectly capable Turya warrior, never mind that unfortunate business about his fingers.”

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“Yes, he is that: a capable Turya warrior, even though he was born in Rhodeen. He hates his mother’s country and does not think it is good enough for his horses to shit in,” Zhanil said sharply. “He blames me for leaving his mother behind with my wife and children. I did no such thing. I sent half my guard to take them to safety. I am here because my enemies gave me no chance to turn and stand my ground in Rhodeen, not because I am a coward. “You say you honored my grandfather and uncle. In Rhodeen and Khalgar, we remember it differently. The people I rule, those old enough to remember when Arzhati and Lazphi invaded, still speak of the atrocities the Turyar committed. I am prepared to execute my enemies under the law. I am not prepared to throw their young children from the walls or make banners of their flayed and headless bodies. There is justice, and there is savagery.” In truth, he expected Atalash to have an apoplexy. Yes, in another moment the wide-eyed, incredulous turkan would roar at him in fury for abusing the hospitality of his stronghold. The outburst never came. Instead, Atalash threw back his head and laughed. “So it is. Arzhati sent word to me more than once that his actions displeased you and your father. It was not cruelty that led him to kill your uncle’s young sons in this way. The Earth Mother curses those who shed the blood of children. When it is necessary that they die, they are drowned, or thrown from a high place. That it had to be done gave Arzhati no pleasure—he was not a vicious man. As for their mother, he would not have shed her blood at all, but that she came between his warriors and her sons and fought with them. He meant to spare the lady as he spared Kargil’s mother and grandmother, and had the child in her womb been a girl, he would have raised the child as a Turya woman and married her to his son. “I suppose you have forgotten the things your people once did to us? Those ruined places in the mountains your ancestors built once held many men. Do you think they sat idly by while we grazed our horses and made our offerings to the Storm God? No, they rode into our settlements and did unspeakable things.”

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“That was centuries ago,” said Zhanil. What history those abandoned fortresses held was lost to him, along with their names. Only Mekesh had survived into living memory. “Time does not erase the cries of the ancestors, or the blood spilled into the Earth Mother’s lap,” answered Atalash. “Remember that when you ride out to meet your chieftains.” Whether the newly arrived chieftains remained loyal to him, Zhanil did not know. Kalmeki had already warned him that slighted warriors had the right—even the obligation—to pursue a treacherous or cowardly turkan and kill him so they might be free to find better leadership. The question ate at him even as he left the old turkan’s chambers, and stayed with him as he joined Kalmeki in the sunlit courtyard. “Do you think I’m a coward, Kalmeki?” asked Zhanil. “A coward?” “Yes, you’ve mentioned that I was weak and foolish, but apart from that you’ve never really told me what you think.” Nor did Kalmeki reveal his mind now. “I do not believe you had a choice.” Zhanil groaned, “Why do I ever ask you for reassurance?” “You did not ask for comfort,” replied Kalmeki. “You asked for my opinion. You did only as you were forced to do— but yes, you are not as strong a man as you ought to be.” So he does think I’m a coward. Zhanil’s emotions caught in his throat. Well, he had asked, and so Kalmeki told him. “I never meant to be weak.” “You are willing to kill men in battle, yet the face you show on the battlefield you do not show elsewhere. You let these men—men who do not love you or the things you wish to do— trod all over you. You let them rule you when you are capable of holding your ground and bending them to your will. Why do you think Kargil did not fight to become turkan after his father died? He knows there is no middle way in Rhodeen. You must become hard, Zhanil, or die.” “I do not want to be a brute, Kalmeki,” answered Zhanil. “I don’t want to trample on my own laws and become a monster just to survive.”

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“Will you hold to that if your enemies have killed your wife and children?” The lump forming in Zhanil’s throat kept him from speaking. What if it is already too late? “I would rather not dwell on the possibility.” Kalmeki took hold of his arm. “Zhanil, I do not despise you. If I ever said so, I regret it. I only wish you were more than what you are now.” Shaking himself loose and biting back on a hundred bitter retorts, Zhanil made for the lookout just ahead. From the heights, one could see for miles across the grasslands, yet not a sign of the advancing riders appeared. Atalash had not revealed how many would come, whether ten or a thousand. “I cannot show them any weakness. If they despise me, then I’m wasting my time here, and they can choose a new turkan.” A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. “To do that they would have to kill you first,” Kalmeki pointed out. “Did Atalash tell you that you were wasting his time?” They would have to kill you first. “No,” he admitted. “Atalash told me he would provide supplies, but no men. I must rely on whoever comes to me from Rhodeen.” Kalmeki’s fingers lightly squeezed his shoulder. “Then you should not worry. The turkan would not say that much if he considered you a coward. Atalash has no time to waste on fools. He would not even admit you to his presence.” When those fingers again flexed, pressing against his collarbone, Zhanil commented, “It’s my head that hurts, not my neck.” “You mean this?” Kalmeki asked, squeezing again before taking his hand away. “My father does this when he wants to caution me.” Zhanil snorted at the irony. Under different circumstances, it might have been amusing, yet all he could do now was reflect on all those times when Kalmeki had set a hand on his shoulder. How many times had he meant to warn, and Zhanil simply never realized it? You should have said something. “How are you faring with your courtship?”

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“I have been out riding with the lady,” replied Kalmeki. “She is an excellent rider. She shoots very well, too.” Despite his low spirits, or perhaps because of them, Zhanil laughed. “I’m sure she does, but how do you like her?” When Kalmeki blushed and stammered for words, Zhanil knew he had his answer. “So you do like women?” “I never said I did not. It is just that I do not always understand them. Look, there is your cousin.” Down in the first courtyard, Kargil tended to one of his horses. It was a common enough sight in the Turya-lands, and Zhanil would not have watched had he not spied Kargil’s son riding his father’s shoulders, just as his own children rode his. So familiar and intimate a gesture. He wondered how often others saw Kargil like this, for surely the man did not realize he was being watched. Kargil ran the currycomb along the horse’s long neck, then, saying something to his son, handed it up to Lugal so he could try. Since the comb was too large for his tiny hands, Lugal almost dropped it. Laughing, Kargil took the comb from him, laid it aside, and guided Lugal’s hands to the horse’s mane so he could stroke its dark silkiness. Zhanil restrained the urge to approach him and apologize for his foolish words. Something in the privacy of the moment, its tenderness, suggested his overtures would be unwelcome. “It will not be long before the boy is riding,” observed Kalmeki. That evening, Zhanil returned to the turkan’s apartment, where his cousin, standing at the brazier nearest his grandfather, handed him a thin packet. “Zidanta sends word from Harunta’s encampment.” Zhanil wished Kargil would leave. With a nod, he politely took the missive and opened it. As the Turyar had no written language, the chieftain Zidanta was forced to communicate in poorly spelled Rhodeen. Zhanil read through his words twice, while doing his best to conceal his frustration that Zidanta obviously did not deem it important to send word of Saraji or the children, or Thano. Once he absorbed the contents, he translated for Atalash. “Zidanta leads five other chieftains and eight hundred riders

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north. Others remain in hiding, unable to leave their homes in Rhodeen for fear the usurpers will harm their women and children, but they send assurances they will come on our return.” “Eight hundred men is half what my sons brought into your land,” observed Atalash. “Kargil says there are those among the east-lander nobles who are loyal to you. Will they not ride with you?” Zhanil glanced from him to Kargil, whose demeanor revealed nothing. “I do not know. They may not have enough men to resist the usurpers and come to our aid.” Folding the missive again, he thought hard. “There are expatriated nobles in western Khalgar—that is, nobles who lost their estates when Arzhati took over. They sent proofs of loyalty to me when I became king, but I was not able to restore their land to them then, and I do not know that I can count upon their support now.” “Why is this?” asked Atalash. “When a chieftain swears loyalty he is bound to his words.” “These men are not Turyar. The ways of the east-lands are different.” “He means that men in the east lie,” added Kargil. Zhanil addressed the implied slight, this time taking care to measure his words. “Men in the east act in their own selfinterest. These lords sent me gifts and messages and came to my court because they hoped I could restore their lost estates. In some instances, I was able to make arrangements for them. I encouraged marriages between Turya and Rhodeen noble families. I offered other land where I could, but for some it was not enough.” Atalash nodded. “I assume your enemies have much land. These loyal men in Khalgar, let them take the lands and goods of your enemies in return for their service.” What Atalash suggested was nothing less than what Zhanil had brooded over, starting when the healer at the outpost stitched up his wounded arm. Now, with eight hundred Turya warriors at his back, strengthening his position, he could begin to negotiate with the expatriated nobles.

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Paper was in short supply at Hapaniku. Only Kargil could read or write, and only he possessed writing materials. These he promised to provide. Later that night, Kalmeki had news to share. “The daughter of Ningal wishes to ride out with me yet again tomorrow.” Zhanil relished the chance to forget his own troubles in watching his keshka take a bride. “Are you courting her, or is it the other way around?” Kalmeki looked genuinely puzzled. “Sometimes one is never sure. I did not tell you that she kissed me today.” “Did she?” “Yes, when we parted,” said Kalmeki. “She seemed pleased by it.” Zhanil leaned over to give him a quick kiss, then a second, lingering one. “Well, you are a superb kisser. You know, the offer for the horses still—” When Kalmeki abruptly pulled away from him, Zhanil did not understand. Then he saw the horror in his lover’s eyes. Coupled with the sudden draft and presence towering behind him, he recognized the source of the intrusion. “Do you ever knock, Kargil?” A thin ream of parchment landed on the table before him, leaves scattering to the floor. Neither Zhanil nor Kalmeki made any move to retrieve them. “Write your letters, cousin.” Kargil’s voice thickened with disgust. Before Zhanil could turn around to try to explain, the door slammed shut and Kargil was gone, as suddenly and disastrously as he had come. **** “Twins,” said Ketalya, “a boy and a girl.” Dyri Arrideos, present as an official witness for Rhodeen, stunned her with his reaction. His eyes widening, he clutched one hand to his chest and slowly sank to his knees. “It is a sign.” “That you are having a seizure?” she asked. Why her brother did not summon a physician to see to the poor man, she could not grasp. Ettarin, with gentle laughter,

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merely helped the wilting ambassador to his own chair. “Would you prefer red wine, white, or something more potent?” Arrideos made no response other than several vague noises. Ketalya sighed. “Be a dear, brother, and call a physician. I do not think the midwife can do anything for him.” “Lord Arrideos is fine,” replied Ettarin. “He is simply overcome by the moment. The birth of royal fraternal twins means something in Rhodeen, does it not, Ambassador?” Nodding, the little man finally managed to catch his breath. “The Sun and the Moon,” he gasped. “They must have celestial names. Prayers must be offered. The king…” While her brother went to the liquor cabinet and began pouring out strong brandy for the ambassador, Ketalya began mulling this new information over in her mind. Royal twins offered possibilities beyond brightening an otherwise grim day. She had been with the laboring mother when her brother came and pulled her aside. “I have closed the embassy of Rhodeen,” he said. “These usurpers have gone too far.” Ettarin confirmed the worst: Sephil had been gravely injured during an altercation at Tal Charne and might not live. Feeling the blood drain from her face, Ketalya waited for details that neither her brother nor Arrideos could provide. Thano, who had chosen to remain in Rhodeen, had died under mysterious circumstances. At the moment, Ketalya cared nothing about her husband’s first cousin. Already tense with waiting, her nerves strained to the limit by her daughter-in-law, she pummeled her fists against her brother’s chest. “Why could you not wait until after the girl is delivered?” she cried. Ettarin gently seized her wrists. “I had no idea you were acting as midwife. Does the young queen not have her own servants?” “They are useless.” Frowning, trying desperately to hide her emotions, she shook her head. “I am not ready to be a widow.” Strong arms enfolded her, and stroked her hair. “I will send my wife to help you if you need it. We will talk later, sister. This is not the end of it, you can be sure.”

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Ketalya returned to the birthing chamber without her sisterin-law. Queen Marien, unfamiliar with the foolish girl Zhanil had married, would quickly lose all patience and interest, and dump the problem once more in Ketalya’s lap. I will do this alone. This is my grandchild. She would do anything to help forget the images of Sephil lying near death, red blood against the pristine white robe he so often wore—anything to keep her sanity. I will do this myself, even if I have to strangle that little shrew in the process. Sanity was not what she had found in the young queen’s apartments. From the moment her water broke, Saraji had screamed. Her shrill cries sent her attendants scattering until Ketalya angrily dismissed them all. With her own ladies-in-waiting and daughter to help her, she took charge of the young queen’s labor until the midwife could arrive. A wet nurse had already been appointed to receive the infant, and Zhanil’s own cradle, brought out of storage and furnished with new linens and cushions embroidered with Rhodeen’s royal Sun, stood in the corner. Ellina first noticed her nephews, wide-eyed and terrified, huddling near the cradle. Taking them by the hand, she led them back to her mother’s apartment where, with no female attendants to watch them, she had no choice but to send a messenger to the sanctuary of Abh. Ketalya knew what her daughter had done, but could not find a reason to object. Saraji did next to nothing to help herself. She has borne two sons already. The third babe should be easy. At first, Ketalya tried to soothe her and wipe her damp brow, but when Saraji shrieked and pushed her away she lost all patience. “Why my son bothers to put his seed in you, I have no idea.” Gripping Saraji by the shoulders and forcing the terrified woman to look at her, she hissed, “If you do not push this baby out I will strike you.” Saraji’s Tajhaani attendants, having drifted back into the birthing chamber, offered no assistance. Chattering behind their veils and wringing their hands as though at a funeral, they wore on Ketalya’s nerves until she barked at them to get out and stay out. So when Nurad arrived, she sent him to watch Ardal and Thanol. Able to speak their language, he could read to the boys

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and entertain them while their grandmother and aunt tended to their laboring mother. Twelve hours later, Ketalya finally made good on her threat and slapped Saraji—who was hoarse from shrieking—hard across the face. The stunned mother, bleeding from a cut lip, fell silent, and Ketalya ordered her in Tajhaani to push. “Either you push or I strangle you.” Ellina looked on in horror. “Mother, why—?” “Yes, dear, having babies is no joy,” Ketalya replied absently, “but she wants us to do all the work for her. When your turn comes, I expect you to be much more sensible about it.” At that moment, it did not occur to her that her daughter had never before witnessed the raw agony of childbirth. Had her nerves not been so strained, and had she not been so torn between worry for her husband and frustration at her son and his useless wife, she would have been more considerate. She would have sent Ellina from the birthing chamber before the worst began. Only now, as the midwife directed the ladies-in-waiting to bathe the exhausted mother and her infants, did Ketalya note her daughter’s pallor. Ellina had been so subdued these last weeks, waiting as they all did for word of her father and brother. Ketalya drew her aside as they prepared to leave. If he dies, how am I going to tell her? “Go to bed now. I will see to the rest,” she said shakily. “Tomorrow you will spend the day with your Aunt Lissan. She complains that you have not visited her lately.” As expected, Ellina made dutiful protests belying the relief that suffused her weary face. “But you are so tired, Mother. You will need me—” “The newborns have all the attendants they need. I will rest a little, then look after the boys myself,” Ketalya replied. She managed a half-smile. “If they want a playmate or storyteller perhaps I will let Nurad stay. He seems to have a way with them.” Ettarin occupied the sitting room where her husband and son should have been. With him were the ambassadors from the newly closed embassy. Both Arrideos and Lakkel rose and

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bowed deeply when she appeared. “I have brought them here as a gesture of good faith,” explained Ettarin. “Our quarrel is not with Rhodeen’s people but with those who have usurped its royal prerogatives.” In Ketalya’s mind there was no difference. With its hidebound nobles and backward facilities, she had never cared to visit Rhodeen again after Zhanil’s coronation. However, as the two ambassadors were amiable, often bringing her news of her son and grandchildren and inquiring about her health, she put on a polite smile and gave the men the news they had gathered to hear. Once Arrideos sufficiently recovered, Ketalya asked, “Would you like to see them?” “That would be an honor, lady,” replied Lakkel. Arrideos, a glass of spirits clutched in his hands, nodded helplessly. Ketalya brought out the elder twin, a girl, while Larien carried the boy, who was quickly claimed by his great-uncle. Neither Saraji nor her attendants had done much to prepare for the birth beyond embroidering linens and baby clothes, and because Zhanil never wrote to her about such matters, Ketalya did not know what names her son intended to give his latest offspring. Babies in Rhodeen must be named within the first twentyfour hours or risk being reclaimed by the gods. Such a primitive notion, she reflected. Khalgari parents typically waited seven days to make certain the child would live before bestowing a name. Arrideos, of course, wished to know at once what the prince and princess would be called. “Neither my son nor husband is here,” she replied. “And my daughter-in-law can scarcely recall her own name at this moment. So I shall choose the names.” “My lady,” protested Arrideos, “women in Rhodeen are not permitted—” “I am a queen, and these are my grandchildren.” Sitting down in a vacant chair, Ketalya settled the infant girl in the crook of her arm. Give me this one little comfort, if I am a widow and my son is dead. “If Zhanil does not like my choice, then perhaps it will teach him to rule more firmly. Larien, go

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and bring my grandsons.” Once Larien left the room, Ketalya continued, “Celestial twins should have celestial names, is that correct? Therefore, the girl will be Sephien, which I believe that is the female form of ‘little moon.’ The boy will be Charnos, the Sun.” Before Arrideos could speak, the lady-in-waiting returned. Behind her, Nurad lead Ardal by the hand; Thanol dozed against his shoulder. As both ambassadors rose to greet the princes, Nurad gently nudged Thanol awake. “Open your eyes now. Your grandmother is here, and these men wish to see you.” After six weeks in Bhellin, both boys spoke some Khalgari, and understood that the stern, elegant woman with the fine silver threads in her black hair was their grandmother, the Queen Mother. Ketalya nodded toward them. “Ardal, Thanol, these men are your father’s ambassadors, and very important. Be polite and say a few words.” Thanol, at only two-and-a-half, sucked his thumb in confusion, but four-year-old Ardal managed a brief little speech. “Have you seen my papa?” Arrideos appeared charmed by the little princes. “No, my prince, I have not. I live here in Bhellin, and your father is a very long way away.” “I miss him,” said Ardal. As Sephien stirred in her arms, Ketalya addressed her grandsons again. “Boys, your mother has something very special for you. She is resting now, but you have a new brother and sister.” When Nurad lead Ardal and Thanol over to her, she shifted her hold on the infant so they could see her face. “This is Sephien, your sister. And your great-uncle Ettarin is holding your brother Charnos.” Ardal peered at his sister. “She is very small.” Thanol, still sucking his thumb, did not seem to comprehend what was happening. “Yes,” said Ketalya. “That is why you must be very careful with her, and with your brother.” “Does papa know?” “Not yet, dear.” Nurad, with a gentle admonishment to take the thumb out of his mouth, lifted Thanol in his arms. “I will write to my father

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and tell him he is a grandfather again.” Ketalya recoiled at the thought that Dashir Serrides shared any part of these children. Simply permitting him to meet his grandsons before his departure made her uncomfortable been unsettling enough, though to his credit he tried to admonish his daughter to obey her mother-in-law. “Perhaps that would be premature.” Ettarin cleared his throat. “Let this news go out. The birth of royal twins may sway factions within Rhodeen to the legitimacy of King Zhanil’s rule. Lord Arrideos, I trust you will know how to inform the regents of this happy news?” Arrideos nodded, while his gaze remained steadily on the princes. “With the closure of the embassy, there is no reason for me to linger here. By your leave, I will return to Shemin-at-Khul and hope this conflict will be resolved in a timely fashion.” “As a friend to Khalgar,” said Ketalya, “we look to you to send us word of our husband. Whether his condition improves or worsens, we must know. We also trust you will share this happy news with him. It is for this occasion that he went to Rhodeen in the first place.” Arrideos bowed. “I will do what lies in my power, madam, though I fear it may be little. The regents are reported to be keeping King Sephil out of the public eye. If I cannot gain access to him, I will approach Prince Dashir. He may be able to see the king where I cannot.” Others could argue the prince’s potential usefulness until their protests stole their breath and the world ended: Ketalya did not trust Dashir to do anything other than try to seize power himself. And once the ambassadors departed, and Larien and Nurad put her grandchildren to bed, she said as much to her brother. “Sending Dashir Serrides was ill-advised. He was to deliver your terms and reach a settlement with these usurpers, then return at once. His staying on in Rhodeen tells me he means to do anything but.” “Patience, sister,” replied Ettarin. “I did not expect him to be able to negotiate with these men overnight, and with the news of royal twins he may find it harder to do so. I find it encouraging that he has managed to gain access to their inner circle.”

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“When will you realize that he agreed to your terms only to further his own self-interest?” Ettarin’s inability to see the truth infuriated her. “He has always held my husband in contempt. What is to prevent him from killing Sephil and seizing the throne for himself?” “I do not think Dashir would be so unwise. Since these are also his grandchildren—yes, I know you do not like to admit it— he has nothing to gain by alienating us. He knows we will not relinquish the children to anyone but their natural father.” “Zhanil may be dead for all we know.” Ketalya wanted to shrug off the hand her brother laid on her arm. Instead, she allowed Ettarin to steer her toward the window seat. Outside, dusk began to deepen the shadows in her private garden. “You are letting your grief and exhaustion cloud your good judgment, sister. Had the usurpers killed Zhanil, they would have wasted no time publishing that fact. No, I believe he is still alive and probably hiding in the Arpan Mountains or the Turyalands.” Few dared venture west of the mountains into the wild grasslands. Zhanil spoke Turya fluently, but what help would that be in a country where he knew no one? “Dashir has shown poor judgment in the past.” “True, but let me remind that you that should Dashir be foolish or ambitious enough to take the throne and try to assign new heirs, he will not only invite civil war between rival claimants, but will also find Tajhaan less than willing to acknowledge his kingship when he is still married to two Tajhaani princesses. He cannot afford to make enemies of both Khalgar and Tajhaan, and you can be certain the Turyar will not accept him as their tribal leader.” “Ambition does not necessarily breed common sense,” Ketalya replied. “I think he understands the stakes, sister.” Twisting her rings around her fingers, Ketalya stared down at her hands before balling them into fists. Still, she could not stop the trembling. “I would not care so much about events in Rhodeen if Sephil were here. Dashir could have that hidebound backwater, and welcome to it.” Ettarin eyed her curiously. “And Zhanil?”

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“As long as he is alive and unhurt, I do not care,” she said shakily. In another moment, she knew, she would burst into tears. Would that her brother might leave her alone to compose herself! “I have been telling him for years to stop compromising with those fools. Perhaps this will teach him to listen to his mother.” She clenched her fists hard enough to drive her nails into the soft flesh of her palms; in her anguish, she did not feel it. “But I am not ready to become a widow. It is too soon, we are both too young, and Sephil does not deserve to die like this. He has given so much—he does not deserve to die like this.”

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Chapter (ine “This unnatural pair has been engaging in filthy activities under the turkan’s own roof the entire time they have been here. It is intolerable!” Kargil, feeding off the mutterings of the gathered chieftains and his grandfather’s silence, paced the length of the hall where the turkan customarily heard disputes. Zhanil clenched his jaw. In an instant, his cousin would undo everything he had spent the last several weeks trying to accomplish. “You do not know what you have seen,” he said, stepping forward. “You behave as though Kalmeki and I have been rutting like beasts every hour of the day. That is not what happened—you know it and you have not a single witness to say otherwise. I merely kissed my keshka to congratulate him on his courtship, which your rash words have now undoubtedly ruined.” “I saw as much as decency permitted me to see.” “Which was nothing at all,” finished Zhanil. “If you mean to stand there and insult me or Kalmeki, you had better be prepared to do it with your fists.” Kargil spat at his feet. “Some inferior east-lander is going to challenge me? I will put out both your eyes and hang your scalp from my saddle.” “I will do it.” Kalmeki quietly stood up. During the tirade, even with all eyes upon him, he had said nothing, and Zhanil knew why. Kargil can’t possibly know everything, but if he asks the wrong questions, Kalmeki won’t be able to lie. “My keshka is right: you do not know what you saw, and you dishonor me in front of the woman I wish to marry and her father.” “You are too late in challenging me.” Kargil indicated Zhanil with a thrust of his chin. “The east-lander wishes to be insolent, so I will put him in his place.” “I will take his challenge upon myself,” said Kalmeki.

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Now was not the time for heroic gestures. Kalmeki might be better equipped to fight Kargil, but as far as Zhanil was concerned this went beyond a mere insult. A king of Rhodeen had champions to fight for him. A turkan hid behind no one. I must fight him myself, or they will all think I am a coward who hides behind his bodyguard. “No, I may be your keshka and equal, but I am also your turkan and your friend.” Kalmeki backed down, though not, as Zhanil noticed, without reservations. Turning, Zhanil bowed to Atalash before addressing the assembled chieftains. “If this man…” He gestured contemptuously toward Kargil. “If this man insults my keshka or any warrior who feasts at my table, he answers to me alone.” Around him, he heard murmurs of approval. Looking back toward his cousin, he switched to Rhodeen and added, “You had no idea what you were seeing. You did not have to do this and drag this misunderstanding out before everyone. There were other ways to hurt me. But since you leave me with no other choice, I am calling you out.” Outside in a broad, dirt yard, the chieftains and their warriors formed a ring around where the two men would fight. Zhanil stepped off to one side and let Kalmeki help him strip to the waist. Amhir and the members of the Turya Guard joined them. “No, I will not reconsider, Kalmeki. I meant what I said. He insulted us both.” Kalmeki stared hard at him. “Turkani can appoint champions, as your kings do in the east-lands. It is not necessary for you to face Kargil yourself.” “It’s too late for that.” “No, you will say that I insisted. It will not be a lie.” Zhanil vigorously shook his head. “I can’t have men whispering behind my back that I’m a weakling or a coward who can’t fight.” “Do you really care what other men say?” “I will not let you fight my battles for me.” “He insulted us both, and Yhade and her father are watching.” Zhanil placed both hands on Kalmeki’s shoulders. “So you want to impress him, or the girl? It’s all right—you’ll have other

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opportunities. I can take Kargil myself.” “This is not like your wrestling in Khalgar,” said Kalmeki. “Here there are no such rules. Kargil can hurt you.” Zhanil could only pray for the ability to pummel Kargil as hard as his cousin would do to him. In the last moments, he strove to recall everything Adeja ked Shamuz had ever taught him about fighting a single opponent hand-to-hand. Keep your head, and keep moving, boy. An angry foe is a stupid one. Kargil was furious, practically foaming with his need for confrontation. Zhanil measured his tense stance, his perpetual scowl, and sensed how his kinsman’s failings might work to his advantage. They met in the circle’s center. No herald appeared to announce the rules or give the signal to start, and Atalash remained silent on the sidelines. Kargil simply sucked in a great breath of air and lunged, head down like a charging bull. Zhanil sidestepped him to avoid taking the blow in his abdomen. But he moved a moment too late. With one arm, Kargil caught him around the waist and took him down. Landing in the dirt, Zhanil instinctively rolled over, regained his footing, and got in a good shove before Kargil could turn. On the next pass, Kargil slammed into his chest. Gasping for air, Zhanil struck out with his foot, kicking Kargil in the shin. His cousin’s hold loosened, offering Zhanil a precious instant to wrap both arms around Kargil’s middle and roll them over so he was now on top. The position, however, offered little advantage. Turyar fought hard, and they fought to win. Kargil’s arm came up, the heel of his palm connecting painfully with Zhanil’s jaw. Applause erupted from the sidelines as Kargil threw Zhanil off of him. As he pulled himself up, Zhanil saw Kalmeki from his periphery, arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head in disapproval. Jaw throbbing, ribs aching, Zhanil drew back in time to dodge a second blow. Now he came in under Kargil’s arc with his fist and smashed it into his cousin’s face. As Kargil staggered back, he called out, “Is this about me, or are you afraid no one will follow you if you don’t constantly show everybody what a man you are?”

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Kargil ignored the blood streaming from his nose. “And who has come running like an infant to the Turya-lands because he is not man enough to be turkan?” “At least I was turkan.” A moment later, Kargil tackled him again. Zhanil jerked his head to one side, and Kargil’s fist landed hard in the dirt beside his temple. “What makes you think I ever wanted your sorry kingdom?” With his cousin’s bulk pressing down on him, threatening to cut off his air, Zhanil managed to jab Kargil in the upper thigh with his knee. Not in the groin, as he intended, but close enough. Kargil bared his teeth, stained red with his blood, and it took all Zhanil’s strength to keep the man from biting him. One hard shove, just enough to dislodge Kargil, and Zhanil rolled free and regained his footing. His legs trembled, and his chest and lower jaw throbbed with pain. “That is enough.” Moving deliberately, sure of his authority, Atalash entered the circle. He nodded once toward Zhanil, then prodded his grandson with his walking stick when Kargil failed to respond. “Kinsmen may not kill each other. That is the law. Kalmeku, I let you fight Kargil because you are a turkan, and the insult was as much toward you as your keshka, but the matter is finished. You have fought. Blood has been spilled. Kargil will remember the law and speak no more of this. Only the Storm God may judge you now.” Growling, Kargil dabbed a split lip, blood streaking his chin. Undaunted, Atalash thwacked his shin with the stick. “Kalmeku has answered your challenge. You both fought well. It is finished.” Kalmeki approached with Zhanil’s tunic and sword belt. “Next time,” he murmured, “let me do it.” Zhanil, gritting his teeth against the pain in his side, nodded. Later in his room, wrapped in a loose robe, he tried to ignore his aching body long enough to compose messages to his uncle in Bhellin, as well as several expatriated lords whom he knew could be relied upon to levy men and cross the border. Once his official correspondence was written, he wrote to his parents, assuring them he was safe in the Turya-lands. Saraji

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and Thano had hopefully already arrived with the children, though he preferred not to imagine the inevitable conflict between his wife and his mother. Tomorrow, Amhir and one of the Turya guards would leave for Bhellin. Zhanil handed Amhir the satchel containing the letters, along with explicit instructions. “If King Ettarin grants me permission to come through the Irrend Pass, on your way back you are to go to the Rhodeen lords in Ottabia and the valley of Aring and tell them that if they ride with me and I am victorious, I will give them what they seek.” After tending to Zhanil’s scrapes and bruises, Kalmeki did not stay long. His silence, wound taut as a bowstring, made Zhanil yearn for home, where no one thought it odd for the king’s bodyguard to linger. Now, Kalmeki dared not speak, perhaps for fear of undoing what small victory his lover had achieved. Zhanil did not know how else to reassure him except to let him go. Near midnight, a knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. Rising from his chair, wincing at the pain, he limped to the door and opened it. To his surprise, Kargil’s wife greeted him with a steaming cup. “This is a gift from the turkan,” she said. Zhanil eyed the hot liquid warily. “Does your husband know you are here?” “Kargil has had the same drink,” answered Peteku. “It will taste bitter going down, but it will ease your pain so you can ride. I recommend honey if you cannot stomach it. Kargil will not take it without.” Zhanil took the cup from her hands, yet did not drink. “You did not answer my question.” “My husband knows it is proper to offer kumiss or healing herbs to a worthy opponent.” “He also knows a Turya woman can leave her husband and ride off with his opponent if she wishes,” Zhanil pointed out. “I doubt very much that Kargil approves your being here.” Peteku smiled. “You have a wife already, and sons by her, or so he tells me. Perhaps if you were unattached and did not live in the east-lands it would be different.” Then she laughed lightly. “No, Kalmeku, I am here as a kinswoman of the turkan.

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Atalash honors your courage, as he honors my husband’s. Kargil may not like it that your match was cut short. He may shake his fist at the Storm God and brood, but tomorrow he will be himself again.” “You mean he will brood even more?” Peteku gave no answer, and Zhanil rued his facetious words. “I find it strange that you and he are kinsmen yet there are no bonds between you,” she finally said. “I am an east-lander,” replied Zhanil, “and I have taken the throne that would have been his. We have never been close, and he thinks I left his mother to die when the usurpers came. I regret that, my lady. Please believe me when I say I have done everything I can to make sure Lady Thano escaped with my wife and children.” “I believe you, Kalmeku,” she said. “Kargil has no love for the east-lands. Had he become turkan in your land, he would have been very unhappy.” That came as small surprise. “He does not seem much happier here in the Turya-lands.” Shaking her head, Peteku replied, “You do not know him very well. He takes joy in the land of his fathers, in his horses, and in his son. I have seen him laugh and smile. I have heard tender words from his lips. That is how I know.” Remembering how lovingly Kargil had held Lugal in the courtyard yesterday, Zhanil nodded. “Please tell your lord that though we fought, I am not his enemy.” “Will you not tell him yourself?” “I have tried.” Zhanil shrugged heavily. “I do not think he hears anything I have to say.” **** When the physician told him there would be side effects, Sephil scarcely heard his words. “The powder will take away the pain so you can sleep, my lord, but sometimes there are hallucinations. So you understand that I can only give you a little.” Still weak from loss of blood, able to lift his head to take the draught but no more, Sephil closed his eyes and waited for the

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opiate to work. Hands shifted him onto his side, then lifted his shift to undo and change his dressings. When the scab crusting his stitches tore loose, he hardly registered it. And when the cool salve stung his torn skin before numbing it, the sensation seemed to belong to someone else. Bands of linen were wrapped around his chest, almost too tight for breath. Already his mouth felt dry, his head fuzzy, and behind closed eyes he swiftly tumbled into sleep. Time in the Sun Chapel seemed not to move. Neither day nor night penetrated into the silent blackness. When Sephil groggily opened his eyes to take in the flickering patterns of shadow and candlelight upon the ceiling, he could not say how long he had slept. Lifting his head, he perceived the guard on duty. Sometimes he asked for water, or what day it was, or, when his need grew too great to contain, for a chamber pot. As the figure in the doorway turned, his profile coming into full view, Sephil gasped. Broad-shouldered and taller than he by half a foot, with a hard, down-turned mouth and graying beard, his father entered. The air in the chapel turned deathly cold; the altar candles fluttered and nearly went out. Sephil, too weak to move, knowing there was nowhere to run even had he been able, could not look away or even speak to banish the apparition. “This place is for royal princes.” Brasidios’s voice, heavy with cobwebs and dust, filled the small space. “This place is for kings. You do not belong here.” Tears escaped Sephil’s eyes as his bladder gave way. “Get out!” His voice emerged as a pathetic squeak. “Go back to your tomb.” Brasidios smiled contemptuously, then raised both hands to his head, lifting it free like a helmet. Clotted gore ringed his neck stump, and dropped to the floor in lumps like melted wax. “You do not order me.” The head’s lips moved, spoke, as Brasidios held it. “Your bones will never rest here. This place is for kings, and you are no king.” Now the head hovered over his cot, its charnel breath in his face, its flesh blistered with writhing maggots. Sephil raised both arms to shield himself from the dripping gore and blood, and cried out at the hands that gripped his wrists to restrain him.

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An unfamiliar voice cut through the haze. “My lord, stop struggling! It’s Ninhás. Stop struggling or you’ll hurt yourself.” Sephil blinked, startled to find the disembodied skull gone and his father replaced by a Khalgari guard. Slowly he lowered his arms. “I am sorry. I thought…” “You were having a dream, sir.” Drained, half-sobbing from fright and shame, he had to confess his accident. “I am sorry. I will help you clean up.” Ninhás smiled through his obvious distaste. “No, you’re in no condition to get out of bed. I’ll get somebody to change your linens and get you another shift. Next time, sir, if you have to go, you tell one of us. Prince Dashir told us we were to look after you.” Sephil preferred not to think about his cousin. He wants to bury me alive down here. “I know you did not come all this way from Khalgar to change some poor invalid’s dirty linens.” Ninhás made no answer. A short time later, a menial arrived with warm water and clean linens. While the guard watched, moving Sephil from the cot at the appropriate moment, the servant changed the bedding, removed Sephil’s shift, and bathed him before dressing him again. The slight movement brought an ache to Sephil’s side. Unable to inspect the wound himself, he had no idea how badly he had been injured. No one would tell him. “Do you want something to eat, sir?” asked Ninhás. “The prince told us you weren’t to take any medicine without food. I can send the man to the kitchen for some soup or maybe some scrambled eggs if they have any.” Food seemed an unappealing, foreign concept, even though Sephil knew he needed to regain his strength. All those days he spent in the sanctuary of Abh trying to get others to eat came back to him. The irony struck him. For their sake he managed to choke down some eggs and a bit of soft bread before going back to sleep. His father met him once more in the realm of dreams, his large frame blocking the entrance to the Sun Chapel, barring him from the crypt where his brother and generations of Rhodeen’s kings lay. Sephil could not enter the sacred precinct, yet nor could he leave the darkness of Tal Charne for the sunlight and

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open air, for on the ascending ramp, his way strewn with corpses, stood Besan Palassos brandishing a knife dripping with blood. **** “This syrup is a potent opiate,” said the physician. “It will take away his pain, but I fear to give him too much or give it to him too often. Already he is seeing things.” Dashir listened to the man’s report in silence. Earlier, Ninhás had described an incident in which a drugged Sephil, terrified by phantoms, had soiled his bedding. “Opium does nothing for his fever. There must be something else you can give him.” Palassos’s dirk had entered Sephil’s right side, and his woolen robe had partially deflected the blade, resulting in shallow penetration. Somehow Palassos avoided hitting any major organs, but blood loss and shock compensated for the lack of internal damage. Physicians had inserted a tube to relieve the bleeding, and had quickly sutured the wound. All should have been well, they insisted. The gods looked with favor upon the king. Dashir, however, took a different view toward his cousin’s lingering weakness and low-grade fever. “He should have elder and plantain and other medicinal herbs. Your reliance on these cheap opiates does not encourage me.” The physician spread his hands, indicating his helplessness. Your incompetence is more like it, thought Dashir. “The regents have not provided me with the medicines I need.” “How much effort does it take someone who is supposedly one of the best doctors in the city to go to an apothecary’s shop and procure simple herbs? Do I need to go to the market and purchase the items myself?” “Sir, that will not be necessary.” Dashir stopped the man’s groveling with a contemptuous look. “If I were to take your word for it I would have to believe the regents would rather see King Sephil take too much of your snake syrup and die, or grow dependent on it. After all their assurances that they wish him—a harmless and well-loved high priest of Abh—to recover, I find your excuses difficult to

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swallow.” “I assure you, my lord, it is only the truth,” the physician answered quickly. “I am searched before I come here.” “Perhaps I should bring your concerns to the attention of the regents?” Genuine fear clouded the man’s eyes, and his pallor became evident even with the deep shadows of the corridor. “That will not be necessary, my lord. I will do my best to procure the herbs, but you must understand that I cannot guarantee results.” That offered a sure sign nothing would happen. Dashir knew he would have to find some other means to secure the necessary medicine. In his apartments, he found Penthé languidly stretched out across his bed, clad only in a golden bracelet and his long hair. “I do not recall sending for you,” said Dashir. Smiling, Penthé answered lazily, “The regents sent me to keep your pillows warm. A messenger came before.” Dashir propped one knee on the mattress and leaned over to stroke the young man’s hair before letting his hand slide down Penthé’s cheek. The mountain sanctuary to which he had previously been banished might encourage good works and spiritual contemplation, but it did nothing to cool a virile man’s blood. Since that first time with Penthé, Dashir had fucked him every night, often more than once. The youth exhausted him. “And what did he want?” Penthé kissed his fingers, his eyes begging for more. “It was nothing, just that one of the great lords is coming to dine with you tonight.” “Which one, my dear?” “I did not think to ask, my lord. Do you want me to stay?” Dashir reached down to tweak his left nipple, eliciting a gasp of mingled pain and pleasure. “So you can service us both, you wanton little minx?” A quick glance revealed that the young man was already erect. In their couplings, Penthé never failed to come, or to cry breathlessly for more, harder, and faster. Dashir doubted his skill as a lover had anything to do with his partner’s enthusiasm. Penthé’s arousal, he suspected, was commensurate with his client’s exalted rank. “If you are truly that eager for cock, you can unlace me and suck me off right now.”

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Penthé required no further invitation. With his generous mouth he went to work, fondling and sucking his lover from crown to root, nuzzling his balls, while his hand strayed between his legs to pump his own shaft. Dashir watched for a moment before sharply tugging on his hair. “I did not give you permission to pleasure yourself.” In truth, nothing gave him greater delight when with a partner he liked. A few male lovers in Tajhaan had been kind, quietly soothing the frustrations and persistent apprehension that came from living among royals who routinely poisoned or strangled each other. Even now, Dashir recalled their names, and how, after sating his own desire, he used to take them in hand to reward them with release. “I cannot imagine how King Zhanil ever put up with you, Penthé.” Penthé released his cock with an audible slurp. “Oh, no, my lord, the king never touched me. He never had anyone but the queen.” Dashir found that hard to believe. So he must have secret lovers. “Did I give you leave to stop sucking?” Under such expert ministrations, he came quickly. Penthé, swallowing his seed as directed, then lay back among the pillows, his hands impatiently dancing over his thighs, his eyes beseeching. Dashir tucked his flagging cock into his trousers and laughed. “Go back to whichever regent sent you and tell him your tale. Perhaps he will reward you by bending you over his desk and fucking you. When I see you later, I want to see the cum dribbling down your thighs.” Servants arrived late in the afternoon to set up a table with fine linen, silver, and crystal. From them, Dashir learned nothing except that a delicious five-course meal was being prepared. Either they did not know who his guest was, or had been instructed to withhold information. Information is power, he thought, and they fear to give me too much. As the servants did their work in the sitting room, Dashir looked over the clothes the regents had provided and chose a sober black. Ethurel Irides arrived at sunset. “You look well, Prince Dashir.”

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The servants lit lamps throughout the apartment as the two men sat down to the first course, leek and onion soup with fine manchet bread and white wine. Dashir paused, fidgeting over his napkin until Ethurel tasted his portion first. “To what do I owe this occasion?” he asked. Ethurel tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into the soup. “I understand you visited King Sephil this afternoon.” “Yes, I make it a point to look in on him once a day. Do the regents object?” “No, not at all,” replied Ethurel. “How does he fare?” Dashir cautiously sipped his wine. “All I can tell you is that his condition has not worsened.” “We have had numerous requests from the priesthood of Abh to send healers to him.” At this point, Dashir could not decide if Ethurel was seeking his opinion or merely sharing information. It was safest to assume both. “I am not surprised. Sephil is a high priest of their order, and a major benefactor.” Ethurel snorted. “How easily your cousin has fooled people, both here and in Khalgar! This ministry of his is a sham. I was with him in his youth, and was one of the few who saw him after his unfortunate exile from court. Nowadays he may dress in priestly robes and assume a holier-than-thou air, but he is still as empty-headed as he ever was.” Under the pretense of tasting the soup, too heavily salted for his liking, Dashir studied the man sitting across from him. The youngest of the five self-appointed regents, Ethurel Irides possessed an indolent nature and as such was a poor judge of character. While Dashir had no doubt that Sephil’s foray into religion had begun as propaganda instigated by his father-in-law, he also perceived a certain authenticity to his cousin’s works. Quite simply, he did not think Sephil talented enough an actor to have maintained such a beneficent persona for more than twentyfive years. That did not, however, prevent him from occasionally wondering how deep his cousin’s commitment to the order of Abh truly was. Can it be he is more cunning than anyone thinks? “I have not spent much time with him, other than my recent visits to Tal Charne, and since he is in no position to

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converse with me, I would not know.” “Believe it,” said Ethurel. “He is malleable, though, which makes him valuable.” But not so malleable that the regents could bring him out in public without incident, reflected Dashir. “Yes, I can see that.” “Ah, here comes the watercress salad. I took the liberty of choosing traditional dishes, knowing it has been some time since you had the pleasure of dining upon them.” “Thoughtful of you,” said Dashir. While the servants cleared away the first course, Ethurel poured himself a second glass of wine. “Tell me, how do you like the pleasure slave I sent you?” Dashir answered with a wry smile. “Penthé is a most...insatiable young man.” “I thought you might enjoy him. Tell me now, you are still young…” “Fifty is middle-aged by most standards, Lord Irides, but you flatter me.” Once the servants set down the chilled plates and withdrew, Ethurel continued, “Perhaps, but my point is that you are not too old to marry again.” The watercress, flavored with slivered almonds, shredded carrots, and a tart sauce, was delicious. “I have been married before,” said Dashir. “It was an experience I would neither recommend nor wish to repeat.” “Should the right bride present herself, your conjugal situation might vastly improve.” Dashir set down his fork. “Let me guess: you have a sister.” Ethurel laughed, “Yes, but she is too old for you. However, Lord Melandes has a daughter, very pretty, just seventeen years old, and brought up in the traditional ways. Of course, you must understand, our council is not in complete agreement on this matter, but some among us have proposed that if Khalgar will not relinquish the sons of Zhanil Sephides, then perhaps we would do better to graft a new dynasty onto the old line.” Dashir took a moment to contemplate his reply. “Rhodeen has always been ruled by an adult male, and there is no guarantee this girl would bear sons. Should she do so, is the nobility prepared to endure a long regency for the boy?”

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“You are too modest,” said Ethurel. “There is no reason why you should not take the throne.” “Forgive me, but I can think of several reasons why I should not. Your father knows well that I did not come here to seize power.” Ethurel, picking up his fork, began to eat. “Even those who might voice opposition to your rule must admit that you have been groomed for the position. At one time, I believe, you were Crown Prince.” “Out of necessity, yes,” admitted Dashir, “but my uncle did not realize his younger son was still alive.” Smothering a grin, Ethurel replied, “You and I both know that would not have made a difference. Brasidios never would have let the crown pass to Sephil.” “No, his intention was for the crown to pass to Zhanil’s children. I was merely invested as Crown Prince to act as a regent should Brasidios die before the boys came of age,” explained Dashir. “Whatever you may have heard, my uncle did not intend for me to sit on the throne in my own right. Of course, he did not explicitly say so, but I understood his meaning clearly enough.” Ethurel chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed before continuing, “Eat something, Prince Dashir. Is the salad not to your liking?” “Too much talk of politics does not agree with my digestion.” For his guest’s sake, Dashir managed a bite. “Unfortunately, it is a habit I learned in Tajhaan.” “Such things are best forgotten,” said Ethurel. “As to your uncle’s intentions, only you and he were privy to that conversation, and Zhanil Brasides’s sons are long-dead.” “I would only agree to assume the title again as a regent for one of my grandsons.” Staring at his salad fork, pushing watercress and carrots around on his plate, Dashir quickly added, “That is, of course, if this is an agreeable arrangement. As I said before, Rhodeen is accustomed to having an adult male on the throne. Otherwise, our enemies may perceive weakness on our part.” Smiling, Ethurel reached across the table to refill his wine glass. “Those are wise words. I shall remember to convey them

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to my father and the other regents.” Dashir could only guess what a mercenary brute like Besan Palassos would say to the proposal. While the other lords, even grim Irial Callios, might grudgingly approve the notion of an adult Crown Prince to present a strong front against potential Turya or Khalgari opposition, Palassos would never risk putting Dashir, a man he could not control, in a position of power. “As you wish,” he replied. “Now let us turn the conversation to more pleasant matters before I lose my appetite altogether. This daughter of Ardal Melandes, tell me about her.”

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Chapter Ten Grasslands spread before him as far as the eye could see. Wild wheat brushed his horse’s flanks and caressed his ankles as he leisurely rode along. >From here, one could barely see Hapaniku on its hill. Only the wispy white smoke of a dozen cook fires hinted at human habitation. The scene was all that Kalmeki loved about the Turyalands: the vast, untenanted silence, the shifting shadows cast by distant mountains and the clouds rolling over the steppes, and the certainty that men could utterly die out and the Earth Mother would scarcely notice. A thousand years of wind and rain would wear down the mounds of the chieftains. Hapaniku would crumble back into the landscape. I could keep riding, he thought, and leave these cares behind me. At times, he longed to do just that. Leave the green river valleys and imposing strangeness of the east-lands behind to return to his birth place—or now, ride away from Hapaniku and let Zhanil sort out his own mess. Harsh it might seem, but no more so than what chieftains required of their sons and daughters by sending them into the wilderness to survive or die. At eighteen, Kalmeki himself had ridden far from his father’s settlement, into lands where he knew no friendly face, with only his horse, a water-skin, and his bow to keep him alive. For a fortnight he wandered, bereft of human companionship, despairing of life until the ominous silence of the grasslands brought not fear but a sense of peace, a meditation on how fragile his existence was, and how precious. Zhanil needs this—needs to be cast out into the wilderness without his guards or laws or crown. Then he will know what it is to be hard. He will understand what life truly means.

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Kalmeki urged his horse forward down a shallow hill. Behind him, the faint white smoke disappeared utterly. I want men to look at my keshka and tell me I am blessed, not cursed. At least six men had offered their condolences since he left his father’s settlement. Eight others had done the same at Hapaniku, and one of them had been Yhade’s father. Though the insults knotted him with heartache and stopped his throat where he would have rebuked the speakers, it hurt all the more because some part of it was true. Zhanil might be a brave man, decent and loving, but a twenty-five year old king should not be so naïve about the world. “Storm God!” he cried. Echoes reverberated through the landscape, carrying his voice to heaven. Tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to spill over even as his cry caught in his throat. “Let him find the will to grow strong!” Distant hoof beats caught his attention. Drawing his bow, he turned in the saddle, ready to fire into the dust cloud rising over the hill. “Lord Kalmeki,” called a woman’s voice, “you cannot court me if I am dead.” Yhade, dressed for riding, her luxuriant hair pulled back into a single, long plait, faced his arrow without flinching, until, abashed, he lowered his bow. “I did not expect company,” he said, quickly brushing the moisture from his eyes. “I did not mean to intrude upon you, except that your man Hantili told me you rode away this morning with a troubled look. And now I hear you crying out in anguish to the Storm God.” “I will not burden you with my cares, lady.” Where most women in the east-lands, bred to subservience, would take that as their cue not to interfere, Turya women were not content to let matters like this lie—and they did not always exercise tact. “I know my father has spoken ill of your keshka.” “Kalmeku is a man of the east-lands. They are…not as fierce as we are.” “He is a strange choice for a turkan,” she admitted. “He is a warrior and a good man, but he is not a turkan— not one that any man in these lands would follow.” Yhade looked hard at him. Few women in the east-lands, even Zhanil’s formidable mother, would have met his eyes

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directly. After seven years away from home, Kalmeki had forgotten there were not many secrets a man could hide from a Turya woman. “You are ashamed of him,” she said. “He is too soft to be a turkan, and that is what is needed to rule the east-lands.” “Yet you are hard, a Turya warrior,” she insisted, “and you have been his keshka for many years now. I do not pretend to understand the depth of this bond, but is his failure not also yours? You are a Turya and strong, and you know what a turkan must be, yet you lay the blame at his feet. That is not behavior worthy of a keshka.” I have tried to tell him… Yet he did not say it, could not force the words past his lips, for suddenly it was nothing more than a convenient excuse. The shame was equally his, just as it had always been. Keshkai shared more than names, more than love. “My lady,” he said hoarsely, “you should not waste time with a man who does not know any better.” “You love him?” In those three simple words, he knew what she asked. “I am not an unnatural man, Yhade, and neither is Kalmeku. He has a wife and sons.” “And yet you kissed him,” she pointed out. “Lord Kargil may bear his kinsman little love, but he would not tell tales for spite.” Kalmeki nodded. “The kiss was to congratulate me on my successful courtship—short-lived though it may be.” Yhade’s eyes widened. “Is this so?” she asked, laughing. “Kalmeku shares my joy.” “Yet you blame him for shaming you?” Very little would ever escape this woman’s notice. Sooner or later, whether or not he told her, she would know just how much he loved Zhanil. I must tell her now. “I told you before that I am a man who does not know any better. I love Kalmeku, but I do not seem able to help him.” Leaning forward, she placed a gloved hand atop his, so they clutched the reins together. “You will ride home with me,” she said, “and you will go to Kalmeku and give him your strength, because without you, he can never be a turkan.”

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**** On a swift horse, a man could cover the distance from Hapaniku to Bhellin in eight days if he made no detours along his route. Three weeks after his departure, Amhir returned bearing a thick packet of letters. Zhanil leafed through the correspondence, noting seals he recognized and others he did not, until he came to his uncle’s missive. As expected, Ettarin reproved him for his loss of control. We have had to close the Rhodeen embassy for the insolence these usurpers have shown us. Khalgar desires peaces with her neighbors. This we do not have from you, or those who have seized power in your land. Already there have been complaints from merchants who fear trade will be disrupted. In the following paragraphs, the king adopted a more amenable tone. Permission is granted to lead a small force through the Irrend Pass and the valley of Aring into northern Rhodeen. During this time, the sentinel strongholds of Medás and Sufhír will be on highest alert. Our representatives there will, should any difficulties arise, escort you across the river border where you may make camp in your own land. Get in and get out. Had Zhanil been in his uncle’s position, faced with the prospect of allowing a foreign king to cross his territory, he would have demanded the same. At least he would not have to risk ambush in the narrow Dolmen Pass, or a harsh desert crossing through the Sevaa wastes to the Khishtil Pass. Further down, Zhanil found an answer to his second request. Should the nobles who were formerly subjects of Rhodeen desire to take your part, they have leave to do so with the provision that they knowingly and willingly renounce their ties to Khalgar. (obles cannot fight for one king while living under the protection and dominion of another. This was all within reason, and potentially problematic. Zhanil guessed that among the messages Amhir brought back would be a fair number of refusals. Setting his uncle’s letter aside, he found the packet bearing his mother’s seal, broke the wax with his knife, and unfolded the creamy parchment. Now he would learn whether or not Saraji,

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Thano, and the children had arrived safely, or if the usurpers held hostages to halt his advance. Only a king’s mother could admonish her son in such strong terms. I imagine your uncle will chide you for placing Khalgar in this situation, but do not think that I have nothing to say about it. Your queen is no joyful guest. From morning till night she wrings her hands moaning that she is a widow doomed to penury, and that her children—of which you now have two more—will be cast out onto the street to live as beggars. Zhanil had to reread that passage and the one that followed to grasp that Saraji had borne him twins. According to his royal physician, the queen was not due until the last week of spring. Laughing, he called Kalmeki to his side. “I’m a father again. Twice over, it seems. I have a son and a daughter—twins.” Forgetting his bandaged torso and ignoring the circumstances that caused the injury, Kalmeki caught him up in a fierce embrace. “I will have Amhir bring ale and kumiss for all of us.” Zhanil’s mirth abruptly died as he came to the next page. The ambassador Arrideos objected to my naming the infants. However, your father was not on hand to greet the newborns. His intention was to come to you in Shemin-at-Khul for the birth. We have since learned that he was seized by the usurpers in central Rhodeen. After having been gravely injured in a struggle at Tal Charne, he is being held captive. We have had no word from him that has not been dictated by these evil men, nor any happy news of your cousin Lady Thano. After reading a bit further, Zhanil handed the letter to Kalmeki, who was literate enough in Khalgari to read it. “I dare not show this to Kargil.” Kalmeki skimmed the relevant section, then gave the letter back. “You are not to blame for what happened. Either the lady refused to leave, or was prevented.” Unable to look at it, and fearing what further disaster his mother might have to report, Zhanil laid the letter aside. “My father is being held hostage in Shemin-at-Khul. I had no idea he was coming for the birth. He sent me no word.” “What will you do?” asked Kalmeki. “I don’t know yet. I hate the thought of having to barter

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with his life. If I advance, the usurpers will kill him or do worse. On the other hand, if I withdraw not only will I lose face, but he will remain their prisoner.” Kalmeki nodded solemnly. “This is not an easy choice.” “The wisest thing to do would be to proceed regardless, but…” A hand fell on his shoulder, fingers lightly squeezing: the customary gesture of comfort—or warning. One could read it as both. “Perhaps it is the only choice you have. Will the exiled lords ride with you?” Zhanil stared at the pile of untouched letters. “I’m almost afraid to find out.” Of the eighteen lords Amhir had approached, eleven were willing to renounce their Khalgari citizenship to join their king. Among them, they could levy nine hundred men. “With the Turyar,” said Zhanil, “that makes seventeen hundred. I would have preferred more. Who knows how many the usurpers will be able to muster against me.” “Arzhati and his brother took Rhodeen with only fifteen hundred,” Kalmeki pointed out. “Seventeen hundred is a good number to start, and there is always the possibility that more will join you once you march. The usurpers might call up men, but how many of those soldiers will fight you when the time comes? Few east-landers are willing to go into battle against the Turyar.” “Turyar are not invincible on the battlefield, Kalmeki.” Zhanil then proceeded to describe what he had learned during his military service in Khalgar: that well-trained infantry who stood their ground could defeat a superior cavalry advance. “That was how my grandfathers stopped Atalash at the Irrend Pass more than fifty years ago.” Kalmeki thought for a moment, then said, “Your grandfather Brasidios did not use this knowledge when Arzhati and Lazphi entered Rhodeen. Unless these usurpers have served in Khalgar, they do not know these tactics at all.” With the letters, Amhir had also brought a packhorse with clothing, armor, and other necessities. For I know you have likely been driven out wearing only the shirt on your back, wrote Ketalya, and it is not fitting that a king should lead an army in such a threadbare state. Zhanil examined the boiled leather,

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chain mail, and plate. Once his courage returned, he read through to the end of his mother’s letter. As he both feared and expected, the news did not improve. “My father-in-law is also in Rhodeen,” he told Kalmeki. “My uncle apparently thought Prince Dashir would be able to negotiate with the usurpers where his own ambassadors have failed. Much good it seems to have done. “Not only have the usurpers refused to release my father or give up their demands to have Ardal and Thanol returned, but Dashir has stayed on in Rhodeen, for reasons that are not clear. I don’t want to have to fight him if he decides to take the throne for himself, for the same reason I didn’t execute him five years ago: he’s my kinsman, and father-in-law. But if he gives me no other choice…” Zhanil shook his head, heartily praying that Dashir was not such a fool. Lives he was willing to take, if it meant restoring order, but he did not want to have to start with his own blood. “The Turya chieftains will never follow him. Whoever takes the throne must also be acknowledged as turkan,” said Kalmeki. “But, I share your worries. Killing a kinsman is a bad omen.” That night, Zhanil ate little and slept badly, tossing and turning on his sheepskin-covered cot, and wishing Kalmeki might have stayed—even if only on a cot in the opposite corner. Despite the occasional failings between them, Kalmeki was the only person who truly understood or believed in him, the only one who would never leave him; the knowledge brought a lump to his throat, because he knew he did not always deserve that loyalty. Only together are we strong. I bear part of the blame for this. Kalmeki’s declaration, coming as it did after a confession that many pitied him for being tied to a weak east-lander, refused to leave his thoughts. I should have stood beside you as your equal, not under you as your subject, and not behind you as your bodyguard. You have others for that. Long ago, Kalmeki had taught him how the Turya said I love you, and it sounded very much like that: I wish to stand beside you. Since then, Zhanil thought it lost something in the translation, until the moment Kalmeki returned dusty and

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disheveled from a morning ride, anguish written upon his face, and poured out his heart. Afterward, Zhanil yearned to be able to undress him and take him to bed and show him what equals could do, but ended up cursing the necessity that forced them to sleep apart. Early the next morning, his guard Harkil brought word that the Turya chieftains were gathering two miles to the south. “If you go to the first lookout,” he said, “you can see them.” Atalash already occupied the lookout, with Kargil nowhere in sight. The old turkan glowered at the martial display, though when he spoke, his words conveyed more playfulness than Zhanil expected. “It seems I underestimated your popularity in the east-lands. This is no small number of Turyar who have come to see you. You had better go out and meet them, Kalmeku, and let us hope they have brought their own yurts.” Back in his chamber, Zhanil donned his leather armor. When Amhir buckled the straps of his studded corselet, tightening them against his bandaged chest, he winced. Bruised ribs had turned out to be fractured ones. Kargil certainly had done what damage he could, and Zhanil thanked the gods he had not done worse. “Next time,” said Kalmeki, who strapped on his gauntlets, “you will let me fight him.” “You said that before.” “I am simply reminding you.” “Then it will be my pleasure.” Outfitted and armed, Zhanil mounted his horse and rode down from Hapaniku to meet his chieftains. By the time he reached their encampment, his chest ached interminably. How would he ever survive marching into Rhodeen in chain mail and plate? You will do it and live, because you must. “Hail, riders of the turkan, warriors of the east-land!” he cried. In one great voice that echoed out across the grasslands, they returned his greeting. On horseback and foot, eight hundred men began to gather around the little hillock he had chosen. All the occasion lacked was the banner of his royal house flapping behind him; his

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mother had not seen fit to send it with Amhir. Rhodeen nobles would have commented on the threadbare state of his personal guards, or on his lack of regal trappings. Indeed, Zhanil rued that Kalmeki’s gear was secondhand, and Amhir and the Turya Guard were dressed in the patched regimentals that had seen them out of Rhodeen. A king ought to ride in a stately manner, and loyal retainers deserved better. The Turyar, however, valued courage and prowess over appearance. Turkani dressed no better than their warriors, and carried only token emblems of their lineage; dynasties were to them a new concept. “Faithful warriors, you have come!” That he spoke fluent Turya, dreadful accent or not, also counted for something in their eyes. “This day we have received word from Khalgar. Our kinsman there has given us leave to cross his land so we may come more swiftly into Rhodeen. We have received word also from our loyal subjects across the mountains. They are waiting to join us. “But I must warn you: these usurpers—these traitors—have no honor. My father, whom you know as a holy man and priest of the healing god Abh, has been taken captive by these men. This thing was done secretly, butchery committed against those who were not warriors. These men hold my father as a hostage against my return. They will threaten to kill him once we enter Rhodeen. Already they have injured him—” Movement off to his right cut him off in mid-sentence. Masking his mingled surprise and annoyance, Zhanil watched as his cousin thundered toward the encampment with two or three hundred riders at his back; through the clouds of dust they raised, he could not quite estimate. Only when Kargil guided his horse up to the summit of the hillock did Zhanil speak. “Why are you here?” “I have had news from the east-lands that will not be to your liking,” Kargil answered harshly. My father is dead. Zhanil forced himself to remain calm. Kargil cared nothing about Sephil, had never even met him, and certainly would not bother riding out with all his followers for his sake. “Your mother,” he said. Kargil clenched his teeth. “Yes, my mother. She is dead,

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murdered by evil men, because you left her to die.” As Kargil did not bother to temper his volume, his words carried through the ranks. In a moment, he would stir unease. Zhanil gestured to the warriors massed before them. “Is it your wish that these men should abandon me, and that with them should go any hope of punishing the traitors who committed this evil?” Laughing bitterly, Kargil replied, “Do you think you are the only one capable of leading an army into the east-lands, or bringing these wicked men to justice?” With one hand tightly gripping the reins, he reached down to stroke his horse’s neck with the other before addressing the assembled warriors. “Hear me, men of the east-lands! I am Kargil, son of Arzhati. I am the son of Thano, dead at the hands of those who have driven you back into the bosom of the Turya-lands. These are my men, sworn to ride with me wherever I lead them. And I lead them alongside you, to take the vengeance that is my right!” Amid the shouting, Zhanil let his gaze pass from his cousin’s followers to his eight hundred, intent on Kargil’s words yet silent, waiting to see what their turkan would do. “If you ride with me,” he said quietly, “you take orders from—” “I take orders from no one but my grandfather. I said I would ride alongside you, not under you.” Kargil gathered up the reins and, wheeling his horse about, left the hillock. Dust clouded his departure as three hundred men followed in his wake. Somehow, Zhanil managed to finish his speech, then rode down into the camp to meet with individual chieftains and warriors. Two chieftains, Zidanta and Labarnu, remained at his side, reporting about supplies, enemy positions, and losses within Rhodeen. Both had accompanied Arzhati during the Turya invasion, and been rewarded with generous estates near the capital. In their sixties and still vigorous, they commanded the largest number of riders, and, as the collective voice of the Turya chieftains in Rhodeen, had been instrumental in favoring Zhanil over Kargil. “Arzhati’s son means to come with us,” mused Labarnu. “It does not seem that you and he are friends, Kalmeku.” So the mistrust between them was obvious. Exhaling

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heavily, Zhanil nodded. “This news about Lady Thano does not help. I had hoped she had gotten to safety with my wife and sons. Her loss is my regret.” The two men observed a moment’s silence. “A great lady,” they concurred. “She will be much mourned.” Quickly, the talk shifted to business. “The middle pass is no longer safe. Our enemies have blocked the way with stones and men. Our horses and bows are no good there. We lost several good warriors in coming to you,” said Zidanta. Zhanil commiserated with them as customary. “When this is over we will collect their bones and give them a worthy burial.” “The Storm God will punish these evildoers,” added Labarnu. “They have desecrated the tomb of Arzhati. They have torn down our shrines. Our people fear to walk in the streets.” This came as no surprise. “We will do what we can to right these wrongs. We have been too patient and tolerant with these men, and if there is one thing Lord Kargil and I can agree upon, it is that we cannot walk a middle path with those who refuse to negotiate. They have betrayed our trust and shed royal blood. They must die for this.” Zidanta nodded vigorously. “The Earth Mother will erase them utterly. Their names will be forgotten as the dust.” Boasting was one thing, and to one brought up in a household where it was not tolerated, it came with difficulty, but Zhanil knew he could not afford to mislead his chieftains. “I cannot guarantee we will surprise them coming from the north,” he said. Kargil’s insolence stayed with him like a sour aftertaste. “I cannot even guarantee that these lords from Khalgar will not change their minds and withdraw their men.” “I do not understand your people,” said Zidanta. “A chieftain either gives his loyalty or he does not. There can be no middle ground.” Zhanil saw no use trying to explain how these expatriated lords, who were frustrated by their king’s inability to restore estates seized by the Turyar, and faced with the prospect of losing their Khalgari citizenship, expected substantial material rewards for their service. Self-interest and fealty did not mix in

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the Turya consciousness. “If matters in the east-lands were only so simple,” he replied, “we would not be here now.” **** “Where is your unnatural lover to protect you now?” Brasidios, wreathed in noxious green flame, barred the doorway. Charnel laughter echoed through the dead spaces. “No one is going to come to your aid. You will die here. Your bones will be bricked in, and you will be utterly forgotten.” This time, Sephil found his voice. “You would like to see that,” he said shakily. “You are no king to be remembered.” “I never asked to be king, just as I never asked to be born your son.” Sephil, ignore him. It isn’t your father, just a shadow of your fevered brain with no power over you. That disembodied voice—he recognized it! “Adeja?” I am here. Wildly, Sephil looked about, but no one was there. Brasidios had vanished; the green vapors yielded once more to the darkness. The chapel stood empty, tenanted only by shadows, and Adeja’s voice carried no substance, as much a phantom of his stricken brain as the other ghosts. With a dry throat, Sephil tried to call out, to bring his lover back to him, but Adeja—if he had ever truly been there at all—was now nothing more than the soft dust that blanketed the floor and stirred with every step. Then he opened his eyes. A face appeared above his, startling him yet a second time. “I have told that physician to stop giving you opium,” said Dashir. “You have been having terrible dreams.” For a moment, Sephil could not decide whether Dashir was real or a figment of his fevered imagination. “I want out of here. There is no light, no air.” “I realize how oppressive the crypts are,” replied Dashir, “but you are here for your own safety. As for your medicine, I see I must take the matter into my own hands. I will do what I

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can to obtain the correct herbs. Any more opium will kill you or drive you mad—or worse, turn you into an addict.” Sephil put a hand to his brow. It felt cool, but the dull ache in his arms and thighs told him his fever lingered. “You do not know what to do.” “You forget I spent the last five years in a remote sanctuary praying and doing penance by ministering to the poor, like a good little novice. I have learned something about herbs in that time.” A hand slid behind Sephil’s head, propping him up so he could drink. “You also need to eat more, cousin. Beef stock and red wine are not the most appetizing fare, I know, but you need to regain your strength.” “Why?” asked Sephil. “The regents will simply move me from one prison to another.” “At least they will move you to one with windows and a garden,” said Dashir. “No, drink a little more. There are no new developments since yesterday. Your brother-in-law refuses to send the boys, which does not surprise me, and will probably soon close the embassy in Bhellin. Dyri Arrideos can tell us more when he returns.” A sudden recollection banished all other concerns. Sephil placed a hand on Dashir’s arm. “There is something I want you to do. There is a boy in the palace, a pleasure slave—” The withering look Dashir gave him told him what his cousin thought. “No, I do not want him for sex—not even if I could. This boy, Tarrel, needs your protection. I am not there to do it, so you must.” Haltingly, pausing often to catch his breath, Sephil told him about the young men and women seized from their homes. “It is an outrage, but I have no power to set Tarrel free and send him home. I do not think you do either. Send for him, Dashir, so they will not send him anywhere else. I do not want him given to a brute like Palassos.” Even when Dashir nodded, Sephil saw he was not entirely convinced. “I will see what I can do. I have many other, more pressing matters to attend to at present, you among them.” Sephil did not know what game his cousin was playing, and felt too lightheaded and feverish to question him at length. “Are you here to save me, or take the throne for yourself?”

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This time, Dashir did not answer. **** Rumors were rampant, as they often were in times of unrest. Dashir interacted with as many servants and soldiers as the regents considered appropriate, and what little he heard he did not like. Soldiers could be as superstitious a lot as sailors. Those who had witnessed the bloodletting upon the king’s platform muttered of omens and divine retribution. “The Turyar threw the sons of Zhanil Brasides from that place,” they said. “For ten days after, the moon was red with blood. And now the barracks wells throughout the city are going bad. Yesterday, a babe with three eyes was born near the flower market. The gods see the evil things that men have done in the holy place.” No one spoke out openly against the regents, and no one specifically mentioned the wounding of King Sephil, or the mysterious illness that had supposedly carried off Lady Thano. Everyone understood the omissions. A sacrifice to cleanse the platform and appease Lord Sun might ease tensions, and even garner the regents some support. People wanted to see respect for the gods and their ruling dynasty. Dashir quietly observed the ruling council, waiting for some court official or even one of the regents themselves to make the suggestion. Surely they were aware that public sentiment was turning against them. Glossing over the matter in the hope that it would soon be forgotten, if that was the strategy, was going to backfire. Had he thought they desired his input, he would have spoken. These days, however, it seemed wiser to remain silent. Ethurel Irides had not lied when he confided that there was opposition to Dashir taking on the title of Crown Prince. Irial Callios, having tasted authority, had no intention of standing aside, and Besan Palassos refused to commit. “There are still traitors in the realm,” he said. “Before a new king can be crowned they must be rooted out.” To this, and the ominous sidelong glance Palassos gave him, Dashir made no comment.

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“But we are not proposing to crown Prince Dashir king,” argued Ethurel. “He would occupy the title of Crown Prince in name only, as a regent for his grandson Prince Ardal. It may be the only way Khalgar will accede to our demands.” A logical solution, one that Dashir admired for its simplicity. Palassos instantly shot it down. “Five regents are plenty,” he said. Palassos did not trust him. Dashir, concealing his distaste behind a courtly façade, took care to be polite, even to flatter the man’s prowess and lineage. It did no good, of course. Palassos knew that control of the military traditionally fell upon the Crown Prince, and ceding command was the last thing he ever intended to do. Even had the incident at Tal Charne never occurred, he would not have agreed to Dashir becoming a sixth regent. A child on the throne will give him unfettered control. Palassos’s intentions were so transparent that Dashir marveled at how thoroughly the other regents seemed not to notice. He will set me up on charges of abandoning Rhodeen during the Turya invasion and selling myself out to the enemy. Any trial that ensued would be a sham, its outcome a foregone conclusion. Certainly it would do no good to point out that Tajhaan had actually been an ally prior to the invasion, with the princess Terreh sent to make an alliance with Sephil, rather than his first cousin. Rather than return directly to his apartments, Dashir retired to a small library just off the main garden, closed the door, and sat down to think. The wisest course would be to flee Rhodeen now, while he still enjoyed some freedom of movement. Since Sephil presented no threat, the regents would not kill him— except possibly through their own carelessness. The physician they sent was not to be trusted, though Dashir could not determine whether the man was an agent explicitly instructed to render Sephil dependent on opium, or whether he resorted to it through his own incompetence. When the physician, however, claimed he was searched prior to coming to Tal Charne, in this at least he told the truth. Anyone going in and out of the crypt was subject to inspection. Even Dashir was not immune. Provided he could send someone

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or go to the city’s marketplace himself, he was not altogether certain he could obtain the proper herbs and smuggle them into the Sun Chapel without being detected. There had to be some other, less direct way. Rubbing his temples, Dashir tried to think. Once his fever breaks, I can leave. There will be no more reason for me to stay. But was that necessarily true? Just because the game had become dangerous did not mean he should stop playing it. Palassos might hold nominal control over the military, but the self-styled general by no means enjoyed the support of the other regents, or even others within the army. Other nobles who had risen through the ranks resented his heavy-handed tactics and unwillingness to delegate power, while at least two regents found him impossible to work with. Theoretically, a prince of the old blood could set these factions against each other. Once Palassos toppled from power, Irial Callios would no longer have the military backing needed to remain in control of the regency. Dashir could assume the title of Crown Prince with little opposition, and from there negotiate some arrangement with Khalgar. Leaning back in his chair, he studied the tapestry hanging on the far wall. Faded with age, it depicted a royal hunt. Dashir frowned, then looked around, realizing with a start why he had gravitated to that room. With a glance toward the door, he rose and approached the tapestry. Dust stirred the air as he lifted one heavy corner. Servants should have taken the arras down from its rod and carried it outside to beat away the dust as they did with the many carpets throughout the palace. Coughing, wrinkling his nose against the urge to sneeze, Dashir could guess why they had not. Older tapestries sometimes fell apart when they were removed. No servant wished to incur the royal wrath by destroying an heirloom. Like so many areas of the palace, this room and arras had their own history. Long ago, Dashir and his younger brothers took their lessons in a room just opposite. Dull hours of geography, history, rhetoric, and mathematics made him resent anything even remotely resembling a library, until one afternoon his sister quietly led him into the room where she had lessons in

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music and needlework and showed him the doorway hidden behind the tapestry. For years, knowing there were secret rooms and passages honeycombed throughout the palace, Dashir had tried every panel and seam in his bedchamber to no avail, but Thano led him along a narrow corridor thick with cobwebs, fifty steps in pitchblack darkness, to what destination he did not know until she opened a cleverly concealed door at the other end of the tunnel. An empty room, once a lady’s bedchamber, awaited them. Heavy with dust and forgotten by courtiers and servants alike, with its furnishings draped in sheets, it offered the perfect refuge from both tutors and stern parents. Some long forgotten princess or lady of the court probably had the passage installed to facilitate her secret trysts. Dashir grinned at the recollection, for he knew that when he slipped behind the arras and followed the passage he would emerge in his own bedchamber. What the regents did not know would prove useful should he need to make a quick escape. Behind the arras, the mechanism that opened the hidden door still worked. Dashir entered and let the panel fall shut after him. For a grown man, the way was uncomfortably narrow, even claustrophobic. No light penetrated the gloom, and to avoid choking on the dust, he retrieved a cloth from his pocket and pressed it to his mouth. Fifty steps, he thought, and then a latch. Coming to a dead end, he felt along the panels, finding the latch then turning it with a rusty creak. Sunlight stabbed his eyes as he emerged into a dressing room. So the passage still worked. Dashir nodded, then started back into the darkness. It would not do to have someone enter the library only to find him gone. A small noise from his bedchamber drew his attention. With the door to the dressing room only partially ajar, and the two servants unable to hear anything, they should not have noticed his sudden appearance. Best to let them change his linens in peace. Once again, he started to withdraw. And again he heard the sound. Not the familiar creak of a mattress or the rustle of crisp linen, or even the splash of freshly scented water in his basin. Dashir tilted his head and frowned, until he realized that what he heard was the rustle of parchment.

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Someone was going through his papers. A less clever man would have ducked unobserved back into the passage and pretended that nothing was amiss. After all, he expected nothing less from the regents. Of course they would search his belongings, not that they would find anything. Dashir knew better than to commit any observations or plans to writing, and whatever correspondence he sent or received went through the regents. Caution did not, however, mean that his enemies would not resort to planting incriminating evidence. Forgeries could be produced, and servants bribed to slip the documents in among Dashir’s papers. Is this what you did to Thano? Did you plant letters among her things so you could kill her—as you planned to do all along? Thano, the wife of Arzhati, destined to be punished for betraying her dynasty. What fools they are if they think I do not suspect what they are doing. Leaving the panel ajar, Dashir ventured a step forward. Well, let us see who the culprit is. “Penthé, my darling, whatever are you doing?” Flinching at the sound of his name, eyes widening with terror when he saw Dashir, the young man backed away from the desk. His lips moved, rehearsing some plausible lie, but several heartbeats passed before he could speak. “My lord, I…” Dashir crossed the distance between them. “What are you searching for, my dear?” “I needed writing things,” he stammered. “I had no idea you could write, dear Penthé.” Dashir kept a low, measured tone belying the anger rising within him. “But how could you miss these?” He indicated the inkwell and pen lying in plain sight atop the desk. “And there is fresh paper. You have all you need.” Before Penthé could protest, Dashir gently took the folded letter from the young man’s grasp and opened it. What he saw looked like his handwriting, but as he skimmed the contents he did not recognize them. “Wherever did you get this?” As Penthé started to shake his head, to feign ignorance, Dashir struck. With one hand, he seized the youth about the throat. “Do not stand there and tell me some story that you discovered this letter and meant to carry it away. I am not some

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fool who thinks only with his cock,” he hissed. “I know perfectly well someone ordered you to plant the letter among my things.” Penthé managed to choke out a reply. “No…” With his free hand, Dashir backhanded him. “Tell me the man’s name.” “I don’t—” Dashir tightened his grip. “I do not have all day. Which one of the regents was it?” Now Penthé began to struggle, reaching up with both hands to claw and pry at Dashir’s fingers. “I will let you breathe if you tell me. But I warn you, if you try to scream for help I will snap your neck like a dry twig.” Once his fingers loosened, Penthé gasped a name. Not the one Dashir expected to hear, but not an utter surprise either. “Thank you, dear Penthé.” Where another man—a fool—would have let the young man go, Dashir tightened his hold once more, adding his other hand to the vise as Penthé thrashed for air. Locking eyes with his prey, he pressed both thumbs into the apple of Penthé’s throat, and maintained his grip even as the youth’s eyes bulged and, his tongue protruding, his face turning purple, he dropped heavily to the carpet. “I do not appreciate being played for an imbecile.” It ended within moments. Slowly, Dashir released his grip, then checked for a pulse. Finding none, he lifted Penthé’s limp form in his arms and carried him to the bed. “Penthé,” he said, shaking his head in regret. “I thought it might end like this. Had you only been loyal, you could have lived.” Finally, he pocketed the incriminating letter and retreated into the dressing room. The scene played out as he anticipated. When he emerged from the library and returned to his bedchamber, he discovered the young man lying dead, the linens around him soaked by his voided bladder. Frantic cries brought the guards, then the regents, who stared at the corpse in dumb amazement. With Dashir far from the apartments and the servants attending to duties elsewhere, the answer was obvious: an assassin lurked somewhere in the palace.

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That evening, as he sipped his wine and read the forged letter whose contents could not possibly have been written by any self-respecting prince of Rhodeen, Dashir smiled at the prospect of watching the befuddled, treacherous regents puzzle over this latest turn of events.

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Chapter Eleven Adeja. Casually he lounged in the doorway, as young as when Sephil had first met him, and haloed by soft yellow light, as though a sunbeam had finally pierced the crypt’s eternal gloom. Dressed as a palace guard, as in those tentative days of their early courtship, the royal Sun blazing on his breastplate, he seemed as ephemeral as a golden cobweb. Your son is in a good deal of trouble. “I know,” whispered Sephil. Sweat plastered his skin, and his limbs felt heavy, but in the intoxicating joy of this moment he could almost forget his discomfort. Adeja came forward with a slight swagger. You don’t look well. “I think I am dying.” A hand, light and cool, pressed against his forehead. Oh, no, you’re not dying. That thug who stabbed you wasn’t trying to kill you, and if your delightfully devious cousin truly wanted you dead he would have put a pillow to your face or let that charlatan overdose you. “Why can I not have a comforting vision?” Fingers brushed aside damp tendrils of his hair. Don’t I comfort you? “Not in the slightest.” It was a lie. Where all his previous visions had terrified him, Sephil did not want this one to end. Adeja’s fingers trailed down his cheek, over his lips. You want me to leave? Sephil tasted the salt of his flesh and smelled his familiar musk as though he were truly there. Even if I told you that your son was coming home? ****

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Almost as broad as it was deep, the Irrend Pass took two days to traverse. At sundown on the second day, with the lights from the stronghold winking in the distance, Zhanil sent a messenger to Medás to inform the garrison commanders that he would be leading his Turya riders into the valley of Aring the next day. “By this time tomorrow,” he told Kalmeki, “we will be in Rhodeen.” “You do not sound pleased.” Zhanil turned his gaze from the distant ramparts of Medás to the Turya campfires. Eleven hundred riders, eight hundred of whom were under his direct control, surrounded him. Compared with the twenty thousand Khalgari who had marched south to meet the Tajhaani forces at Cassaire five years ago, it seemed a pittance. “I do not know what I will find.” Kalmeki favored him with a broad smile. “You will find green fields and a river, and nine hundred loyal men waiting to join you. You worry too much about the wrong things.” No matter what he said, when Kalmeki spoke, Zhanil could believe him. Even when the man hurt him, he could turn gloom into sunshine with but a single word or glance. I believe in you. “These men serve their own interests. Should the usurpers approach them with a more favorable counter offer, I have no doubt they would accept it. I do not want to have to fight my way across every inch of my own kingdom.” “A turkan who doubts the loyalty of his men ought to make an example of them.” Zhanil smiled ruefully at the thought. Atalash’s skulls flashed through his mind. By the time he finished, the traitors’ heads would adorn spikes atop the gates of Shemin-at-Khul, and gibbets would line the roads from the capital to Cassiare; the prospect gave him little pleasure. “I can’t risk alienating the men who come to my side. There are plenty whom I already intend to hang.” “Your cousin intends to do worse.” While Zhanil welcomed Kargil’s three hundred riders, his cousin’s presence remained a constant source of friction. Conciliatory overtures were rebuffed with reminders that Thano was dead and Arzhati’s grave desecrated, leaving Zhanil with no

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choice but to take a hard line. “I’ll do what I can to repair the damage, Kargil, but until then this is my campaign.” “I ask no favors from you, Kalmeku.” While Kargil spoke to him only in Turya, Zhanil answered in the tongue of Rhodeen to remind him who ruled in the eastlands. “I do not intend to give you any favors. When you ride into my land seeking justice, it is my responsibility to see that you receive it. You may take vengeance on those directly responsible for your mother’s death. I’ll even help you execute those men. But under no circumstances will you devastate Rhodeen or slaughter indiscriminately. These are my people, Kargil, my subjects, and I do not want to have to kill you in single combat just to make a point.” Kargil merely snorted at the threat. “You could barely walk out of the yard the last time you challenged me. When you deliver these men to me and restore my father’s tomb, then we will talk about mercy for the rest.” The next dawn, he began the crossing. From his uncle’s letter, Zhanil already knew the garrisons at Medás and Sufhír would be on alert. Indeed, as the rising sun colored the distant Ottabian hills in smoky shades of rose and purple, officers from both strongholds rode out to meet him. Each courteously conveyed King Ettarin’s greetings and explained that their duty was to facilitate the march. “The towns along your route have been instructed not to hinder your passing.” Behind their polite words, Zhanil again read his uncle’s message: get in and get out. “We thank you and our royal kinsman in Bhellin for your cooperation. Our horses are swift and our baggage trains light,” he said. “There will be no delay.” Among the officers from Medás, he recognized a few faces from his brief time in the Khalgari infantry. None presumed any familiarity with him, and he thought it best to return the favor. Allowing for a brief rest at noon, it took most of the day to cross the valley and reach the ford of the river Goban. Here a rider could wade through the shallows and clamber up onto the rough track leading toward the village of Nadeen. Strangely, though people from both sides of the border regularly crossed to sell their produce or interact, no one had thought to bridge the river.

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Here’s another future project to add to the list, mused Zhanil. A Turya guard, accompanied by one of the omnipresent Khalgari officers, scouted ahead. Thirty minutes later, he returned with word that a substantial force waited on the opposite bank. So they have come. “Your supporters await you,” said one of the officers. “We will see.” Even when Harkil confirmed that the encampment flew the royal Sun banner, Zhanil remained ill at ease. For all he knew the soldiers on the other side took orders from the upstart general Besan Palassos, and merely displayed the royal colors either as a ruse to lull him into complacency, or on behalf of the so-called regency for his son Ardal. “Look,” said Harkil. “One of them comes now.” A single rider, a middle-aged nobleman wearing mail under his yellow surcoat, guided his horse down the embankment to meet them. Halting in the shallows, the water swirling around his mount’s withers, he raised his hand in greeting. “Hail, Zhanil Sephides, son of the Sun! Your loyal subjects have come to honor their promise.” Before crossing, Zhanil paused to thank the Khalgari officers for their service. Then, acknowledging the nobleman’s greeting with an uplifted hand, he guided his horse into the slowchurning current. Kalmeki, Kargil, and eleven hundred Turya riders followed. “Lord Melines,” he said, moving near his host. “We are most pleased to see you.” Stavron Melines, chief among the expatriates, was a prize indeed. Related to the royal house through Zhanil’s great-greatgrandfather Ardahir III, his father had made an unsuccessful bid for the throne after the Turya invasion and had later been executed for treason. Disavowing his father’s misdeeds, Melines became an ardent supporter of Sephil as Crown Prince, and later of Zhanil as king. From the first, Zhanil was frustrated by his inability to compensate Melines for the loss of his family’s estate, and was not surprised when his kinsman, unwilling to accept lesser remuneration, declined an invitation to return to

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Rhodeen. Matters now, however, were different. “You know that all who fight for me will be amply rewarded.” Reaching over, he clasped hands with Melines, whom he had only met before on a handful of occasions. “We will speak again about this.” “Come, my lord, let us get out of the water. You would think Khalgar might have at least left us a bridge for the crossing.” Melines accompanied him up the embankment toward the camp, where men hastily left their cook fires to meet the king. “I will tell you plainly that I have been approached by the usurpers,” he said. “They even offered to restore my family’s old estate and position at court.” “And you refused?” Zhanil asked pleasantly. “I know desperate, unscrupulous men when I see them.” Melines grimaced through his full gray beard, and his blue eyes narrowed, turning steely. “Like you, I have heard the news coming out of Rhodeen. I like it not at all. The day when a flatulent old bastard like Irial Callios or a mercenary upstart like Besan Palassos can seize power and terrorize members of the royal family is the day I want nothing to do with them. Your father has always been good to me. I will not betray his kindness by joining his oppressors.” Zhanil nodded. “I need men of your caliber in Rhodeen. I only regret the circumstances under which your return has come to pass.” Melines chose not to comment on that. “Since our arrival, we have received messages from other parts of the realm. The lord of Soleb is sending supplies and whatever men he can levy. Offers have already come from other, nearby estates. Let us hope Palassos does not intercept them.” “From what I have heard, between fortifying the capital against our arrival and keeping the city regiments from deserting, he may not be able to venture very far afield,” said Zhanil. As they entered the camp, men surged forward, reaching out to touch the king’s foot, his stirrup, or any part connected with him. Most were not professional soldiers, but bondsmen given military training and used to fill out levies. Behind him, Zhanil

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heard Kalmeki directing the Turya guards to take up defensive positions should the crowd become unruly. “They have heard the news coming out of Bhellin,” explained Melines. “Your royal mother has wasted no time in spreading the word that you are now the father of celestial twins. Some of us have taken the liberty to spread the news to your potential supporters here in western Rhodeen.” After a suitable interval, soldiers ushered the men back. These, Melines said, had defected from local garrisons the moment they heard the king was coming. “I imagine the situation in the capital may be very much the same. I believe more men will come once they hear you have crossed the border.” “Ours will not be an easy victory,” said Zhanil. “They will use my father as a hostage against us.” Melines could offer little consolation. “No campaign is easy, my lord. We will have to deal with that hurdle as it comes.” **** “These are for you, sir.” The soldier, one of two Rhodeen men stationed in the crypt, slipped a packet into Dashir’s hand. Dashir unfolded the cheap brown paper. “Rose hips, Talos?” “Oh, that’s for my mother, sir. My brother-in-law is an apothecary, but I hoped you might still find some use for the packet.” With his finger, Dashir stirred the rose hips. Underneath, wrapped in a thin layer of muslin, were dried elderberry leaves. “Yes, I might. How did you get this past the regents’ guards?” Talos grinned broadly. “They didn’t ask me to drop my trousers.” I should have thought of that myself. “How much do I owe you?” “My brother didn’t charge me for it,” replied Talos, shrugging. “Not that I said anything but that Mother needed rose hips, but he knows where I work. Everywhere you go nowadays there’s talk.”

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“There are always rumors,” Dashir said cautiously. The incident with Penthé made him even more vigilant, even with proven allies like Talos. Three days had passed since the alleged assassination attempt, and thrice daily Dashir went through his correspondence. Whatever tactic the regents had in mind, they had not tried since. “People don’t like what’s happening,” added Talos. “These are unsettled times.” In the warmth of the coming summer, the city should have been preparing for the Feast of the Summer Solstice, one of the high holy days of the Rhodeen calendar. Now the armorers did more business than the entertainers and wine merchants, and soldiers and supply carts clogged the streets everywhere. “Bring me some water and we will brew an infusion for the king.” “You don’t want the doctor to do it?” “Good gods, no!” exclaimed Dashir. “Not to worry, Talos. I spent five years studying with the priests of Abh in northern Khalgar. Elder tea is quite simple to make.” Talos nodded. “I miss King Zhanil. My old post used to be in the gallery going from the great library to the royal apartments. The king always came through with his boys, and the little one, Prince Thanol, rode his shoulders.” Searching the corner for the water bucket, he smiled. “I do that with my own children.” So Zhanil was popular among the common folk and Turyar. Dashir did not find this surprising in the least, though the anecdote about the boys made him wistful. His initial meeting with Ardal and Thanol had been stiff and formal, rigidly supervised by Queen Mother Ketalya, who made little effort to conceal her dislike of him. The boys did not seem to grasp that he, like Sephil, was also their grandfather. Would he ever have a chance to read them stories or carry them on his shoulders the way their father did, the way he had once done with Nurad and his little daughters in Tajhaan? Earlier, Dashir sent for the pleasure slave Tarrel to placate Sephil, and found the situation exactly as his cousin described. Guilt at misreading Sephil’s motives warred with outrage. As much as he liked a beautiful boy in his bed, Dashir had no intention of touching this one. Tarrel was too rustic for his taste,

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and the pathos of the situation, coupled with Penthé’s treachery, effectively smothered Dashir’s libido. For his part, he gave no explanation to the regents when they wondered at his choice of partner, and spoke few words to Tarrel when the young man arrived. “King Sephil recommended you.” Tarrel’s eyes brightened. “Is he well?” So the youth was fond of the king. Dashir remained unconvinced that nothing had passed between the two. “He will recover, with the proper treatment. I know your story, Tarrel. I will not touch you, and no harm will come to you as long as you are good to me.” At this, Tarrel gave him a perplexed look. “How else can I be good to you?” “Do you know what happened to the boy Penthé?” Tarrel turned ashen. “Everybody says he was killed by assassins.” “There is much treachery in the palace these days,” answered Dashir. “I am told Penthé liked to talk—too much, perhaps—about what he saw and heard; the boy really was quite the slut. Someone strangled him. Remember him when you come here, Tarrel. Do not talk, or look for anything but what you see before you. I work only for the good of the realm. Remember that, should anyone try to suggest otherwise.” Once Talos brought water up from the pyramid’s underground spring, Dashir set a kettle to boil over the little tripod the guards used for cooking. Sephil stirred just as he strained the dried elderberry flowers into a cup. “This should help your fever,” he said. “I am still trying to get a priest of Abh in here. There are few people who can be trusted.” “Zhanil is coming home,” murmured Sephil. Dashir removed the straining spoon from the hot liquid. “I am afraid there has been no word from the border. I wish I could tell you more, cousin.” “Adeja told me. Zhanil is coming home.” Dashir stiffened to hear that name. “This man, Adeja...” Now that he had broached the topic, he hardly knew where or how to begin. Over the years, he had heard many stories. An Adeja had been Sephil’s night guard during his exile—and, some

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said, one of the disgraced prince’s many male lovers. This man had later been sent to Mekesh. Later, Brasidios had executed an Adeja who deserted his post there. Months after that, another Adeja emerged as Sephil’s bodyguard in Ottabia and then in Bhellin, where he was appointed to the infant Zhanil’s nursery. Perhaps he was even the same Adeja who had killed Dashir’s firstborn son on the battlefield at Cassiare. “I do not know who he is.” “Adeja has been with me since the beginning,” mumbled Sephil. “He has always come back for me.” How foolish of him to think his cousin was in any condition to explain. “You can tell me later when your head is clear,” said Dashir. “Right now, you need to drink this tea, eat a bit, and get some rest. I did as you asked and sent for Tarrel. He asks about you. I do not know what else I can do for him at present.” “Did you…” “No, I have not touched him. Rest and we will talk later.” From the shadowed silence of Tal Charne, Dashir emerged into a maelstrom of activity. Inquiries produced garbled answers from passing sentries and servants, which eventually led Dashir to make the grueling, three-hundred-foot climb up to the temple platform where the priests greeted the Sun each morning. Toward the west, his gaze crossed the Khul river valley to the towering peaks of the Arpan Mountains, still crowned by snow. Pinpricks of light, evenly spaced in a north-south pattern, flickered against the hazy slopes. Rhodeen’s beacons had been lit. Only one reason would precipitate such an act on the part of the highland sentries. An army had crossed the border. Zhanil is coming home. In the darkness, wrapped in opium-induced fever-dreams, Sephil could not have possibly known; he received no news but what Dashir brought him. But there they were—the beacons blazing in furious glory, a warning to the regents for all the valley to see, and Dashir could only pause and wonder at it.

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Part Three

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Chapter Twelve Sephil had endured enough of sleep, darkness, and sourtasting herbs. All he wanted now was to rise from his bed and go outside, to feel the sunlight on his face and forget this place of death. But as he started to sit up and shift off the mattress a sudden pain in his side forced him to reconsider. Arms held him back. Looking up, he found himself gazing into the face of his brother, smiling down at him. “Zhanil…” At once, the vision evaporated, his brother’s features melting into his cousin’s, and to his dismay he realized that Dashir was holding him. “You have been off the opiates for three days, Sephil. You should no longer be seeing things.” Though the visions had begun to fade, no longer overwhelming him as nightmares, they did not vanish entirely. Sometimes Sephil opened his eyes to find his father or brother watching him from the doorway—sad, smoky shapes seeking comfort. Neither one spoke. Adeja had not returned. Had he only done so, it might have been easier to bear the phantoms. “There are too many ghosts in this place,” said Sephil. Breathing in shallow gasps, he willed the pain to subside. To his surprise, Dashir nodded. “Yes, this place is haunted, but that is to be expected. Once, when I was a boy, I saw someone watching me from beside one of the pillars—someone smoky and wispy, not a real person at all. I remember how particularly cold the air felt.” The back of his hand brushed Sephil’s forehead. “Your fever is down. I will try to get you something for the pain.” Sephil scarcely heard him. “I want to leave here.” “You know it is not safe for you up above. You would be at the mercy of that charlatan again,” replied Dashir. “At least here I can throw away his potions and give you proper medicine.”

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Why Dashir, who had small love for him, would go to such lengths Sephil had not the foggiest idea. “Down here I will go mad among the dead. My father is always in the doorway watching me; he is always there when I sleep.” Rambling words, he heard them spill from his lips, yet could not seem to hold them back. No wonder his cousin and his guards thought him unhinged. Dashir gave him a strange look. “Your father sleeps quietly in his tomb. The only things that stir there are the mice and the cobwebs.” “I would not know. I have never been there.” For some reason, Dashir seemed surprised by this revelation. “Not once? I assumed you would have at least visited your brother and lit a candle for him.” “I have lit many candles for my brother,” replied Sephil, “but not here. I hate the thought of him lying in the darkness, in this terrible silence. No, this is the first time in forty years I have been down here.” “The crypt is not as awful as you think—those are a child’s memories talking. Were you well enough to get up,” said Dashir, “I would show you the tomb. Your father and Zhanil were buried together.” Sephil had no intention of venturing down into the crypt proper, no matter who escorted him. “Zhanil was always his favorite. I, on the other hand, could never do anything right. It must have given him immense relief when he heard about my death.” You will die here. Your bones will be bricked in, and you will be utterly forgotten. Dashir did not speak for several moments. When he did, he sounded oddly hesitant. “Sephil, your father, he—when he thought he had lost both his sons it broke him. I never saw him so overcome, so hopeless. When the Turyar battered down the palace gate he made no attempt to retreat. He went directly to the main hall where they were pouring in.” This was the first Sephil had ever heard about his father’s last moments. “What are you telling me?” “He ran directly into them, knowing they would cut him to pieces.” “He would never do that.”

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“Sephil,” said Dashir, “I was there. I saw it all. Why do you think I ran?” Dashir’s cowardice meant nothing, for Sephil knew he would have done far worse under those same circumstances. The weakling that he was would have shit himself and pleaded for his life, then shrieked in terror when the Turya invaders gave him no mercy. “I know how the Turyar brought Zhanil back— headless and staked to a pole. I imagine the sight must have devastated Father far more than any report of my death.” “You do not believe me?” “Father cared nothing for me in life.” There were other things Sephil wished to know, for there was much that had been kept from him in his youth, but this was a subject he preferred not to discuss. “Since you were there, perhaps you can tell me why Father did not send my brother’s wife and children away. Others left the city. The temple of Abh evacuated several of its priests, so why not the royal family?” “There were those, myself included, who urged your father to send the boys across the border to Khalgar,” said Dashir, “but he refused to listen. Zhanil’s sons were all he had left, he said.” That made no sense. “It does not do him much good when his grandsons are killed along with him.” “Believe me, we all told him so at the time, but he behaved as though the world was ending and nothing made any difference. You cannot know how difficult it is to defend a city when your king has already given up,” replied Dashir. After a moment, he continued, “Now perhaps you might answer me a question. Who is Adeja?” Of all the things his cousin might have asked him, Sephil never expected that to be among them. “Why do you ask?” “You have mentioned his name several times in your sleep.” This conversation, too, Sephil preferred not to have. “Adeja ked Shamuz once served me and my son. I cannot imagine why you would want to know.” Dashir did not take the hint to drop the subject. “I have heard the name associated with you since before the Turya invasion. I merely wondered if it was the same man.” “Yes, it is the same man.” More questions seemed to dance on Dashir’s lips, but to

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Sephil’s immense relief he did not ask them. “Do you want something to eat?” “If it is more of that disgusting beef stock, then no,” said Sephil. Dashir ignored him in favor of the covered bowl lying atop the altar. “You were right. I do not know how, but you were right. Your son is coming home. I hear he is now seven days’ march from here.” “How many men does he have?” “It is difficult to say,” said Dashir. “I have heard reports of close to a thousand Turyar, plus forces from Khalgar and northern Rhodeen. More might join him along the way.” Sephil wondered if the number from Khalgar included any of the expatriated Rhodeen nobility. Surely men like Stavron Melines would jump at the chance to claim the land and titles Zhanil would invariably seize from the usurpers. “How many men are here in the city?” “About fifteen hundred,” replied Dashir. “I hear the regents have sent to Cassiare for reinforcements.” After a moment’s pause, he leaned forward. “I would have thought this news would comfort you. Instead, you look like you are going to a funeral.” Where Sephil should have felt overwhelming hope and relief, there was only a void. For with that hope loomed the threat of violence, and the hour when the dusty silence of Tal Charne might again become a place of the dead. “I do not know what will happen,” he confessed. Once the prince left, the guard resumed his post inside the Sun Chapel. When Sephil tried to speak with him, the man had remarkably little to report. “Do not tell me they keep you here in the dark all day.” “We go out for fresh air at dawn and dusk,” answered the guard. “Prince Dashir says the less the usurpers see of us, the better.” Even a taste of cool, clear twilight and the sight of the rising moon and stars would have been preferable to the endless gloom of the Sun Chapel. After so many days, in which the hours blurred together in a fathomless tangle, Sephil had begun to forget what the sun felt like on his face, or his wonder at the

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poetry of a sunrise. All he could do was try to rise from his bed and, supported between two guards, hobble to the doorway for a brief glimpse of daylight streaming in from the top of the ramp. With nothing else to do, he slept, and in his dreams a presence drifted like cool smoke to his bedside. A face took shape, ghostly lips curved in a smile, and Sephil relaxed. “You are not like the other spirits that come here, Adeja.” I have my secrets. “Where have you been?” Sephil heard the reproach in his voice, harsher than he would have liked, yet not enough to encompass the hurt he felt. “All those times when I needed you, you were not there.” Are you so certain of that? Adeja shook his head, sending luminous wisps curling into the darkness. You forget I also have a wife and son. Arjuna… Faint as his voice was, hardly above a whisper, there was no mistaking his disapproval. I told that boy not to forget his mother. Had I known he would marry his career, I never would have put him in the army. You’ve been good to Lahis, taking her into the temple when her family wouldn’t have anything more to do with her. Thank you, Sephil. She needs someone to be kind to her, and you’ve done that, you and that boy (urad. She needs someone to mother. Through the heaviness of sleep and the joy Adeja’s appearance brought, Sephil tried to think. “There is someone else. In Meduin, there is a young man with your eyes.” Somehow, Adeja seemed surprised. Is there? “I would know those eyes anywhere,” replied Sephil. “Why did you leave me like that?” Cool air caressed his face, and brushed his lips; never again would he feel Adeja’s warmth beside him. You know what a ruin I became. You know what I had to do, and why. My death was the one I chose. It isn’t many men who can say that. When I was alive, you gave me the two most precious things you could give: your love and your only son. I stay here because of you. I’ve been with you from the moment Besan Palassos attacked your guards in central Rhodeen to this very moment. I was there when Piras took an arrow for you, and I was there when you fell on the king’s platform. I’ve been here in the darkness beside you since you arrived, and I’ll be here when you

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see the sun again. Sephil had not known the dead could love with such passion; the declaration forced a lump into his throat. “And will you be here if the shadows swallow me?” I will be here until the day you die. I will be waiting for you on the other side, but that won’t be for many, many years to come. “Can you see the future now?” Adeja did not answer. **** The beacons dwindled, finally dying out on the sixth day. Scouts now carried reports from northwestern Rhodeen, none of it good news. The force moving toward the capital was larger than the regents had initially expected: eleven hundred Turyar, nine hundred men culled from the expatriates in Khalgar, plus an additional five thousand levied from the surrounding countryside, men who, according to Palassos, should have been pressed into the service of the regency. With the king now a day from Shemin-at-Khul, the numbers only grew. “I have heard two more expatriates have crossed the border to join him,” said Ethurel. “Of course, the Khalgari king has forced them to choose: take a gamble with Zhanil Sephides and lose their citizenship, or keep their lands in Khalgar.” “What can Sephides have possibly promised them?” Elliol Arthandes, the fifth regent, came from a prosperous mercantile family who had bought their noble title three generations ago. While he provided the financial clout the regency had used to seize power, Arthandes won neither respect nor much voice among his colleagues, and the others quite often met without him. Palassos glared at him. “Most likely he offered them your estate.” Arthandes shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You need not be rude about it.” “I believe he is telling the truth,” observed Dashir, “as abrupt as it sounds. Should Zhanil win back his throne, those who have opposed him will be arraigned for treason, and their

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properties made forfeit. What better way to entice displaced lords like Stavron Melines to join him than to dangle attaindered estates like carrots in front of them?” “You will be arrested also,” Palassos said brusquely. “True, but I have no properties to lose, and my family is hardly about to be executed or attaindered alongside me.” Later that afternoon, the regency convened a second time, due to the arrival of a courier from Bhellin. “This news is urgent,” Callios informed them. “Khalgar has made good its threat to close the embassy. Dyri Arrideos is on his way back.” “I am surprised it took Ettarin that long,” retorted Palassos. Callios impatiently rattled the parchment in his hand, indicating there was more. “The queen has been delivered early. The result does not bode well for us.” “The babe is stillborn?” asked Arthandes. Palassos snorted. “If the foreign bitch is dead, I will drink to that.” Dashir delicately cleared his throat, reminding them all that the bitch in question just happened to be his eldest daughter. “Queen Saraji is reported to be in good health,” replied Callios. “She has been delivered of twins—celestial twins, gentleman. A prince and princess, named Charnos and Sephien.” Smothering his paternal pride, Dashir quietly measured the regents for their reactions. Arthandes seemed pleased, until Callios quelled his grin with an angry glare. Ardal Melandes and Ethurel revealed no emotion, while Palassos was downright furious. “Should the populace find out,” he said, “even more will defect to the king. The superstitious fools will take it for a sign of Zhanil Sephides’s legitimate rule.” “I would not be surprised,” said Melandes, “if the expatriates already know. Queen Mother Ketalya is certain to have spread the word.” “Once Zhanil receives word, he is certain to use his offspring to his advantage,” said Dashir. Callios’s eyes shifted from one to the other with quick movements. “He was raised in Khalgar and knows nothing of our ways.” “With men like Stavron Melines advising him, I would not

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be so quick to pass judgment.” “Your views are duly noted,” Callios answered sharply. And unwelcome, added Dashir. Surely the regents must understand by now that public sentiment gravitated toward the royal family. The coup, begun by a group of disaffected nobles, had not become the revolution they had been counting upon. Dashir would not be surprised if, when the king’s army finally appeared across the river, most of the city garrison flung down their arms and surrendered. “In light of the situation, perhaps I should withdraw from public view.” “Are you afraid of your son-in-law, Serrides?” Tight-lipped, Dashir met Palassos’s contemptuous gaze. “I will ignore your insolent remark. This has nothing to do with fear. My presence here has caused some unrest. I do not deny that. You must win the populace and city garrison to your side and present a united—” “If you think you are going to slink away like a coward and leave us to deal with this mess, you are sadly mistaken,” snapped Palassos. “You will go where we tell you when we tell you.” The answer was nothing less than what Dashir expected. “I certainly hope you do not intend to parade me in front of the troops. I highly doubt my presence will inspire them.” Palassos did not back down. “You will go where we take you and keep your mouth shut, unless you want to end up like your kinsman.” His uncouth reference to Sephil and the incident at Tal Charne elicited murmurs from the other regents. Even Callios looked shocked. Dashir remained firm, and even arched a cool eyebrow at the man. “Then you had better provide me with armor and keep your knife in its sheath. I doubt the people will look too kindly on you should you somehow manage to lose a third royal.” That same day, the guard on his apartments was doubled and his movements restricted. Dashir momentarily considered the secret door before rejecting the notion outright. Palassos would expect him to try to escape. Instead, he sat down by the window to think. Even now, all was not lost. Tarrel occupied a chair in the corner. Had he been younger, and willing, Dashir might have been tempted to indulge in a bit

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of comfort during these last, tense hours. But when he gazed upon the young man with his wheaten hair and beardless face, the teenaged Sephil always came to mind. Should his cousin survive and order be restored in Rhodeen, Sephil would want to manumit the youth and take him into the temple of Abh, as he seemed to do with every homeless outcast or orphan he encountered. In this case, however, it might be for the best. There would be no sending Tarrel home after what had been done to him. At sunset, leather armor and chain mail arrived with his supper. Dashir perused the items, all obviously secondhand, noting the conspicuous lack of a weapon. That hardly came as a surprise. He tested the straps for wear, and buckled on one of the gauntlets before the servants, agitated by his refusal to sit down and eat like a good little prisoner, forced him away. Talos came in just as he finished eating. “We were expecting you, sir,” he said, “but now we’ve had a message that you won’t be coming.” “Unfortunately, the regents have other plans for me,” replied Dashir. “What shall I tell the king?” Dashir measured his words carefully. At least Talos understood the need for discretion. “Tell him I will come as soon as I can. In the meantime, I want you to take this young man down to the Sun Chapel. King Sephil would like his company. Tarrel, put on those clothes I left for you and go with this man—he is one of the king’s guards. It is all right. Talos, when you reach the chapel, tell Ninhás it is time to retreat. He will understand.” Talos acknowledged the orders with a curt nod. “Yes, sir. Will there be anything else?” “Tell the king not to be alarmed. Tell him…” What else was there to say? “Tell him I have not forgotten him.”

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Chapter Thirteen Zhanil now had an unobstructed view of his capital. Still open to river traffic, its limestone walls deceptively placid against the lush verdant fields that surrounded them, its monolithic pyramids dwarfing the cityscape, Shemin-at-Khul beckoned. Soon, he hoped, he would enter the city in triumph. Should the usurpers choose not to cooperate, he had decided upon a simple yet brutal course of action. At key points, he would block the city’s thoroughfares. No one would enter or leave via the gates, or bring in supplies by river. The fields surrounding the city would be tended by Zhanil’s own supporters, its produce to be harvested by them while the citizens within the besieged city, slowly languishing from starvation, watched helplessly from the walls. Either Shemin-at-Khul would capitulate or he would starve its rebellious lords into submission. “The usurpers know I will not be merciful with them,” he said. “They may choose to bring the conflict to a quick end through battle,” Melines pointed out. “I doubt they could maintain control through a sustained siege. So they must strike swiftly, or lose all.” During their week together, Zhanil marveled at how astute the man was, and rued not having found some way to bring him and other lords back to Rhodeen sooner. “But the question remains: will they stumble into the same trap my uncle did, engaging the Turyar in the open field?” “Some east-landers never learn,” observed Kargil. “Shake your head and call me a bitter fool if you like, Kalmeku, but for two hundred years before your paltry kingdom fell to my father, our people plundered the lands of the east. Always men came

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out in chariots with swords and spears to try to drive us away, and always they ended by nourishing the vultures and wild dogs.” Neither the expatriated lords nor the local nobles who had flocked to Zhanil’s banner knew what to make of Kargil, a stern and unforgiving figure, the son of Arzhati who might have ruled in Zhanil’s place. “Turyar also have some knowledge of siege tactics,” said Zhanil. “I have heard stories of pots filled with scorpions and venomous snakes. Is that not how your father and uncle Lazphi took Mekesh?” Kargil’s feral smile inspired no warmth. “We would have to venture more than two weeks afield to bring those back, and I do not think you want to wait that long.” Solis Thanates, the lord of Soleb, cleared his throat. “My lord, you should expect an envoy from the other side. These usurpers may not in truth be willing to negotiate, but tradition demands they at least give the appearance of wishing to do so, and they are strict traditionalists. You must use this occasion to your advantage.” “Give them no mercy,” said Zidanta. “They have abused your hospitality. They do not deserve the privilege of serving you.” Melines gave him a curious look, then nodded. “The Turya is right. I have been watching you these past five years, my lord. You have tried too hard to negotiate and make compromises. Now is the time to exercise the royal will. You do not ask men such as these. You demand, and they obey.” Zhanil had no need to be reminded of his shortcomings. However, he recognized that Melines and other loyal, experienced lords had practical advice to give. And, unlike their colleagues who had known the sting of occupation, they were willing to sit down with the Turyar. “You realize we don’t know the condition of my father, but he will certainly be used as a bargaining tool.” Both the chieftains and lords remained firm. “You will not let them hold that like a sword over you,” said Melines. “Neither your father nor your very formidable mother would approve.” “You must insist on proof that he is still alive,” added

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another lord. A decade older than Melines, Haran Nelendes had served under Brasidios. At the time of the invasion, he had been marching toward the capital with three hundred levied men when word came of the Turya victory. As he put it, “I have been waiting almost twenty-eight years to fulfill this obligation.” At dawn the next day, as the first armed squadrons set out to blockade the city and its river traffic, an envoy rode out from the capital under a flag of truce. Zhanil kept the man waiting for nearly an hour while he donned his armor and consulted his advisors one more time. Finally, as the sun peered over the slope of Tal Charne, he rode out accompanied by Kalmeki and representatives of the factions that had joined him. Ardal Melandes, his sanguine features tight with obvious displeasure, minced no words. “You will withdraw back across the border and take this rabble with you.” “And why should we do so, when we are this realm’s lawful king?” Zhanil asked calmly. “You are in no position to issue orders to our person.” Melandes came straight to the point. “We hold your father, King Sephil Brasides, hostage. Should some accident befall him during a siege it would be most unfortunate.” “We have heard that he has already suffered such an accident at your hands, and you offer us no proof that he is alive,” countered Zhanil. Before Melandes could reply, he continued, “Only a rogue would presume to threaten the life of a non-combatant, and only the most arrogant fool would threaten to spill royal blood, or do so publicly, as you have already done. Should my father die, all Rhodeen will rise against you. We shall make certain of that.” “Empty words, from a desperate king,” answered Melandes. “Withdraw your troops now, as a gesture of your goodwill, and perhaps then we may negotiate.” The man’s gall made Zhanil’s blood boil. What Melandes deserved was a spear through the chest, and Zhanil would have given it to him had they not been under the terms of parley. “Rather, it seems you would negotiate with us as you have done with our kinsman in Khalgar: not at all. We know what terms you demand, and how you have demonstrated your goodwill.” “Rhodeen does not support the usurpers,” added Stavron

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Melines. “Look around you, Lord Melandes. Thousands have already flocked to the king’s banner, and more come everyday. Lay down your arms, open the gates, and submit to the king’s mercy.” Upper lip curling in disgust, Melandes glared at him. “And what price did the king offer you for your support? I imagine you were not bought cheaply.” Melines smiled blandly. “We have not discussed the precise terms, but I understand you have a sizeable estate nearby. Perhaps I shall ask for that as my reward.” Before Melandes could turn the parley into a physical confrontation, Zhanil interjected, “We will not take you hostage, Lord Melandes, though in light of how you have dealt with our father and our kinswoman Lady Thano we are within our rights to do so. Surrender and we may be merciful. Should you not do so, there is one among us prepared to exact vengeance to its fullest extreme.” Now he gestured to Kargil, who needed no introduction. Melandes visibly blanched as he recognized Thano’s son. “The man responsible for that deed is Besan Palassos.” Kargil nudged his mount forward, so he came within spitting distance of Melandes. “Then this Besan Palassos will die. You will tell him there is no place he can run where I will not hunt him down. Even into the next world, I will pursue him. And if he laughs at this, as I am sure he will, tell him our shamans walk the spirit-ways. From their hands, he can die a thousand deaths, and if he escapes me in this life, I will see to it that he pays in the next.” To this Melandes made no reply, yet Zhanil could see that Kargil’s words left him badly shaken. Zhanil ended the parley and rode back to his tent. “Give the usurpers three hours to open the gates and submit,” he told his advisers, “then begin the blockade.” Solis Thanates sent word that soldiers had commandeered barges at three points along the river and begun to blockade the city. One of Zidanta’s scouts reported that Turya divisions had taken up positions along the main thoroughfares to divert traffic away from the gates. Most citizens, the majority of whom were farmers taking their produce to market, complied when told these

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were the king’s orders and offered to sell to the encamped army instead. Others, including some who had family trapped within the city, had to be forcibly escorted away. “Anyone who tries to smuggle supplies in or otherwise violate the royal command is to be arrested, but not executed. We will try them later,” said Zhanil. “For those who have family or friends inside the city, assure them that we are trying to bring this situation to a swift and peaceful resolution.” The Turyar, unaccustomed to acting as moderators, scratched their heads at these orders, prompting Zhanil to send native liaisons with them. One hour passed, then two. Zhanil ate a light breakfast in his tent while his groom, the teenaged son of one of the expatriates, loosened the buckles on his breastplate. His fractured ribs no longer ached as much as they had, but knowing that neither the rigor of battle nor the warmth of the day would allow him to breathe, he took what comfort he could while it was available. “You should eat more,” observed Kalmeki. “So it can sit in my belly later? Thank you, but I would prefer not to waste perfectly good food.” The page observed the casual banter between king and bodyguard in bewilderment. “Sir, are you going to fight?” “Yes, Seros,” said Zhanil. “But kings never fight. They always watch the battle from the sidelines with their generals.” Zhanil let him finish before explaining, “True, but I am also a turkan, and among the Turyar a turkan is expected to fight alongside his men.” Then he winked and dropped into a more conversational tone. “Don’t worry. Lord Kalmeki will see to it that I come back in one piece.” Seros gaped at the powerful fair-haired warrior standing sentinel behind Zhanil’s chair. Like so many of the expatriates, the youth did not know what to make of the Turyar, hereditary enemies who had driven them from their ancestral estates and yet were now considered allies. “Sir, I—” “Go see if Hantili has my horse ready,” said Zhanil. “He belongs to the Turya Guard, so make sure you’re polite. He won’t bite you or let my destrier stomp on you, and if you’re

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brave enough he might even show you his composite bow.” With a full courtly bow, Seros nervously backed out of the tent. “Is it considered kingly to tease your attendants?” asked Kalmeki. “Quite kingly, since I can’t remember the last time I teased my bodyguard.” Though Kalmeki made no answer, Zhanil knew their lack of intimacy lingered in his mind. Wherever he could manage it, he remained close, offering discreet little touches and the warmth of his presence. A short time later, scouts reported that the city gates had opened and troops were issuing forth. The Turya roadblock retreated, the warriors returning to their chiefs for the battle ahead. Zhanil, with Kalmeki at his elbow, observed the development from his tent flap. “Our arrows will cut them down before they come within forty yards,” said Kalmeki. In this respect at least, the hidebound tendencies of the regents might prove a blessing. Unwilling to accept any foreign ideas, they never learned what the Khalgari already knew about fighting the Turyar: well-trained infantry could stop a Turya cavalry charge, and cohesive shield maneuvers could minimize the arrows Turya archers rained down on their enemies before battle. The regiments pouring out from Shemin-at-Khul were traditional foot soldiers, with a sprinkling of lightly armored cavalry in the rear. From his position, Zhanil saw a few knights among them. Seros reappeared with Zhanil’s helmet tucked under his arm. “They are waiting for you, sir.” Somewhere in the camp, Turyar had begun clashing their spears against their shields, a raucous clamor guaranteed to delight the Storm God. Taking the helmet, Zhanil did not immediately put it on. “I will join you in a moment, Seros. Tell the officers I am lighting a candle to the gods and saying a quick prayer. It will not take long.” To the guards he added, “See that I am not disturbed. The gods will be displeased.” Zhanil swiftly unwound the leather ties and let the flap fall

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into place. Shadows enfolded the tent, broken only the votive lamp flickering on the altar. Kalmeki indicated the lit idols with a puzzled look. “But you have already—” Letting the helmet drop heavily to the packed earth floor and seizing Kalmeki by the spaulder straps crossing his chest, Zhanil pulled him into a deep kiss. After being denied so long, with only a canvas barrier separating them from discovery, nothing felt more exhilarating than this, their mouths and tongues touching where their bodies, encased in boiled leather and mail and plate, could not. The gods on their altar offered no such comfort. The Sun and the Moon to whom he paid lip service, if they truly were deities, cared nothing for the blood that was about to be spilled. The Storm God and the Khalgari Snake Mother, Abh and Azzi the Turya Earth Mother—they held no sway here. A man who looks to the gods instead of trusting in his own strength is just asking to be defeated. All that mattered was the moment, his own faith in the outcome, and the man with him. “I am not going to fail,” he said, his breath mingling with Kalmeki’s. “We will win this battle, and I will be worthy of you.” “I know,” answered Kalmeki. “I believe in you. I always have, even when you behaved like a fool.” With the strength of both arms, he returned the embrace, his kiss articulating the hunger his words could not. After a moment, Zhanil drew back. “That is in case we do not return.” **** So Palassos was foolhardy enough to engage the enemy on the open field. Dashir, standing subdued on the battlements beside him, refrained from pointing out how Zhanil Brasides had once made the same mistake. The truth was that the regents, faced with an opponent willing to starve the city into submission, had no other choice. Fearful obedience met Palassos’s commands. No one, least of all the captive prince riding beside him in secondhand leather

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and mail, had the temerity to argue with a general whose personal anxieties only made him twice as vicious. However, unlike the officers and soldiers who scurried out of Palassos’s way, Dashir knew the reason why. The message Ardal Melandes brought back for the general was guaranteed to make even the hardiest soul flinch. While Callios and the other regents scoffed at the notion that Zhanil would carry out his threat to blockade the capital and let its citizens starve when his own father was among them, Palassos visibly grew pale when Melandes repeated Kargil’s words verbatim. Dashir had never met his formidable nephew. He was not certain he ever wanted to. Palassos’s reaction was swift and decisive. “We will engage the enemy now. We cannot take a chance that Sephides means what he says.” “No, we wait,” said Callios. “You know nothing about war, old man.” Callios snorted derisively. “If you want to rush out there I will not stop you, but you will not throw all our forces on the field simply because some half-breed savage has you shitting yourself. Zhanil Sephides might give a pretty speech, but he has not the nerve to engage in wholesale slaughter or endanger his father’s life. Let him blockade the city. After a few days, he will come crawling to us for terms.” “He wants proof that King Sephil still lives,” Arthandes pointed out. Shaking his fist, Palassos growled, “Let him push the matter too far and we will send him his father’s head on a platter.” The other regents, Callios included, stared at him in horror. You will do no such thing, thought Dashir. You will never batter through the doors of Tal Charne, and I will never show you the hidden way into the crypt. “Should you be so foolish,” said Callios, “you will lose the battle for us right there.” Palassos turned to him. “I will not be dictated to by a Turya-loving youth wearing a crown who plays at being king, or an old man who ought to clear the cobwebs from his head.” So the regents were already at each other’s throats.

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Palassos, with command of the army, would naturally prevail. Within the hour, the general ordered Dashir to don his armor and join him on the outer battlements. “We march today,” he snapped. “A wise choice,” commented Dashir. Palassos did not look at him. “I did not ask your opinion.” When Ethurel, either through a misguided sense of duty or sheer foolhardiness, defied his father to ride out with a handful of knights, Dashir smiled his approval. Should Ethurel fall in battle, the rift between Callios and Palassos would grow beyond repair. Palassos would eliminate the old man and dominate the regency. The two remaining regents, fearing for their own lives, would plot his death. Sooner or later Palassos would fall, and without the army, neither Melandes nor Arthandes could govern. So even in this worst-case scenario, Dashir had only to bide his time. As the westernmost gate opened and the first troops marched out in formation, the Turya roadblocks dissolved. Palassos had not stated how many men he intended to field. From his position, Dashir estimated eleven or twelve hundred, with four or five hundred more on reserve inside the city. Reinforcements had been called up from Cassiare and surrounding provinces, yet that had been seven days ago; wellheeled infantry could cover that distance in a week or less. Dashir suspected that with the rest of the kingdom flocking to Zhanil’s banner, Cassiare decided to wait upon the outcome. A mile away, a broad stone bridge spanned the Khul, and beyond that, made hazy by distance, lay the king’s encampment. Zhanil would have to cross the river to engage Palassos’s troops. Already men were advancing from the opposite bank. Through the spyglass a junior lieutenant loaned him, Dashir recognized the haphazard formation, and realized with a start that these were Turya warriors just like those Arzhati and Lazphi had led across the Khul twenty-seven years ago. Precisely how many troops Zhanil had, Dashir did not quite know. Throughout the week he had heard an estimate of six thousand or more, with rumors of Khalgari siege equipment supplied by the expatriates. Although Zhanil’s demands never included any threat to batter down his own gates, he could have

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easily done so in lieu of starving the city out. The gates that replaced the sturdy oak and iron constructions the Turyar had broken through a generation ago were no obstacle to Khalgari army engineers. Had the regents and other hidebound nobles supported their king when he requested funds to repair roads and strengthen crumbling walls, the city would not now be at such a disadvantage. No wonder Besan Palassos, regardless of Kargil’s threats, felt he had no choice but to take the field. On the cityward side of the bridge, the advancing Turyar formed a ragged line. Behind them, infantry began the crossing, moving five abreast and perhaps forty or fifty deep. After the first two dozen, Dashir lost count, but he estimated two or three hundred men. On his side, Palassos had placed his infantry in the front ranks, with cavalry to the flanks and to the rear. From the moment the Turya archers took their positions, Dashir knew precisely what Palassos’s strategy was. Other than trying to hold the bridge, he did not have one. Missiles cut through the air, arcing in a dark cloud toward the front ranks of infantry. Shields went up, and whizzing arrows thudded into hide, wicker, and metal bosses. Men spilled to the ground, dead or wounded and writhing in pain as arrows continued to rain around them. Once the barrage stopped, Palassos gave the signal. A bugle sounded, and a hundred and fifty heavy cavalry surged toward the bridge, trampling any foot soldiers unlucky enough to get in the way. What infantry had survived the rain of arrows now joined the charge. The Turyar quickly fanned out along the river’s edge to avoid the huge advance of armor and horses. Zhanil’s infantry set in rigid formation, bracing their pikes in the dirt. Driven by their momentum and unable to check themselves, the front ranks of charging cavalry crashed into the manmade thicket. Horses went down in a mess of spraying blood and flailing hooves; men toppled, crushed and trampled by their fallen mounts, and the effect rippled back through the ranks. Palassos slammed a mailed fist down on the wall. “Foreign tactics,” he growled.

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Having lost their advantage, with no room to turn and attempt a second charge, the remaining cavalry now found themselves beleaguered islands amid surging waves of infantry. The spreading line of Turya horsemen reformed, now taking the offensive with flanking positions. Messages passed from the field, up the road, and to the gatehouse where officers carried them up to Palassos. Dashir could not know what those hastily scribbled notes said, but with his experienced eye trained on the field, he could have easily guessed. The skirmish threatened to turn into a full-fledged battle as more Turya horse archers crossed the bridge and fanned out, flanking the defenders. Palassos moved off to one side to confer with a senior lieutenant. If the man had any sense, Dashir reflected, he would withdraw his men from this engagement, rest them for the night, then send out scouts under cover of darkness to speed up the reinforcements from Cassiare. Knowledge of foreign tactics might have done you some good. Palassos would never listen, though, and in his current mood was likely to forget caution. Dashir did not have enough faith in his armor or his royal rank to take the chance. A junior officer fell in beside him. “Do you need anything, sir?” Dashir shook his head. “It will soon be over, sir.” It will soon be over. Dashir did not relish the inevitable tirade from Palassos. Had he the choice, he would skip the council meeting to come, but his insistence on negotiating with the regents had given him an unofficial seat among them. Glancing away from the slaughter below the walls, he suddenly noticed a mace lying on the ledge just under the crenellation. Only the junior officer could have left it. Dashir stared at the weapon, not daring to turn his head or even lift his hand to touch it. Had it been an accident, or a deliberate ploy on the man’s part? Dashir let his gaze return to the field. Uncertainty made him shiver, and under his armor he broke out in a cold sweat. Behind him, he heard Palassos ordering the gate shut, and a lieutenant arguing with him. “You must give the men time to

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retreat. You can’t leave them—” “I gave you a fucking order! I am not going to give those Turya savages the advantage just to save a few worthless conscripts. Now shut that damned gate!” Orders rang out. Slowly, the heavy gate began to creak shut on squeaking hinges. Dashir heard Palassos’s boots on the steps behind him, and the man’s uncouth muttering. From his position, Palassos could not possibly see the mace, but once he reached the wall he would notice. Then it would be too late. Too late for what? Dashir’s vision abruptly came into focus at the distant cries of men realizing they were to be abandoned to the enemy’s mercy. Some broke free of the fighting and ran helplessly toward the gate, which was closing too fast for them to reach it. Arrows thudded into unprotected backs, spilling men facedown in the grass. Exhausted infantry raced ahead of the pursuing Turyar, striving with every last ounce of strength to reach sanctuary. Dashir saw their desperate faces, disbelief and terror mixed with determination, and it seemed they were looking straight at him. Gripping the handle with both hands, he sucked in a deep breath along with a mumbled prayer and swung the mace around, smashing it into Palassos’s breastplate. Shock registered on the man’s face as he stumbled back, lost his footing, and rolled down the steps to land in a stunned heap ten feet below. A terrible silence engulfed the courtyard. Dashir, still holding the mace, slowly took inventory. All eyes turned on him, and from every quarter he saw mouths agape. You have to lead them. “Open that gate!” he shouted. “But we have orders,” protested one soldier. On the flagstones below, Palassos, protected from the worst of the impact by his armor, was beginning to stir. (ow! You have to take command now, or lose all. “I am Prince Dashir Serrides, and I am now in charge.” His voice rang out across the battlements. “You will open that gate and raise the king’s colors and the flag of surrender. And you will arrest him for treason.” Forcefully, he pointed the mace at Palassos. Several men, Palassos’s own retainers, ignored him and tried to resume closing the gate. Others ran to their fallen general. From there, the situation might have spiraled out of

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control had an officer—the same man who had left the mace on the wall—not stirred the ranks from their shocked stupor. “You heard the prince! He gave you an order! Now move!” Soldiers swarmed to the gate, pushing the lackeys aside to open it once more. Anyone who resisted was dragged away. Five men hauled Palassos to his feet and began relieving him of his weapons and stripping off his armor. The last glimpse Dashir had of him was as a prisoner, bound hand and foot in a cart used to carry the wounded. Stragglers began to pour through the gate, where, gasping, they collapsed in relief. Archers mounted on the walls kept the Turyar from pursuing too closely, but most Turya horsemen preferred to let their quarry go and return to the battle. Three soldiers raced up the steps with the king’s colors and the white flag of surrender. Moving as swiftly as they could, they ran the colors up over the gatehouse where anyone standing on the bridge could see them. “It may take a while for the fighting to stop, sir.” An adjunct to one of the city’s three garrison commanders, the officer who had urged the soldiers into action was well placed to assume control. “Keep the men on alert until we receive word from the king,” said Dashir. Nodding, the officer replied, “We have the gates propped half-shut just in case.” Dashir judged it a sensible measure. “What is your name?” “Thorus Charmides, sir.” “Send men to the palace to arrest the other usurpers: Irial Callios, Elliol Arthandes, and Ardal Melandes,” said Dashir. “And when Ethurel Irides comes off the battlefield, seize him as well. They are to be held separately, to await the king’s pleasure.” Thorus saluted. “It will be done, sir. Will there be anything else?” Dashir thought for a moment. “If they resist, kill them.”

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Chapter Fourteen “That is a flag of surrender,” said Stavron Melines. With the first skirmish not yet an hour old and the promise of more resistance to come, it did not seem possible. Yet there it was. Zhanil peered at the distant gatehouse, its great oaken doors propped slightly ajar, his colors flying under the white banner of surrender where before no colors had flown. After Ardal Melandes’s bold words and the scouts’ assessment that the city had the men and resources to hold out for some time, this new development made absolutely no sense. “It must be a trick,” he said. Melines nodded. “Let them send a messenger with terms.” The Turya chieftains, unused to such formal rules of engagement, sat their mounts uneasily. Once the main cavalry took the field, every one of them expected to fight. Moreover, they expected their turkan to fight. An enemy either yielded outright or fought to the death—he did not put forth a token show, then surrender within the hour. Discontentment passed through the Turya ranks, and several chieftains approached Zhanil asking when they would ride. Zhanil had little consolation to give them. “Once they throw down their arms, the fighting is done. I know you desire glory. You may yet have it if this is a trick, but if it is not, then it is clearly the Storm God’s will that the enemy submit to us.” “So it was with Cassiare,” said Zidanta with a thoughtful nod, “when Arzhati and Lazphi led us into this land. That city submitted without a fight, but we had already sated ourselves here.” “You were conquerors then,” replied Zhanil. “Remind any of your riders who complain that Rhodeen is their home. They did not come to rape or plunder, but to defend their families and grazing lands. To have these things restored to them undamaged

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should be enough.” However, not all accepted his judgment. No sooner had Zidanta left his side than did he have to contend with a second, more strenuous complaint. “Turkan Kalmeku,” said the rider, “Lord Kargil demands to know if this is all the vengeance he is to receive.” Zhanil repeated his suspicions of treachery. “But if this is not a ruse,” he answered, “the usurpers will want terms. They are in no position to bargain over their fate. Besan Palassos must submit. Once he is tried and found guilty, then our kinsman Lord Kargil may do what he wills with the man.” When a far-off bugle sounded, Melines confirmed the call for surrender. “Do not approach the city. Should this be genuine, the usurpers will send an envoy. If not, we resume fighting the next day.” Here and there, knots of infantry slowly disengaged. Men on the opposing side withdrew to a safe distance, then began laying down their arms. Officers rode up and down the line, shouting for the fighting to stop, making certain the men under their command submitted. “Good gods!” exclaimed Melines. “They truly mean it.” Something must have occurred during the battle, something so catastrophic that surrender was the only option. Don’t let it be that my father is dead and these soldiers are throwing down their weapons to avoid my anger. Nothing else seemed to make sense. “What could have changed their minds?” Shaking his head, Zhanil gave the order for his men to pull back to the bridge. Only the Turyar refused to obey. Mounted archers remained engaged with the enemy. Even when the call went out, they turned their pursuit to unarmed men, and felled them with arrows or trampled them under their horses’ hooves. Livid at this breach of conduct, Zhanil personally rode onto the bridge and shouted to the chieftains on the field to cease and desist. “Those are Kargil’s riders,” observed Kalmeki. Zhanil gritted his teeth. “Why does he have to be so difficult? I told him he would have his man.” Drawing his sword, he turned his horse, galloped back to his front line, and addressed his Turya warriors. “By the will of the Storm God,

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our enemy has submitted. Your lands and families can rest, knowing we are victorious. But Lord Kargil and his men have disobeyed custom and dishonored themselves. Only those who resist are to be killed.” Motioning to his page, he said, “Seros, send word to Lord Melines to continue holding the field. Nelendes’s men are to start collecting the wounded, and have Salernes’s horse go out there and shield the prisoners—but keep them well away from the walls.” Seros nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir, but where are you going?” “Is it your duty to question me?” Zhanil frowned, then winked to reassure him. “It seems I must deal personally with Lord Kargil. You have your orders. You are not expected to follow me into battle.” As Seros rode off to find Melines, Zhanil signaled to Zidanta and Labarnu. “If Kargil will not listen to me, then he may listen to his father’s own chieftains. Bring fifty of your riders each. We do not know that Kargil will not order his men to turn and attack.” “Atalash will have his head on a spear if he does,” grunted Labarnu. “Yes, because that is how I will send him home.” Zhanil did not want to have to kill his cousin. From the moment Kargil had ridden out from Hapaniku and upstaged him in front his own men, Zhanil dreaded the possibility his cousin would do as he pleased. Once he cleared the bridge, his infantry scattered before him. Ahead lay the Turyar and their quarry, and beyond, on the city walls, archers who could not shoot far enough to protect their own retreating comrades. Labarnu called out, but to no avail. “Kargil!” shouted Zhanil. “Stop this madness!” “I do not see him,” said Kalmeki. From his periphery, Zhanil saw Labarnu hurl a spear at a passing rider. For a moment, Zhanil thought it a glancing blow, a miss, until the startled target tumbled harmlessly from the saddle. Scattered recollections flitted through his head, until he realized where he had seen this before—the medhran, the

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blunted spears, and the warriors toppling into the dust. Had he only seized a lance instead of a sword! As long as Kargil remained armed and in the saddle, he was a threat. Zidanta finally spotted him amidst the frenzy. In his helmet crafted from rows of boar’s tusks, its long horsetail crest streaming behind him, Kargil presented a fierce image. His bow in hand, his aim true, he dropped a fleeing infantryman before deigning to acknowledge the chieftain. “Withdraw your men, Kargil!” shouted Zidanta. “The enemy has submitted.” Ignoring him, Kargil took aim again. This is pointless. Zhanil seized a spear from the nearest of his Turya Guard and charged, swinging it at the last moment. The butt caught Kargil in the side just below the ribs, causing the shot to go wide. The bow slipped from his grasp, but his bronzestudded jerkin absorbed most of the shock and he remained in the saddle. Zhanil righted the spear and gave a sharp reprimand. “The fight is over.” Realizing who had struck him, Kargil’s features became taut with anger. Rabid fury blazed in his eyes. As he looped his reins around his left wrist, he drew his knife with his right hand and spurred his horse forward. “That man was mine to kill.” “No, he was not.” Zhanil smacked him again with the spear shaft, but as Kargil’s horse slammed into him he tumbled from the saddle, and the spear went flying. Kargil, scarcely shaken by the blow, dismounted. Zhanil regained his footing in time to unsheathe his sword. “That man and all these men who have surrendered are my subjects.” “You will not take my honor on the battlefield.” “This is not honorable. I do not want to have to take your other hand to make you see reason.” Zhanil pointed his sword at the knife in Kargil’s right hand. “Drop your weapon and I will give you the man you came to kill.” “I do not need you to give me anything.” With the clink of metal striking metal, the knife suddenly disappeared from his hand. Stunned, clutching bleeding fingers through a torn glove where an arrowhead had ripped the leather

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clean open, Kargil stared at a point beyond Zhanil’s shoulder. “I am not your kinsman, Lord Kargil,” said Kalmeki. “Disobey or attempt to harm the turkan again and I will kill you.” Zhanil suppressed the urge to glance behind him; he knew what he would have seen: Kalmeki with a second arrow already notched and aimed at Kargil’s head. However much he would have liked to do so, he really could not let Kalmeki put an arrow through his cousin. This is my fight. “Be reasonable, Kargil. If I have to kill you now, who will claim vengeance for your mother? You will not be there to do it. Come back to the camp and let someone look at your hand. By nightfall, we will be inside the city, and Besan Palassos will stand trial for his crimes. You have my word.” Kargil did not answer, but offered no resistance when one of his younger riders approached with a clean cloth to bind his fingers. Sheathing his sword, Zhanil climbed back onto his horse and rode over to Zidanta and Labarnu. “Keep a close watch on him. I want no more trouble.” Moments later, a lieutenant wearing the royal colors galloped toward him bearing a message from the city gatehouse. “Sir,” he said breathlessly, “I have come on behalf of Prince Dashir Serrides to tell you that Shemin-at-Khul surrenders. The prince delivers the city into your hands. Also, he says to tell you that the usurpers have been arrested and your father the senior king is safe.” “Repeat your message.” When the young man did so, Zhanil blinked and shook his head. “My father-in-law is in command now?” Somehow it came as no surprise that Dashir was manipulating events inside the city. Why did he not act before, so we could have avoided all this bloodshed? Once he met with his father-in-law, Zhanil fully intended to ask. “Did Prince Dashir explain to you how this miraculous surrender came about?” “I was not at the gate, sir, but one of the officers present told me that Prince Dashir struck Besan Palassos in the chest with a mace and knocked him off the wall. The prince then took command and ordered your colors raised along with the flag of

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surrender.” “And where is Palassos now?” Kargil would not take the news well if Dashir had dealt the man a fatal blow. “He was arrested, sir, along with the other usurpers.” Zhanil nodded. “Go back and tell Prince Dashir I accept the city’s surrender. Also tell him that I mean to speak privately with him.” Back in the encampment, Stavron Melines offered advice. “As much as it pains me to say it, sir, Prince Dashir does not have the most favorable reputation. We do not know what role he played among these usurpers—” “Ettarin sent him to negotiate with them,” argued Nelendes. “And he certainly made himself comfortable doing so.” “We have heard no reports that he has done anything other than what he was supposed to do. Had I been in Serrides’s position, I would not have returned to Khalgar without having brokered some settlement, especially since the princes concerned are his own grandchildren.” Melines huffed, “I doubt he intended to return at all.” Zhanil was in no mood for another confrontation. Putting up his hand for silence, he said, “I will take suggestions from all of you. Lord Melines, what do you propose?” “Send a proxy into the city to assume control—Lord Thanates, perhaps. Have the prince taken into custody.” “He may be innocent,” Nelendes pointed out. Rubbing at his temples, Zhanil tried in vain to stave off the approaching headache. “Haran, for now I think we can all agree that Prince Dashir should be taken into protective custody but not arrested. You are right: he may be innocent. Lord Thanates will take control of the city. Stavron, see to it that he understands the prince is not to be mistreated.” Once the lords left, Zhanil had a few precious moments alone with Kalmeki, and he began removing the plate armor. “It went well,” observed Kalmeki. “No, it’s a mess. I still have all the old problems to deal with, and half a dozen more.” Kalmeki leaned forward and gently ran fingers through hair flattened from wearing a helmet. “I thought you made a decision.”

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Zhanil closed his eyes. Gods, how little sleep he had gotten the night before! Until he was secure in his own apartments, with his father at his side and his loyal followers firmly in control of the city, he knew he could not rest. “There’s only one course I can take now, and it’s going to be very unpleasant.” Kalmeki’s fingers found his throbbing temples and began to massage them. “This is what I mean about being worthy and strong, Zhanil. You spoke brave words and fought well. Now you must see the thing through. These men deserve death for what they have done. I fail to see how taking their lives should trouble you.” “Taking life is something I do not enjoy.” “Sometimes it is necessary.” Zhanil sighed. “I know. Had I been born in the Turyalands, I would be a much harder man than I am.” The hands that came down on his shoulders squeezed them in reproach. “Do I hear blame?” “I should have foreseen this coup.” Worse, he had. Only respect for the law and fear of public outcry for moving too hastily or rashly had kept him from acting. “This can never happen again, Kalmeki. You are right: I have to rule with an iron hand, as Arzhati did. There is no other way.” In the mid-afternoon, Thanates sent a messenger back to the camp, and Zhanil summoned his advisors to his tent once more. “The usurpers have indeed been arrested and the city is secure: that part of the tale is true. Only, my father has not emerged from Tal Charne. Lord Thanates reports that he is shut in from the inside, and apparently Prince Dashir is the only one who has access to him.” The lords reacted with uniform disgust. “You mean to say he is sealed inside the royal crypt?” asked one. Zhanil skimmed the message for more information, while ruing Thanates’s penchant for writing in such a small hand. “It seems the doors can be sealed from within as without. Prince Dashir sends his assurance that King Sephil is alive and that his condition has greatly improved since being injured.” Frowning, he folded the missive and pocketed it. “I will discover the truth of this, my lords, and before morning. “Lord Thanates offers his assurance that the palace has been

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secured. I will send additional men into the city before I arrive. Which reminds me: the Royal Home Guard took heavy losses during the coup. Those who remain are with my queen in Khalgar. I will need worthy men to fill out the ranks. While Solis sees to administrative affairs, I want Amhir ké Amset to cull the city garrisons for suitable replacements. “I assume you will make your own arrangements regarding the Turya Guard?” asked Melines. “I noticed there are not many left.” “Lord Kalmeki will make those appointments.” Soldiers and messages passed in a steady stream between the camp and the city, clearing away all evidence of the battle and any remaining opposition so Zhanil could enter the city just before sunset. Crowds lined the streets to greet and cheer their victorious young king as he passed. Everywhere there was an impromptu celebratory air. People wore their festival clothes, and they hung ribbons and wildflowers wherever they could. Earlier, Thanates reported that the usurpers had ignored the Festival of the Summer Solstice in order to prepare for the siege. “They will want you to go to the Pyramid of the Sun and observe the rites, my lord,” he wrote. Paying lip service to a god he did not truly believe in ranked low on Zhanil’s mental list of tasks to accomplish. Nevertheless, he was not about to make the same mistake as the men who had tried to seize his throne. Before leaving the camp, he sent word to the priesthood of the Sun that he wanted the solstice rituals performed for the public the very next morning. “Tell them I will go up to Tal Charne myself by week’s end.” Among the assurances that his royal command would be carried out came a troubling request. When the college of priests asked permission to carry out an additional sacrifice to purify the king’s platform and appease the Sun for the blood that had been spilled there, it only strengthened Zhanil’s resolve to discover the truth of what the usurpers had done to his father and kinswoman. Thanates awaited him on the palace steps. Beside him stood a middle-aged man clad in shabby leather armor and mail. For a brief second, Zhanil did not recognize his father-in-law, even when Thanates presented him. Dashir silently inclined his

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head. Zhanil gave his proxy a few final instructions before ordering his father-in-law to fall in step behind him. In a side gallery, away from the public gaze, he finally drew Dashir aside and spoke to him. “Lord Thanates has told me that my father is still shut up inside the crypt. Do you have some reasonable explanation for this?” “It is not what you think,” Dashir answered quietly. “I feared the usurpers would try to kill him or otherwise use him as a hostage once the siege began. It turns out that Besan Palassos intended to do just that, so I had my Khalgari escort carry your father from the Sun Chapel into the crypt for his own protection. He is safe behind two sets of doors a foot thick, with enough food, water, and light to last for days. The guards have bolted the doors from the inside, so he is not sealed in as you might think. If you wish, I will take you to him.” “Did you not just say the crypt is sealed from within?” Seventy feet separated the outer doors from the inner; it was not merely a matter of knocking and calling out that it was safe. Zhanil failed to see how under such circumstances anyone could possibly get word to his father. Dashir appeared undaunted. “There are other ways in and out of the crypt.” “I want him out of there by tonight,” Zhanil said sharply. “I will gladly move him to better lodgings if it is possible. The wound to his side was not deep, but he lost blood and the physician appointed by the usurpers did not give him the best care. I have done for him what I could.” “Are you a physician now?” “Have I not spent the last five years by your order doing penance among the priests of Abh? I think I know enough about medicinal herbs to treat a fever,” replied Dashir. “Some of the guards managed to smuggle in dried elderberry leaves and feverfew, and we have weaned your father off the opiates that charlatan physician was giving him. His condition has greatly improved.” Far from being agitated, Zhanil found Dashir’s fearlessness disarming. “Perhaps you might tell me why, for such a mighty prince, you are wearing used armor.”

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“Because Besan Palassos insisted on trotting me out in front of the people just as he did your father,” explained Dashir. “Knowing his history with royals, and having heard his repeated threats to your father’s life, I insisted on armor. This is what he sent me.” “I heard you swung a mace at him.” Dashir merely nodded. “Lady Thano—” A shadow crossed Dashir’s face, and when he answered his voice grew taut with emotion. “She died the same day your father was wounded, the day before I arrived. I am sorry that I was too late to stop any of it. I will relish the opportunity to see Besan Palassos executed for his crimes.” So his feelings for his sister, whom he had once left behind to the mercy of the Turyar, were genuine. Zhanil marked an awkward pause, then replied, “I am afraid there is another with a greater claim to vengeance than yours. At this moment, Thano’s son is at the river camp, but he should arrive within a day or two. When he does, I suggest you let him have his way. Kargil is not a man to be argued with, and he is set on killing Besan Palassos with his own hands.” “As a nobleman, Palassos—” “Palassos will be stripped of his titles before he is executed,” said Zhanil. “Believe me, whatever fate your nephew intends for him will probably be far worse than any sentence you or I could impose.” Sunset blazed against the flanks of Tal Charne as Zhanil, attended by Dashir and a cadre of torch-bearing guards, crossed from the palace to the sacred precinct. As they entered the pyramid’s ground level, Dashir dismissed the guards. “Wait here. Zhanil, you and I must go on alone.” “Absolutely not.” Zhanil gestured to Kalmeki. “The captain of the Turya Guard comes with us.” “You realize we are about to break with centuries of tradition by including him, yes?” Tradition or not, Zhanil was not going anywhere alone with his duplicitous father-in-law. “Kalmeki can be trusted.” Dashir shrugged, then led the pair along the corridor toward the Hall of the Sun Throne. “There are many things you do not

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know about Tal Charne. Your father does not have this knowledge because his father never shared the secrets with him, and I have spent the last five years in northern Khalgar, so I never had the chance to tell you.” “I think you had better tell me now,” said Zhanil. “There is more here than I can share with you on one visit, but I will do my best.” From the main gallery they descended into a series of smaller corridors. “The kings of Rhodeen have passed these secrets on to their heirs for centuries,” continued Dashir. “Tal Charne is a royal treasury and burial place. It is where kings are crowned and the rituals of the Sun observed, but it is also more than that. Tal Charne is a fortress, the only one of its kind in the world, as far as I know. “Both pyramids were built by the Khalgari more than a thousand years ago. The priests and nobility will insist that when the Lord Sun descended to earth he raised Tal Charne as a ramp to the heavens. The reality is far more mundane. Our ancestors wanted monuments to the Sun and Moon, and strong places to guard against incursions from Tajhaan and barbarians from the west. “Because our people could not build these monuments themselves, they turned to the north. Charnos II made an alliance with Khalgar, and agreed to take a Khalgari bride and allow trade. They wanted our silk, and we wanted their engineers.” At the end of a narrow corridor, behind a pile of empty burlap sacks, Dashir revealed a hidden door. “This is one of several ways into the underground. I was told that the crypts are braced to take the immense weight above, but even so, the pyramid is not a solid structure. Were it so, it would have collapsed long ago.” Pressing his fingers into the seam and straining, he pried the door open. “It is honeycombed with passages, air vents, and even an aqueduct. There is a vast cistern under the level of the crypt to collect rainwater and store it in the event of a siege. Your father’s guards know where it is. There is also a passage leading under the city that can be used for escape. I would have had your father attempt it had he been well enough.”

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Darkness yawned before them, a musty space barely the width of a man’s arm. Dashir found a lantern and tinderbox on a shelf and struck a light, but even then the light could not pierce the gloom beyond a few feet. “Have you ever been this way?” asked Zhanil. “From the other side, yes,” replied Dashir. “The passage extends about sixty paces and turns twice on itself. Once you enter the crypt, go straight until you reach the central corridor, then turn right. You should see the tomb of Ardahir I Thanides as you turn that corner. As you approach the main doors, you will find the dates on the tombs getting older. You should find your father and his guards fairly easily. They have light and food and blankets.” Even so, I’m not going in there. It sounded too easy, and even with his father-in-law at his side as surety, there was no guarantee that this was not a cunningly laid trap. “You don’t intend to accompany us?” “I was under the impression you did not trust me.” “I don’t.” Dashir grimaced. “It is a straightforward path with no traps. Why would Khalgari engineers rig a hidden passage like this? I can go in alone if you prefer.” “Didn’t you just tell me there was a passage leading out of the city? I have no assurance you aren’t going to take this chance to escape.” “Escape to where, Zhanil?” Dashir sighed heavily and spread his hands. “I have nowhere else to go.” Kalmeki broke the silence. “I will go in.” “No, you’re not a member of the royal family. You should not have to.” Zhanil swallowed his fear of the black unknown and his apprehensions of a trap. “I will go with Prince Dashir.” With a glance at Dashir, Kalmeki slipped into Turya. “If you die in there, I cannot become turkan in your place. Give me the lantern, my lord. The royal bodyguard will go.” **** Madness and the isolation of darkness were as brothers. Sephil tried to recall daylight, the feel of the sun on his skin, and

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the piercing blue of the sky, but after so long immured in the underground those wisps of memory might have belonged to someone else in another lifetime. Robbed of all light but the lamps his guards lit, and knowing where he was, he felt his sanity inexorably slipping away. The Sun Chapel represented a threshold where the upper world was still attainable. Men came and went, bringing news and supplies, and three paces from the chapel door one could see daylight slanting in from above. But when Dashir’s abbreviated message came and the guards helped him down the shallow ramp into the crypt proper, Sephil might have been making that final journey into the underworld. While serving as a novice in Ottabia, the monks told him stories from Khalgar’s earlier days, when living servants and concubines were sealed in to accompany the dead. Tarrel had come, like a doomed pleasure slave of old, with an uncertain smile on his face and no explanation other than Prince Dashir had ordered it. And now, as the guards pushed the heavy doors closed and lowered the bolt, the sounds of their labor fittingly ponderous in this sunless place, Sephil gazed at the frightened young man and tried very hard not to dwell on those unfortunate men and women left to die so long ago. “Why are they sealing the doors?” whispered Tarrel. Ninhás immediately supplied an answer, albeit a short, unsatisfactory one. “It is for your own protection.” Later, the elder of the two Rhodeen guards explained it to him: the outer doors could be breached by a battering ram, but not so the inner ones. Those were a foot thick and located at the end of a funnel-shaped corridor down which a ram could not be brought. Yet in the wavering light of their one lamp, Sephil marked uncertainty. While the guards spoke bravely of food, water, and light in abundance, he perceived they were trying to keep their own terror of the dark at bay. The air, thick with dust and moisture seeping through the stones, tasted faintly of decay. Tarrel huddled in a rough, homespun cloak and remained close. “He is an attendant,” explained Sephil to the guards. “Prince Dashir sent him in case I should need anyone to change my linens.” Unseen by the others, he felt the young man squeeze his hand in gratitude.

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“Has my cousin treated you well?” he asked softly. When Tarrel nodded, his hair no longer fell forward across his face; he had tied it back with a leather thong, and had apparently been with Dashir long enough for stubble to shadow his cheeks. “Yes, my lord.” With the aid of a cane, Sephil could now walk a little and relieve himself without assistance. Nonetheless, the guards urged him to conserve his strength. “If you’re feeling better later you can have a look about,” said Talos. “I’m not sure, but I think there are paintings on the walls.” On that visit long ago, Brasidios certainly never mentioned paintings or any decorations other than the carved effigies atop each sarcophagus. Or had he? Forty years was a long time, and Sephil had been very young, awed into silence by the immense weight of the pyramid above and the blackness which threatened to swallow him. The guards had set up his cot and brazier in the first aisle, up against a pale marble sarcophagus. Sephil’s fingers traced the fading inscription: Sephil III Charnides. This Sephil was probably a distant ancestor, some obscure king who had reigned centuries ago. The more recent tombs lay farther back, and the single sarcophagus his father and brother shared bore no effigy at all. Content to let the ghosts of the Turya interregnum lie, Zhanil made no effort to touch their tomb. “I have begun work on my final resting place,” his son once said, “and I have arranged for you to have a tomb near mine. Let me know what decoration you would prefer, so the sculptors can take your likeness for an effigy.” I do not want to be buried here. Sephil procrastinated in addressing Zhanil’s presumption. High priests of Abh were interred in catacombs lit from above through strategically placed grilles. Murals colored the walls and ceiling: an earthly representation of the god’s garden where all compassionate souls rested. Not for him this cold, unfriendly place, among strangers whose only ties to him were the tenuous strands of a shared bloodline. Even now, perhaps it was too late. Dashir’s motives remained as much a mystery as they had ever been, and Sephil could not decide if his cousin was trying to save his life or bury

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him alive. As for the promise of alternate escape routes, he did not believe they existed. Time passed without a frame of measure. Without even enough light by which to read, Sephil’s mind began to wander freely, tendrils of thought unraveling like frayed cord. I am trapped in here with the ghosts of all those who do not want me. Should Zhanil die on the battlefield, either Dashir or the usurpers might decide to seal the doors from without. The light will go out, the air will run out, and we will die breathless and blind in this warren. (o, Zhanil will prevail, he must. Sephil grasped at whatever slim hope he could. He has the Turyar, and others who will follow him. Even the two native guards, Talos and Hered, confided that most within the city hated the usurpers. “Some followed them at first, because they thought those men would bring back the old ways and honor the old dynasty through the young princes, who were born here in this land. But not now, not after what they did to you, sir, and the Lady Thano. They would not even let the priests make offerings to appease Lord Sun for the bloodshed.” So they explained to him, while Dashir’s Khalgari escort added that there were expatriated Rhodeen lords under Ettarin’s dominion who were still loyal to the royal house. “Those men want nothing more than to return to Rhodeen and serve their own kings as they always have.” Weary from his illness and overwhelmed by uncertainty, Sephil struggled to remember why those lords had not already returned. At some point, Zhanil had written to him about the matter. If he could only recall his son’s words, he might feel more assured, but they eluded him. Ninhás persuaded him to take a little food and water, and Tarrel helped him eat. From the palace kitchens, as well as various bakeries and shops throughout the city, Talos and Hered had managed to smuggle in freshly baked buns, some dried meat, even some fruit and a bit of cheese. Candles filled a basket beside the tomb of Sephil III Charnides, and the cistern provided a limitless supply of water for drinking and washing. “Do you know any of these kings, sir?” asked one guard. Sephil shook his head. “They are only names.” “They are your ancestors, my lord,” said Tarrel.

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“After a few generations, there is really no difference.” After a while, he was unable to hold his bladder any longer, and he bit back the discomfort in his side and got to his feet. How he hated leaving the group to relieve himself! Tarrel immediately came to his side, but he waved the young man away. “I am not a doddering old invalid. Just tell me where the chamber pot is and this time I will attend to my own business.” Tarrel directed him to a basin beside a sarcophagus whose effigy was obscured by centuries of mildew. Sephil wrinkled his nose at the dank smell mingled with his urine. Some of the tombs still bore the withered remains of ancient floral offerings. Funerals seemed, then, to be the only occasions when a hint of freshness entered the dead places. Sephil pulled his clothes back into place, wiped his hands on the damp linen Tarrel had given him, and reached for his cane, leaning against the tomb. From his periphery, a light wavered in the darkness. Momentarily bewildered and disoriented, Sephil wondered if he had somehow lost his way. But no, the light from the guards’ lantern sat exactly where it should. This second light, a hazy blue like chalcedony, like the softest touch of twilight, came from up ahead. The folk along the Khul told tales of spectral lights glimmering above the water at dusk and dawn, the visiting souls of the dead transformed into fireflies. They could lure evil men to their doom, or bestow riches upon deserving mortals. Stories for children or the ignorant, they seemed to have no place here. And yet, in the darkness there was light. Sephil, tightly gripping his cane, warily hobbled as far as the first row of pillars bracing the weight of the superstructure above. Not knowing his way in the dark, he would go no farther, fearing to lose sight of the guard’s lantern. Smoke blanketed the aisle like a film of dust. Tendrils rose and coalesced, and Sephil recognized his father’s heavy features, distorted by sadness. The apparition’s mouth opened in an obvious effort to speak, yet no sound emanated from the mist. Sephil’s breath caught with an ache of sympathy he never expected to feel, then the smoke suddenly dissipated and the image vanished.

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You look better. I imagine you hate the cane, though. It’s a thing for old men. Limned with dusky light, Adeja stood in the aisle. Sephil froze at sight of him. “What are you doing here?” Where else should I be? “This is the crypt of the kings of Rhodeen. You…” What, a royal bodyguard can’t haunt this dismal place? The playful smile that flitted across Adeja’s lips made Sephil weak at the knees. Even dead, Adeja knew how to tug his heart. If you’d rather I go— Sephil took a halting step forward. “No, please stay.” Though he glimmered with light, he shed none, and the tombs on either side of him remained in inky blackness. You are not going to die here. You will soon see the sun again, and I told you I would be there when that happened. I am seeing the Sun now. “How do you know?” Now Adeja laughed, and his laughter was so full and rich, so lifelike, that Sephil expected the guards to come running. I know, Sephil, but I’ll let you be pleasantly surprised. Questions brimmed on Sephil’s tongue, yet he asked none. Panic rose to his breast as his lover’s image began to unravel, his radiance unfurling into wisps of pale smoke. “Stay with me.” Adeja shook his head, his hair dissipating in tendrils. Even his voice grew faint. I can’t stay with you as you want me to. I can’t hold you in my arms, and if I kiss you it will steal your breath away. A hand on his arm gave Sephil a start. “Sir, what’s wrong?” There were too many shadows for him to make out the guard’s face. Only the accent lent a hint to his identity: one of Dashir’s men from Khalgar. “Who is it?” “Arlen, sir, and Ninhás,” the man answered. “We heard you talking to someone. Is something wrong?” Sephil grasped for a plausible reply. They would not believe me. They would think I have gone mad from the darkness and too many drugs. Adeja was gone, vanished but for a pinprick of light flickering down the aisle. They would never understand my grief. “I thought I saw—” Ninhás abruptly called out, “Who goes there?”

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Swallowing hard and clutching Arlen’s arm for support, Sephil barely had time to wonder what the men saw before a voice answered them from up ahead: “Stand down, men of Khalgar. I am Kalmeki, son of Harunta.” A lantern appeared where the spot of light had been. It grew before them, swaying with a steady rhythm, coming up the aisle, and in its yellow glow Sephil discerned a face, fair instead of dark. Booted feet scraped against the floor, the lantern with its rusty handle creaked as Kalmeki shifted his hold upon it—the telltale signs of a solid, flesh-and-blood presence. “How did you get here?” Sephil could scarcely keep his voice from trembling, for where Kalmeki was, Zhanil could not be far behind. “The doors are sealed.” “I came a hidden way,” replied Kalmeki. Behind him, Sephil heard the footfalls of the other guards who had marked the strange light and unfamiliar voice and now joined them. He sensed their palpable amazement at finding a stranger, a Turya warrior, in the sacred place, the sunless tombs. Kalmeki clasped his hand in a powerful grip. Yes, he was real. Zhanil’s bodyguard and lover had truly come. “It is time to open the doors and come out,” he said. “Your son is waiting for you.”

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Chapter Fifteen The warrants, deceptively elegant with their calligraphic script against creamy parchment, lay before him. Eighteen death sentences—three for the surviving regents, the other fifteen for known collaborators, including the man who had carried out Palassos’s orders to kill Lady Thano. This last warrant, and the one bearing Palassos’s name, Zhanil showed to his cousin. “It will be done,” he said. Kargil gave the documents only a cursory glance. “You will sign them for me now.” Sighing, Zhanil dipped his pen into the inkwell and quickly affixed his signature, followed by the royal seal imprinted in blue wax. Then, not wanting to look upon them again, he sprinkled sand over the drying ink and pushed the two warrants aside along with the others. “Now tell me why you refused to stop fighting even after the enemy surrendered. And do not tell me that you owe me no explanation. I did not want to have to ride after you.” Stroking his bandaged hand, Kargil smiled wryly. “I am not a savage, Kalmeku.” “That is not what I saw on the battlefield.” “You misread my intentions as clearly I misread the kiss you shared with your keshka at Hapaniku.” Kargil paused to let the reference sink in, then continued, “When you first came here seven years ago, I took you up to Lazphi’s tomb. I told you then how when my uncle died, my father buried him with horses and fine goods, and captives to serve him in the next world. These men I killed, they are for my mother, to serve her as she was served in life.” Zhanil took a deep breath. It was all nonsense, but Kargil was never going to see it that way. All Zhanil could do was try to be diplomatic. “You should have told me this before.”

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“It would have changed nothing.” “Kargil, those sacrifices your father offered your uncle— they were foreigners, prisoners taken during the siege of Sheminat-Khul. Are they always foreign captives?” When his cousin nodded, Zhanil added, “Your mother would not have approved. She was a princess of Rhodeen. These were her people.” “Yes, and she was killed by her own people because she was my father’s wife, a turkan’s bride, and because she embraced Turya ways. I have already seen the so-called evidence these usurpers used to condemn her, and I know what was in their minds. Rhodeen turned against her. I warned her of this when my father died. I asked her to come with me to Hapaniku, then and when Lugal was born, but she chose to stay here.” “This is the only home she ever knew,” replied Zhanil. Kargil slowly nodded. “That is why I am not taking her bones back with me to the Turya-lands, because I know her spirit would not be happy in such a strange place. Otherwise, I would, and I would take living captives to sacrifice at her tomb. These two men whose lives you will give me—I would have taken them, but since I cannot I will follow custom in the best way I know how.” **** “I am not looking forward to tomorrow.” Kalmeki’s large hand slid down to squeeze his left buttock. “You have already signed the death warrants. I do not see why you do not simply order these men taken out and executed.” Such conversation was better suited to the council chamber, not a royal bed rumpled from vigorous lovemaking. Zhanil alternately yearned for reassurance and regretted spoiling the mood. The ruthless façade of a king newly restored to power proved difficult to maintain. Kings were wise not to show a human face to their subjects—but that did not mean Zhanil had to like it. In fact, in his private moments he felt like a monster, and said so to Kalmeki, knowing how his lover might condemn him for being soft. “I want to. It would be so much easier, and I doubt anyone would object, but I have to observe the laws as

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well as make them. In Rhodeen, a man cannot be executed for treason unless he has been tried.” “Even when the outcome has already been decided?” asked Kalmeki. Zhanil snorted and kissed his shoulder. “This is for form’s sake, to satisfy my subjects so they can see I do things properly. Otherwise, I would have already given Besan Palassos to Kargil. I promised him vengeance, but he’s impatient and I don’t blame him. Still, I can already see that the executions of Palassos and his henchman Chalun are going to be a messy affair. I wish Kargil would reconsider taking his prisoners back to the Turyalands to carry out the sentence.” “Turyar prefer not to wait.” True to his word, Kalmeki bent his head, capturing Zhanil’s mouth in a long, leisurely kiss. As Zhanil eased into the rhythm of tongues twining together, his hand slid down Kalmeki’s hard belly, over the sticky residue of their most recent encounter, and found his lover’s cock half-erect. Running his fingers over it, then under to cup Kalmeki’s balls, he broke off the kiss. “I do not want to know what manner of death Kargil has planned for them.” Kalmeki’s lips nuzzled his ear. “I can guess, but I have no intention of telling you.” “If you are going to molest me,” said Zhanil, “then you had better get on with it.” Fingers roughly pinched his buttocks. “I am trying. You are the one who insists on talking.” After long weeks without, their first coupling had been frenetic, over too quickly. Now they could take their time. No one would intrude on the royal apartments this late at night, and no one would presume to question the propriety of the king being closeted alone with his bodyguard in these troubled times. “You know what I want.” Kalmeki clasped both arms around his waist and rolled them over so he now lay on top. “And what is that?” His lips grazed a moist path from Zhanil’s collarbone to his nipples, teasing the nubs by advancing slowly then retreating like a coy maiden.

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Zhanil clenched his teeth at the frissons of delight that shot through to his groin when Kalmeki’s tongue finally lapped at his nipple. “You’re going to make me beg, aren’t you?” “You did not say I could not.” “Would it be too late to change the rules?” Zhanil pulled his head closer. In a moment he would beg—he wanted Kalmeki to bite his nipples, to slide between his legs and pump his shaft, to suck his balls until they burst. “The king has to abide by the rules he makes as well as make them, yes?” Zhanil let slip a little groan. “I said I wanted you to suck my cock, not tease me.” In response, Kalmeki’s hand dipped down to his pelvis, fingers drawing erotic circles before withdrawing again. “I will do this my way, oh great turkan.” “I could order you—” “No, you cannot. As your keshka, I am your equal, not your servant. So I will make love to you as I please.” Zhanil sighed, then crammed a pillow behind his back so he could watch himself being sucked. “So long as you do it tonight.” His excitement quickened as Kalmeki slid down his body to swallow his cock whole. Saraji could not—would not—pleasure him this way. Twice he had tried to demonstrate how men enjoyed it, but she found putting his cock in her mouth unnatural and a waste of seed that properly belonged in her belly. Kalmeki nibbled the underside of his cock, then the sensitive root, gently suckling on it until Zhanil rewarded his efforts with a moan. As his arousal built, Zhanil let his hands travel from his groin to his chest, where he began circling and pinching his nipples, rolling them between his fingers. In and out, his wet cock glistened with moisture, and the soft sucking sounds Kalmeki made, coupled with his own soft noises, were nearly enough to make Zhanil come right there. But no, he had waited this long for release—he could hold back just a little longer. Then Kalmeki drew him in deep and held him there, milking him with his mouth. Suction that was such exquisite torture it sent him over the edge. A shudder, building in his

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groin, spreading outward, passed through him, and he shifted his hips, thrusting as he approached climax. With a single loud groan, his body clenched and he came. Kalmeki waited until his cock was limp before releasing him. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he rose to his knees. “Perhaps the turkan thinks I deserve a reward now?” When Zhanil saw the hard cock jutting up before him, he smiled. “You would not prefer a gift of horses?” he asked playfully. “Later.” Slowly, just the way Zhanil liked, Kalmeki drew back the foreskin to reveal a tiny drop of moisture beading his slit. Zhanil dipped down to taste him, letting his tongue probe the exposed tip before sucking him in. With one hand braced on his lover’s thigh, the other between his legs, fondling and squeezing his balls, Zhanil quickly brought Kalmeki to orgasm. Once again, spent through mutual pleasure, they lay entwined among the sheets. They might have dozed—Zhanil knew only that when he opened his eyes again his mouth tasted sour and the hour seemed later. “Are you awake?” he mumbled. “Someone has to keep watch.” But Kalmeki’s drowsy tone gave him away, and when next he spoke the subject was more personal. “Now is probably not the right time to say this. I mean to ride back to Hapaniku.” A woman’s smiling face framed by yellow braids and a mirrored headdress entered Zhanil’s mind. So the moment had come. “Are you going to bring Yhade here to court?” “She has agreed to leave the Turya-lands, but she will not wait for me forever, and there is no one else I like as well as her.” While Kalmeki claimed to enjoy the company of strong, intelligent women, Zhanil found the notion somewhat absurd. Kalmeki rarely spent time among the opposite sex, and appeared flustered whenever the ladies at court paid attention to him. Then again, Turya women were a rare sight at court. “The offer still stands for a gift of horses.” “I have sent horses to my father,” said Kalmeki. “I will ride with him and my brothers to Hapaniku and offer them to Ningal. Yhade will not need so many here in the east-lands. As for other

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gifts, I have been collecting them for years, some with the help of Lady Thano. Yhade will have all the jewels, furs, and clothing she needs.” Zhanil grimaced at the reminder that his kinswoman was gone. No longer would he have the pleasure of her company, and when Yhade came to Shemin-at-Khul there would be no friendly face to greet her. “I will have Zidanta and Labarnu bring their daughters to court so she is not alone. I’d like for you to wait until after the trials are over, though.” By dawn, Kalmeki was dressed and gone, reappearing with the servants who came to rouse the king. “Your steward of the wardrobe is waiting for you,” he announced, “and I am told the lords of the court are already gathering in the throne room at Tal Charne.” Zhanil winked at him over his oatmeal. Kalmeki, ever the professional while on duty, did not return the gesture, but stayed close at hand while the royal bath was drawn and the steward entered, followed by grooms bearing armloads of linen, silk, and ceremonial plate armor. Zhanil did not relish having to wear war gear in an airless hall at the start of summer. Nonetheless, he knew he must project the image of a strong king, a conqueror. “Send word to the Lord High Chancellor and the Master of Arms that access to the Hall of the Sun Throne is to be limited to the judges, the accused, and whatever guards are necessary,” he told Kalmeki. “This is not going to be a public spectacle.” Before the proceedings could begin, the elderly chancellor, Arian Melisan, begged leave to be allowed to retire. “I am ashamed at my inability to prevent these troubles, sire. I am not fit to sit in judgment on these men.” Zhanil sighed, wondering how many other loyal councilors, too easily pushed aside by the usurpers, would offer their resignations. Still, Melisan was old enough to have earned the right to step down if he wished, and there was another who was more than qualified to take his place. Scribbling a note, he gave it to the page Seros, standing beside him in royal livery. “I do not think you will have too much difficulty finding these men. Lord Thanates will help you if you need it.” Half an hour later the expatriates, hastily rounded up from their guest apartments, appeared in the hall. Zhanil rose from his

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throne to greet them. “Gentlemen, we thank you for coming on such short notice. While we intended to conduct this business at a more leisurely time, in surroundings befitting the great esteem in which we hold you all, unforeseen circumstances require us to act more promptly.” Briefly, he explained about Arian Melisan’s sudden retirement. “The trials scheduled for today cannot go forward without a Lord High Chancellor, and we see no reason why one loyal servant should be rewarded while the others are made to wait. Stavron Melines, step forward.” Melines went down on one knee. “My lord, I await your pleasure.” “Lord Melines, we did not instruct you to kneel.” “Forgive me, but it is customary.” Zhanil bent down to raise him. “Lord Melines, our Turya chieftains do not kneel before us. Therefore, our native councilors do not do so either. We now confirm you in the position of Lord High Chancellor of Rhodeen and, as our kinsman through our great-great grandfather Ardahir III, hereditary Prince. To you we grant the estate of Ardal Melandes, who through his treason forfeits his holdings in our realm. We trust our gifts to you are adequate compensation for your losses?” Melines smiled through moist eyes. “My lord, your generosity is more than I expected.” “Then receive the badge of your new post.” Around the new chancellor’s neck, Zhanil draped the golden chain of office. As other lords came forward in their turn, Zhanil granted them estates confiscated from the usurpers or, in cases where he had no land to bestow, important positions at court. At last, he came to the nobleman who had acted as his proxy. “Solis Thanates, we recognize your talents in organizing supplies and men, and your willingness to offer both in our cause. As you already possess land within our realm, we have none to give you, nor would we see you retreat to your country estate when your great gifts could be put to better use elsewhere. Therefore, we make you Overseer of the Royal Works.” Zhanil waited until Thanates bowed and murmured his thanks before continuing, “Lord Thanates, you may regret

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thanking me once you realize this is no phantom position. Your title comes with great responsibility. You know that it is our wish to train native engineers and improve our roads and methods of construction. It will be your task to see that these things are done to our satisfaction.” At the rear of the hall, the great doors opened. Seros quietly entered, followed by a man dressed in sober black. Guards filed in behind them. Zhanil nodded, and with a gesture indicated that those lords who intended to stay should take their places. Then he turned his gaze on the nobleman slowly moving toward him. “You are just in time, Prince Dashir. We are ready to begin.” **** That he would face charges, he never had any doubt. That the king would rule in his favor, Dashir had never expected. Nor what came next. “Prince Dashir,” said Zhanil, “perhaps we have been illadvised in keeping you away from our court. For not only have you demonstrated your loyalty to our person, but you are also a member of the royal family. It is therefore our judgment that you will remain here in Rhodeen.” So he would simply trade one prison for another. It could have been worse. Dashir acknowledged the king’s decision with a graceful bow. Had he called for my head, few would have mourned. “I will do as you wish, my lord.” “Members of the royal family do not hold land, but serve as officers of the court,” continued Zhanil. “This is what you have been trained to do, and we see no reason why your talents should not be put to use for the good of our realm. We also recognize that as the father of our queen you are in a position to influence her where others are not.” Although that was not entirely true, Dashir judged it wiser not to argue. “We realize the queen has been somewhat reluctant to cast off her native upbringing and adopt Rhodeen ways,” continued Zhanil. “We also realize that our children need kin other than their father and mother. You will therefore take charge of the

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queen’s household. You will oversee appointments to the queen’s staff, all expenditures, and when the time comes, the education of our sons.” After this, the king ordered a recess. “Prince Dashir, Prince Stavron, you will attend me.” So Stavron Melines had been made a hereditary prince. Dashir knew the man to be as astute and loyal as his father Melin Wesares had been a conniving traitor. As Lord High Chancellor he would certainly do better than doddering old Arian Melisan, who should have retired decades ago, but to make him a prince? Now every nobleman who could claim royal descent within the same degree would demand similar recognition. A fine sheen of sweat dampened Zhanil’s upper lip, and plastered his hair against his forehead. In the closed air of the hall, he had been wilting in his armor. Now he clutched at his gorget, blindly feeling for the clasp. “Seros,” said Melines, “help the king with his armor.” As the page fumbled with the buckles, Dashir stepped in to help. “Go get some cool water and linens. I will do this.” Once the youth vanished from the room, he adopted a more casual tone. “Zhanil, you are a fool to wear this much armor. Your grandfather would laugh if he could see you now.” “My steward laid it out for me.” Once the gorget came loose, Zhanil sucked in a long breath. Underneath, his collar was dark with perspiration. “You are presiding over a trial,” Melines commented, “not jousting. As long as you wear your sword, the spaulders and gauntlets are enough.” “The warrants are all signed.” Zhanil fanned his face with a sheaf of paper lying on the desk. “Make certain the headsman and hangman are prepared to receive the condemned.” Melines inclined his head. “I believe the scaffold was put up last night, but of course I will make certain before we begin.” Seros presently returned with a basin of water scented with floating rose petals. Zhanil dunked his hands, then, irritably brushing off the clinging petals, bathed his face. “Prince Stavron, you may go. I should like to speak with Prince Dashir alone. Seros, go with him. You also, Kalmeki.” The Turya warrior who trailed the king like a perpetual

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shadow hesitated at the royal command. “Is that wise?” Not only did the man not obey, but his failure to use the correct form of address was an intolerable gesture of familiarity. The Turyar observed no courtly manners. Even Arzhati never used any title save turkan, and he held informal conversations with his councilors and servants all the time. Such claims Dashir found too incredulous to believe, even from his sister, until he saw the evidence before him. Worse still, Zhanil did nothing to correct the lapse. “The man is my father-in-law, Kalmeki. He has nothing to gain by killing me, and everything to lose. Wait outside. I’ll join you shortly.” (o wonder his enemies tried to overthrow him. Dashir watched the Turya reluctantly take his leave. A king must insist on respect. “I suppose it helps that I was searched before entering the hall?” Zhanil patted his face dry with a towel. “You were still a prisoner.” “The term Solis Thanates used was ‘custody.’ I thought he was being rather too polite about it.” “I did not ask you to stay so we could bandy semantics.” Zhanil loosened the top button of his coat, dark blue embroidered with golden stars, cut in the Turya fashion. “The physician will be tried first.” “Are you asking my advice?” “You will both be giving testimony and acting as a judge,” said Zhanil. “I do not like to air the particulars of my father’s condition in public, you understand. He is doing much better, but he still has these occasional hallucinations. Just before Kalmeki found him, the guards saw him talking to dead air. I am told it was worse in the Sun Chapel.” As Dashir had not seen Sephil since before the siege began, he was in no position to judge the severity of these latest episodes. “Opiates take time to lose their effect. They are often used in Tajhaan in place of better medicines—either because the doctor is a charlatan or the patient has no hope of recovery. In the household where I lived with my wives, I saw two servants die this way. The visions were terrible, more so because the opium was mixed with wine,” he explained. “I was not surprised

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to find your father in that condition, especially given the circumstances of his confinement.” Zhanil nodded. “I understand why you had him moved to the Sun Chapel. Not that I approve, seeing as how he must have believed you were burying him alive, but I understand.” “I did not have any other choice, and the need for caution did not allow me to confide in him what I was doing. Spies lurked everywhere.” “I hear you were planning to take Ardal Melandes’s daughter to wife.” Dashir made no excuses, and concocted no elaborate explanations. “Ethurel Irides suggested it. I pretended interest. Apparently it did not occur to either him or Melandes that I already have two wives, and that High Prince Mahtal would have a conniption if I slighted his sisters.” The answer appeared to satisfy the king. “It is time to go back.” As a royal prince, he sat on the panel of judges. Sephil was conspicuous by his absence, and Zhanil stated outright that as his father was still recuperating from his ordeal, he would not be forced to endure the proceedings. Where once Dashir applauded his uncle’s decision to bar the young Sephil from court, now he privately thought his son-in-law’s ruling unwise. A king’s duty was to appear before the people. When the physician came before the court, pleading his innocence and laying the blame squarely at the feet of the usurpers, who wanted the senior king kept docile, Dashir gave his testimony and then rendered his ruling. The situation struck him as absurd—a man could not serve as both witness and judge, but Zhanil appeared less concerned with procedural technicalities than dispensing the king’s justice. So Dashir testified when called upon, and conferred with the other judges when ordered to do so. And when asked for his verdict, he gave it. “You are guilty,” he announced. “There are other, less harmful means you could have used to subdue the senior king and lessen his pain. You did nothing to alleviate his fever or the effects of his blood loss. However, I do not recommend execution. I say that you should be banished. Practice your art

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in some foreign land where your angry patients will cut off your hand or knock out your eye for malpractice.” But his decision in favor of leniency was overruled by the other four judges. Of course, the final word rested with the king. Zhanil, as grim and unforgiving as Brasidios ever was, ordered the man taken out and hanged. Now guards led in the three surviving usurpers. Upon seeing the warrant for his arrest, Irial Callios had suffered a fatal seizure, while his son Ethurel, realizing the battle was lost and his own life forfeit, engaged the Turyar until he fell—the only knight who did not surrender. While the king permitted the family’s women to claim father and son for burial, he made it clear that for the three survivors there would no such niceties. Just when the great doors should have closed, the herald called out a name: Kargil son of Arzhati. All eyes turned toward the tall, glowering man in his richly embroidered coat and golden jewelry, the son and grandson of turkani. Five warriors followed in his wake. Dashir searched his face for some hint of Thano and found none. This was the very image of the Turyar that had haunted his childhood nightmares: an inscrutable, merciless killer, a man who would hurl young children from battlements and slaughter pregnant women. Yes, Thano had assured him in her letters that Arzhati was in fact a civilized man who regretted the atrocities committed in the Turya invasion, yet faced with her son—the son of Arzhati—Dashir did not know what to believe. From his nephew, his gaze darted to Besan Palassos, standing defiant in his shackles. Did the man know he was about to be handed over to Turya justice? Once again, Dashir gave his testimony when called, outlining for the court how Ettarin ké Ampheres sent him to negotiate with the usurpers where all other Khalgari ambassadors failed. Although he had destroyed the incriminating letters, he described how Penthé tried to plant forgeries among his correspondence, and how he had strangled the youth. While he spoke, he watched Melandes and Arthandes gaze at the floor in embarrassment. Palassos’s demeanor did not change, even when Dashir revealed his unwavering desire to see the man pay for his sister’s death.

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“None of these men seem to have realized—or cared—that I was Thano’s brother, or that the very princes they planned to manipulate are my own grandsons. I know what it is to see a son ruled by others, to see him spoiled and filled with ambitions without being taught how to be a king. I stood by once, in Tajhaan, and paid with the death of my firstborn. But I would not stand by and watch Prince Ardal and Prince Thanol perverted by men so arrogant they would raise a hand against a royal woman, and an anointed king and high priest of Abh.” Having said his peace, he took his seat and tried to be the impartial judge the occasion required. But at the end, when the third and last usurper stood to hear the court’s verdict, when the king turned at last to him, Dashir relented. “Besan Palassos, you are guilty. My judgment is death, but not execution carried out by this court. Let the manner of your death be determined by the son of the woman you murdered. Let Turya justice decide your fate.” Chancing a glance at the royal dais, he caught his son-inlaw’s eye. Slowly, Zhanil nodded. Dashir swallowed hard, and drew a deep breath to steel his nerves before addressing his nephew. “Lord Kargil, this man Besan Palassos belongs to you. Also, Chalun, the man who carried out the deed, belongs to you. Do with them what you will.” As Kargil rose from his seat near the dais, where he had observed the trial in icy silence, the terror that overtook Palassos was a sight to behold. Whereas Melandes and Arthandes had gone quietly to the headsman, Palassos fought viciously with the warriors who laid hands on him. But in his chains, faced with five determined Turyar, his struggles availed him nothing. “Get your fucking hands off me, you unwashed Turya scum!” Kargil calmly strode over to Palassos and punched him in the face. Dashir did not want to know what butchery awaited the two men. Twice already he had seen enough Turya savagery on the battlefield to last a lifetime, yet but for his sister’s sake he gathered his courage and followed Kargil and his men. Past the courtyard where the unlucky physician’s body

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swung from the gallows, and where men rinsed down the block with buckets of water, the Turyar half-dragged, half-shoved their prisoners. When they mounted, Dashir called for a horse, then raced to catch up. The route took him toward the Western Gate, through crowds of people who saw Kargil with his captives and, curious and hungry for justice, left their usual business to watch. On the trampled turf where the battle had been fought days earlier, the Turyar began the spectacle of executing their first prisoner. Dashir barely arrived in time to see Chalun tied by his limbs to four horses. Dashir had seen men die on the scaffold. He had seen them vomit and void their bowels and bladder in terror at sight of the gallows, the headsman, or the stake. But this was different. By now, Chalun knew what fate awaited him, barbaric and incomprehensible, enough to make him scream for mercy and dampen the front of his trousers with urine. Once, he had gone into the cell of a defenseless royal woman and slit her throat. Faced with his crime, he could only beg for the same swift death. You are not such a bully now, Dashir thought. Chalun made a pathetic sight, one that stirred mixed emotions from the crowd. Some turned away and left before the sentence was carried out. Others scooped up small stones and clods of earth and pelted the man, jeering him until Kargil sharply gestured for silence. Dashir heard the thwack of four hands slapping the hindquarters of four horses, and their snorting, their hooves trammeling the earth. He heard a piercing cry suddenly cut short, choking, gurgling, an indescribable wet tearing sound, and a gasp from the crowd. Gorges rose; vomit splashed the ground. Dashir heard it, but did not see. For his gaze was fixed on Besan Palassos, gauging his reaction, watching for some sign of fear beneath his stony pallor. Only a few resolute souls accompanied the Turyar and their remaining prisoner. Dashir guided his horse past the tatters of flesh his nephew left behind, soothing the mare with a trembling hand as she balked at the stench of blood. He held his breath, and choked past the urge to vomit until he came to the river. A mound rose above the river valley three miles from the city. Commanding an impressive view, it was the burial place of

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Arzhati’s brother Lazphi, who had not survived the Turya invasion. And in the ugly black gashes that rent open the grassy earth, in the jumbled human and animal bones scattered among the debris of pottery shards and other offerings, Dashir could see that even this had not escaped the notice of the usurpers. His gaze went to Kargil, standing among the ruin, surveying the horizon with narrowed eyes. What must he think? Certainly not of the mound’s occupant, this uncle he never knew. No, that gaze went eastward, toward Cassiare, where Arzhati’s grave, too, had been plundered, its treasures seized, and its occupant torn from its slumber. Dashir could offer no apology, just as he dared offer no protest when the usurpers sent men to Cassiare to carry out the grisly task. What could one say to Kargil son of Arzhati, whose mother had been murdered, whose father’s grave had been desecrated? How did one dare approach him, when even under the best circumstances he exuded such a forbidding air? Lazphi’s mound overlooked a rocky expanse of ground. Dashir recalled coming here as a boy to practice archery and sling stones with his brothers. Those were pleasant memories, yet ones soon to be darkened. With Chalun, Kargil had simply given the order and watched the man die. Now, with his sworn enemy delivered into his hands, his vengeance became personal. Once his warriors lashed Palassos’s ankles together, Kargil took the rope and fastened it to the pommel of his saddle. How I envy him the privilege. Where Chalun’s death had been mere butchery—no euphemism could blur that horror—this execution was fitting. His gaze never left Kargil as the younger man mounted and quickly urged his horse forward into a canter, then a full gallop. Only a born horseman, a Turya, would race over such precarious ground, or think to use it for such a purpose. Pooled on the ground between Kargil’s horse and the intended victim, the rope swiftly lost slack. In an instant it went taut. Palassos grunted as his feet jerked out from under him. His body twisted, his arms flailed helplessly as he was dragged, and then, with a sickening crack, his struggle ended. A living man

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became a doll, a smear of red against the green. Even then, Kargil did not stop. He turned and came back, then made the circuit once more, until his horse’s flanks were lathered with sweat. Drawing his long knife he uttered a single, ululating cry and sliced the rope. The corpse, now scarcely recognizable as human, he ignored as he rejoined his warriors. Dashir shuddered at the prospect of approaching this man, this remorseless killer, yet with the courage of princes, he guided his mount toward the knot of Turyar. Elsewhere, those few who had walked up from the city to watch the execution began to disperse. “Lord Kargil, I understand you have not yet visited your mother’s tomb.” The Turya—no, he is half-Turya, he is Thano’s son— slowly turned to him, a flicker of irritation in his gaze. Dashir steadied himself with a deep breath before adding, “Will you accompany me to Tal Sepha? This is the first opportunity I have had to see Thano.” “And yet you have been here many weeks,” Kargil observed coldly. “I swore I would not go until her murderers were brought to justice.” Kargil offered no comment, but at last he nodded. The route to the Pyramid of the Moon led through the flower market. Dashir rode past carts brimming with white daisies and blue lavender, alstroemeria and yellow lilies, yet it was only when he spied a stall fragrant with honeysuckle that he dismounted. A buxom woman approached with a basket on her arm. “Roses for your sweetheart, my lord?” she asked. “We have posies and pomanders, and flower crowns for crownless heads.” “I am too old to go a-courting, madam.” Dashir chose a bouquet of pale pink and white roses, with honeysuckle. “These are for my sister’s tomb,” he said. When she spied the badge on his sleeve, her face changed. “They said the brother of Lady Thano had returned to Rhodeen. Oh, you can’t pay full price then! And you, my lord Turya, I won’t rob you for your mother’s sake.” Kargil thrust the money at her. “Take it, woman!”

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The woman stared him, at the blood spattering his boots and his horse’s withers, and obediently took the coins. To quell her trembling, Dashir gently patted her hand. “My sister’s son grieves for his mother.” “I need no charity.” Kargil’s voice knotted with rage and, it seemed, some deeper emotion. “Enough! This is a grave offering from one who loved your mother,” Dashir said sharply. “You can accept it for her sake.” When Kargil made no move to apologize, Dashir took some of the coins from the woman’s outstretched hand, then returned one. “This is for your trouble, madam.” The remainder he shoved at his nephew. In the little chapel outside the crypt, Dashir paused before the altar of the Moon to light a votive candle. When he offered one to Kargil, he found his gesture sternly rebuffed. Unlike the crypt of Tal Charne, which housed only the tombs of the kings, Tal Sepha’s underground covered two levels and several galleries. Only queens were honored with sarcophagi and effigies. All others, from crown princes who never lived to succeed their fathers to infant princesses who died at birth, were housed for eternity in niches along the walls. Kargil, carrying his armload of flowers with as much grace as a knight in a dressmaker’s shop, held little regard for the sacred places. “East-landers delve too deeply into the earth,” he criticized. “Once born, men cannot crawl back into the Earth Mother’s womb.” “Yet you bury your dead just as we do,” said Dashir. “Not like this. We do not seek to outdo the Earth Mother’s creation by making caves in the underground, nor do we seal our dead away behind polished stones. We give our dead back to the earth, under the open sky.” Down a flight of stairs they went, leaving behind the distant past. Here on the lower level, the decorations were fresher, the inscriptions still legible, and the names recognizable. Frozen in snowy marble, her hands clasped demurely over her breast, lay the effigy of Brasidios’s queen, Elian, who had died giving birth to Sephil. And set in the wall just behind, marked only by a simple plaque, Dashir found the tombs of his parents, below

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them a smaller niche where the Turyar had allowed his brothers’ bones to be deposited. Lower still, at knee-height, a wooden tablet temporarily marked the most recent burial. Thano Serrida, Princess of Rhodeen. So she had finally come to rest among her ancestors. One day I will lie here. Dashir set his candle on the floor, then, dropping to his knees, began arranging the roses and honeysuckle. In a generation or two, who will remember these names? Kargil certainly would not come here, or bring his sons. Saraji would have her tomb here beside Elian, yes, but she had been raised in a foreign court. The names and deeds of the kings and queens of Rhodeen, as much her ancestors as her husband’s, meant nothing to her. Nurad, the son of a secondary wife, illegitimate in the eyes of all but his mother’s people, would not be welcome, nor would his sisters, left behind in Tajhaan. Kargil is right. We have delved too deeply into the earth. This place is but a monument to dust. And yet, it was the only memorial Dashir had. “I have come back, Sister,” he said, “and I have brought your son.” Kargil’s voice jarred the quiet introspection. “If I thought she wished it, I would have her taken out of this unnatural pit and taken to Hapaniku. There we truly know how to honor the dead.” You will not take her from me, or from the land of her birth. But if anyone had the right, it was Kargil, and Dashir knew he was in no position to refuse if his nephew insisted. “The king has sent men to Cassiare to collect your father’s bones. He will restore them to you before you go.” “The damage has already been done,” Kargil said harshly. “I will leave you alone with her for a few moments.” Dashir uttered a final prayer, then got to his feet and withdrew from earshot. What passed for tenderness among the Turyar? In her infrequent letters, Thano had spoken of Arzhati’s many kindnesses: his gifts, his willingness to learn his wife’s language and customs, his unabashed joy in their son. But however he tried, Dashir could not picture a rough-mannered horse warrior wooing a princess of the celestial royal house. He could not— and did not want to—imagine such a man murmuring

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endearments to his beloved, or making love. Men who hurled infants from walls and reduced their enemies to raw meat did not feel. And yet, when Kargil laid down his offering of flowers and touched his fingers to the cool stone to trace the marker, Dashir did not know what to think. And when Kargil reached into the leather pouch he wore at his belt and drew forth a scrap of cloth, Dashir watched in bewilderment as blood smeared the clean white marble above the tablet. Here was the gesture of a Turya avenging his dead, reveling in his trophies. He feels only hate. These savages know nothing else. Kargil leaned forward, gently pushing the candle aside so he could press his forehead against the stone, and in the silence Dashir heard the choke of a single sob.

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Chapter Sixteen Zhanil wanted too much, too soon, just as he always had. First, it had been a network of roads, then the dredging of the river Tham and the establishment of a new port city. Unable to curb his enthusiasm, he now aimed to extend his reach into his own family, to dictate in the manner of a patriarch. “Your mother has no desire to live here,” said Sephil, “and I will not live apart from her.” Even under the shade of the plane trees in Sephil’s private garden, it was warm. Zhanil spoke of employing Tajhaani engineering to provide cool rooms in the heat of summer. Again, he aimed too high, too soon. “Rhodeen must have a unified royal family. You are a king, Father, and you must start behaving like one.” This was too much. “Do not presume to instruct me, Son. You are not head of this family.” Rumbling low in his throat, Zhanil knotted his fists on his knees. Over the last several weeks, as he grew stronger and able to leave his apartments to walk outside, Sephil witnessed plenty of demonstrations of the royal will. No longer was Zhanil willing to brook defiance. No longer was he willing to compromise. Sephil saw that in his dealings with the wives and daughters of the usurpers; he granted them an audience, but his judgment did not change. You have your lives. You have your jewels and plate. But you will have no more mercy from me than this. You and your descendants are banished from this land unto the fourth generation. (ow cease your weeping and go. Sephil tried to intervene, in private where his son’s pride would not suffer injury, to no avail. “For five years I have listened to complaints that Rhodeen is little more than a dependency of Khalgar, ruled by a foreign dynasty. I have had to listen to my courtiers and subjects

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complain that my queen does not behave as she should, and that my father, the senior king, prefers Khalgar to the land of his birth.” “You know I have my ministry—” “And Rhodeen has no temples to Abh? You have subordinates in Khalgar who can take on your work, and an entire priesthood here begging to have you minister to their sick and feed their bloody orphans.” “Zhanil, you do not understand. My life here has never been happy—” “Gods, not that old story again! That was more than twenty-five years ago. Are you going to sit there and tell me with a straight face that you take no pleasure in visiting with me or your grandchildren? You’re the only one who remembers or even cares about those other things.” “Dashir—” “Even he says it’s time for you to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start taking your duties seriously—and he was one of those who tormented you,” said Zhanil. “Yes, he told me all about it.” Sephil chewed his bottom lip. The more agitated his son became, the less he remembered his courtly speech. “You never met your grandfather. You never heard the way he spoke to me, and you were not in the Sun Chapel with me. You did not see my father’s ghost telling me I did not belong.” “That was the opium giving you hallucinations.” “I suppose next you will tell me that I never saw Adeja either.” For once, Zhanil had no ready explanation. “You didn’t tell me this.” “Adeja came to me twice—and no, it was not the opium. He told me you were coming home even before the beacons were lit, before anyone here knew you had crossed the border.” Sephil heard his voice grow soft, sentimental, where he preferred to remain stern. “He came to me in the darkness before Kalmeki found me. He told me you were waiting for me. Not even the guards knew the battle was over.” In the ensuing silence, Zhanil rhythmically clenched and unclenched his fist, flexing his fingers. “Father, it isn’t for me to

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say what you saw or heard. You’re a king. You wear the crown just as I do. It’s time for you and Mother to make your home here in Rhodeen.” “Zhanil, I am king in name only. I have had no training for this position. I preside in the temple only because over the years I have learned how, but I was never taught how to rule, and I do not believe that I should. A body has only one head. Rhodeen should have only one king.” “Father, I’m not asking you to sit on the council with me and make laws. I’m not asking you to go through all that dull correspondence with me, or put on armor and lead the troops. I’m just asking you to stay here in Rhodeen and let the people see you. Start a new ministry here. Be a grandfather to my children. Please don’t make me issue a royal edict forbidding you to leave.” “You cannot do that to another king.” Snorting, Zhanil braced his hands on his thighs and shook his head. “What’s this? You are either a king or you aren’t— there’s no middle ground, Father. You are either my subject or my equal.” “No, I am your father, and neither.” “That may be, but the time has still come for you and Mother to join me here,” replied Zhanil. “It’s time for Rhodeen to have a royal family once more.” What Sephil did not tell his son was that his mother needed no further persuasion to come to Rhodeen. As swiftly as the couriers could ride, letters passed back and forth between Shemin-at-Khul and Bhellin, letters in which Ketalya poured out her concern and frustration. “Never again will you venture so far from my side, husband. You will not give me such a fright as you have done. However, since I know you will insist on staying with our son and grandchildren, I have no other choice but to join you.” **** At least his father agreed to be reasonable. My words had nothing to do with it. Zhanil was pragmatic enough to realize that his father’s physical health had much to do with his

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capitulation. Sephil was in no condition to travel back to Bhellin until next spring at the earliest. By then, Zhanil meant to have the entire royal family situated in the capital. On more than one occasion, his father questioned the severity of his judgments. “The female relatives of the usurpers should not be punished for their misdeeds. Rhodeen is not Khalgar. Here, women must obey their men.” “I know that,” replied Zhanil. “That is why I am allowing them to live.” As summer grew hotter, he kept the heads of the traitors on display, and would hear no argument about it. “Father, if you think this is excessive, you’re fortunate I don’t line the road from Shemin-at-Khul to Cassiare with gibbets. Believe me, I would to prevent this from happening again.” Nonetheless, there was one request Zhanil did not refuse, for when he learned of the circumstances he was both stunned and outraged that such a thing could have happened in his realm, without his knowledge. “Send him in at once.” Seros went out and returned accompanied by a young man in plain clothes, who knelt with eyes downcast, as though expecting to be beaten. So my reputation precedes me. “Rise and sit down, Tarrel.” Seros brought a stool, then withdrew to a discreet corner. “Is it true what King Sephil has told me? Were you taken from your home against your will and forced into sexual slavery?” Though he nodded, Tarrel said nothing. Even here, with the senior king’s assurance that he would come to no harm, he seemed to fear recrimination. “Who are the men who did this to you, and are there any others like you in the palace?” Zhanil did his best to curb his anger and soften his tone. “They cannot be punished if you will not speak.” Three more youths and two young women emerged from the slave quarters. Eighteen others subsequently surfaced in Cassiare. Armed with names, which he verified through independent sources, Zhanil issued warrants for the immediate seizure, trial and execution of the perpetrators; five had already been fined or put to death for other crimes. Within two weeks, fifty-four corpses hung from gibbets along the roads of eastern Rhodeen.

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Of their victims, only two wished to return home, and Sephil took the others under the protection of the temple of Abh. “They are ashamed,” he explained to his son. “I will do what I can for them, but it may take years to heal them of their hurts.” The project took what little time from his sickbed Sephil was allowed. His wound healed slowly, and he was subject to occasional spells of dizziness. In addition, he remained sensitive to light after his long confinement in the dark. Zhanil forbade him from going through the temple accounts or taking complaints from the priesthood; those were matters subordinates could handle. This matter, however, he allowed his father to take on because it clearly troubled him so. You could not have known, he thought. You were in Khalgar. I was here, and I should have known. With these shattered young men and women, he had not his father’s way with soft words; he did not know what else to do but exercise the king’s justice. (ever again, he decided. Never again would dissidents undermine the royal authority or exploit innocent civilians. At least one proposal bore fruit: the disparate elements of the royal family would gather in Shemin-at-Khul. Queen Ketalya would accompany Saraji and the children south. Dashir sent a letter to his wives through the Tajhaani embassy, though when he received a reply some weeks later, he admitted it was not what he had hoped. “Terreh is not well. My brother-in-law does not say exactly what is wrong with her, other than it is some female ailment, and that she is not likely to live.” Sephil, ensconced in the window seat with a book, leaned forward to touch his arm. “I am sorry.” Dashir merely shook his head. “My only regret is that ours was not a happier marriage. Had you married her, you would have been miserable. Your Ketalya may be fierce, and she speaks her mind where a queen of Rhodeen should remain silent, but at least she behaves with dignity.” To Zhanil’s surprise, his father-in-law turned next to him. “Should Terreh die, I would like to invite my other wife Najai to join me here. She is a very kind, soft-spoken woman, and I hate to think of her alone now that our daughters are old enough to marry.”

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“There may be some grumbling at court,” said Zhanil. “I will explain the matter to High Prince Mahtal. I am sure he would have no objection to my remarrying Najai according to royal custom so she will not be considered a concubine. That is, if she is willing to come.” When Zhanil broached the subject of sending for Nurad, Dashir agreed to write to him. “I had the pleasure of visiting with him before I left.” Dashir nodded in Sephil’s direction. “You have done a fine job with him.” “Nurad learns quickly,” said Sephil. “It was my pleasure to take him in and help him grow.” “Not all the credit is yours, Cousin. I had him for sixteen years before you.” Zhanil discreetly cleared his throat. “Let us not argue.” “Agreed, but I feel I must advocate for my son,” replied Dashir. “All this business about his illegitimacy is rubbish, and you both know it. Once I marry Najai with the appropriate ceremonies, he will be a legitimate prince. Not that this seems to matter to him, since he tells me he wants to stay in Bhellin in the service of the temple. He has no other ambitions, so if he wants to court Ellina, I see no reason why this should be a problem. His mother is a princess of Tajhaan, and through me he is a member of the royal family of Rhodeen. Besides, I daresay he is probably a more decent man than most of the others who will descend on the poor girl.” “Ketalya will not like it,” warned Sephil. “I do not see that your wife has anything to say about it. A princess of Khalgar can choose her own husband, is that not true?” On this point, Zhanil had to admit the man was right. Ellina could marry whomever she wished, within reason, or not at all. “Yes, Dashir, it is, but tongues will wag. You know that.” Snorting, Dashir made a dismissive gesture. “They will pity the poor dear for having me as a father-in-law—yes, I know all about it. You can simply tell the naysayers that after five years with my daughter, you are still alive and faring reasonably well.” Zhanil laughed, and even Sephil had to smile. Dashir never minced words. Once he had assured himself of his father-in-law’s loyalty,

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Zhanil realized that he actually liked the man, and looked forward to his presence on the king’s council. “I was never a traitor,” Dashir explained earlier. “Tajhaan was still an ally when I eloped with Terreh. As for the rest, I made a bad bargain. In the beginning, I truly believed I had more right to the throne than Sephil, because at least I had been trained to rule. But when you have children and grandchildren, and you see the world fall to pieces around them and are helpless to stop it, it is no longer about who rules or who has the better cause.” One perplexing question remained, which Zhanil addressed when he and his father-in-law had a moment alone. “Why did you go to such lengths to help my father? You had no love for him.” “I was callous in my youth,” replied Dashir. “Sometimes a man has to suffer in order to realize how foolish he has been. I could do nothing to stop what happened to my sister, but this one small thing I could do for Sephil, and for my grandchildren.” In Dashir’s dress and in the discreet corners of his apartment, Zhanil detected signs of mourning. Wisely, he did not ask whether the black ribbons or votive candles were for Thano, or Terreh, the bride of his youth, whom he had once loved. Nor did Zhanil ask about the time Dashir had spent with Kargil. His cousin left Rhodeen with undue haste the moment his father’s bones were returned to him. Should Kargil become turkan, Zhanil knew he could look forward to frosty relations with Hapaniku. Let us pray that day never comes, that a more levelheaded man than he succeeds Atalash. Alone within his apartments, Kalmeki’s absence was a tangible thing. Where his scent should have lingered, there were only traces of oiled leather, the lavender with which the servants sprinkled the bed linens, and the tang of beeswax polish. Where Kalmeki’s voice should have called out to the Turya Guard, instructing them in the day’s drills, Zhanil heard only Hantili’s deep bass. Never had they been so far apart for so long, not since Zhanil became king. He will be back. He is only going to bring back a bride.

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But it would not be the same. Kalmeki would never again be undivided in his love. Yhade claimed a piece of his heart— for though he preferred men, Kalmeki spoke of his bride-to-be with genuine affection—and there would be children, sons and daughters who would take still more. Zhanil knew this with certainty. Over the years, he had grown somewhat fond of Saraji, and adored the sons she gave him. And for a king, his realm always took precedence. Kalmeki might be his soulmate, his other half, but just as his affections were cut into little pieces to be shared among many, so their love was also divided. Dismissing Seros, he retired to the bedchamber and lay down to savor the rare pleasure of privacy. Most days he worked from sunrise to nearly midnight: reviewing paperwork, meeting with his advisors, hearing disputes, and approving appointments. Once his family converged on the capital, he would enjoy no peace at all. Right now, he just wanted to enjoy a nap in the drowsy heat of a summer afternoon. Behind closed eyelids, he thought he could smell Kalmeki’s scent among the pillows. That should not have been possible; the pillows had their slipcovers changed along with all the other linens, and Kalmeki had been away for three weeks, yet the certainty lingered along with a faint musk that stirred warm sensations in his groin. It was so easy in the heavy air to believe his lover lay beside him, gazing down at him with smiling eyes. As he unbuttoned his tunic, Zhanil let his fingers caress bare skin from his collarbone to his navel, then up again to tease his right nipple, circling it until the nub grew hard; he pinched it and rubbed it back and forth until the sensation made him gasp. With both hands, he unlaced his linen trousers and pushed them down just enough to loosen his loincloth and pull out his cock. Already erect, it filled his hand. Vague fantasies flitted through his mind, recollections of slow lovemaking; he was in no particular hurry, and pumped lazily, letting his thumb rub over his slit. Once he could no longer stand the stimulation, he shoved his trousers down further so he could undo his loincloth and reach under to cup his balls. With one hand squeezing his balls, feeling them tighten in anticipation of his climax, he quickened his stroke until, muffling his cry in the pillow beside

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him, he shot his cum all over his belly. Heavy lassitude spread through his limbs, and in the heat he did not want to get up. Only the thought of being discovered with his groin exposed and his torso sticky with his fluids gave him the strength to shuffle, trousers around his knees, to the washbasin and clean up before returning to bed. At sunset, he opened the screens leading out onto the terrace. A warm breeze enveloped him, bearing hints of the jasmine, thyme, and roses blooming in ceramic pots. Tal Charne loomed off to the right, torches fluttering at the level of the first platform. Beyond the city walls, the river snaked through the darkening valley like a silver thread, reflecting the last glow of daylight coming over the mountains. Zhanil lifted his face to the breeze and watched purple shadows creep over the tall peaks. “Hurry home, Kalmeki. Hurry home.”

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Chapter Seventeen Zhanil bowed over the woman’s hand, and kissed her knuckles in the courtly manner. “Welcome to Shemin-at-Khul, Lady Yhade. We are delighted that you have come.” Under her mirrored headdress, Yhade blushed—not only at the king’s gesture, one entirely unfamiliar in the Turya-lands, but at the sound of her own language on his tongue. “I...thank...you,” she answered haltingly in Rhodeen. To honor his keshka’s return and nuptials, Zhanil granted him a further two days’ leave. That did not, however, prevent Kalmeki from coming to the royal apartments to confer with Hantili and inspect the Turya Guard as they changed shifts. Zhanil, seated at his desk with a stack of correspondence before him, laughed at his diligence. “You should be making love to your bride, not counting spears.” Kalmeki peered behind a velvet curtain. No assassins lurking. “Yhade is proud that I am your guard and keshka,” he said. “And besides, on our wedding night we counted spears together. There were twenty fine ones among the gifts. Kargil sent them, along with a message to instruct you in their proper use.” Zhanil could not quite believe what he heard. His cousin never even acknowledged his wedding to Saraji, much less sent a gift. Now he was sending the finest spears to Kalmeki, whose relationship with Zhanil he certainly did not approve. “I should send him a jousting lance.” Kalmeki drew closer, until he stood directly behind Zhanil’s chair. “Thank you for your welcome before. Yhade already knows many words in your tongue, but she is grateful to hear her own spoken in this strange land.”

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“She will soon hear it more often,” said Zhanil. “I am requiring all courtiers to become bilingual. Turya as well as Rhodeen will be spoken here.” His edict, still in its formative stages, would naturally include members of the royal family. So far, he had not informed his father or father-in-law, and suspected they would resist. His wife, who could barely communicate with him as it was, would make a scene, and his mother probably would not approve either. The warm weight of Kalmeki’s hand came down on his shoulder; the contact shot straight to his groin. “I missed you, Zhanil.” **** A week before the equinox, Dyri Arrideos left the capital to meet the royal women and children en route. Messages flew back and forth; the ambassador’s reports and the king’s replies traveled at a quicker pace than the two queens could manage, given the wilting late summer heat, celestial newborns, and clamoring crowds. Impatiently, Zhanil dispatched a contingent of the Royal Home Guard to speed the procession along, and a barge to meet them at the junction where the Khul flowed into the Tham. Preparations to receive the royal family coincided with the harvest. Ribbons, garlands, and plaited sheaves decorated the main thoroughfare. Even the king’s own banner was displayed in the arms of a straw man, and one of the city guilds added two straw women carrying infants crowned with gilt-edged paper suns and moons. Sephil, now strong enough to leave the palace on short trips through the city, smiled at what he saw. “I was fourteen when I last saw a harvest festival here in Rhodeen,” he said. “I do not think these people realize what a lioness they are about to receive in their Queen Mother.” With a nod, he indicated the taller of the two straw women, garlands of deep red flowers snaking about her arms and shoulders. “Rhodeen needs a strong royal woman now that Thano is gone.” Zhanil noted how delicate the second straw woman was,

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crowned with scarlet poppies imported from Tajhaan, and a veil of rough linen. Dashir reported that many citizens, barred from entering Tal Sepha, left flowers and other votive offerings at the archway leading into the sacred precinct. Thano had been popular, her death cause for widespread mourning. Zhanil hoped the arrival of the queens would shift focus away from the kingdom’s collective grief, and that his mother would be able to instruct Saraji in her duties where Thano had not. On a warm afternoon a few days later, crowds thronged the riverfront to watch the royal barge deliver its passengers to the water stairs. Zhanil, flanked by his father and father-in-law, Stavron Melines and all the members of the council behind him, stepped down to receive his queen. Saraji, visibly uncomfortable in the full-skirted gown he had insisted she wear, offered a weary smile along with her obeisance. Arrideos had not lied: she had been frightened by their forced separation, and unwilling to relax until she saw with her own eyes that her husband was alive and unhurt. Zhanil took her hand, slender fingers weighted by rings, while she led Thanol with the other. Protocol frowned on such gestures, yes, but after six months apart Zhanil was not about to wait to toss his son into the air and kiss his cheek. Cheers erupted from the crowd. They had come for a show, for the pomp and splendid attire, and their junior king’s easy affability. He did not disappoint them. Ketalya, robed in dark red and leading Ardal, came up the steps on Amset’s arm. Now Zhanil lifted up his firstborn, the Crown Prince, and in full view of the city hugged him close. “Have you been good for your mother and grandmother, and Great-Uncle Ettarin?” Nodding solemnly, Ardal craned his neck to watch the two wet-nurses helped up the steps with their burdens. “Mama brought you a present.” “Yes, I see that,” said Zhanil. “Now you be a good prince and go with your mother and grandfather, while I say hello to the babies.” The wet nurses, abashed at being so near the center of attention, blushed when Zhanil complimented them on the good

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care his son and daughter were receiving. In Khalgari, he said, “I will hold them for a moment, then give them back.” This public gesture the crowd anticipated. Celestial twins celebrated the descent of Lord Sun and Lady Moon to earth untold centuries before. In times past, there had been other sons and daughters of the royal house bearing the honor, and the names Zhanil now called out. He held each infant aloft for the people to cheer, before bestowing a paternal kiss on each downy forehead and returning them to their nurses. That evening, a banquet would be held at Tal Charne. For now, the royal family made the brief walk back to the palace, each king and queen arm-in-arm, Prince Dashir following behind with the children and nurses. Amset and the Royal Home Guard accompanied them at a discreet distance, with the Turya Guard under Kalmeki flanking the walkway with spears at the ready. As he passed, Zhanil nodded once in Kalmeki’s direction. Later, he would invite his bodyguard into the nursery to see the infant prince and princess. The Turyar at court needed no explanation for why he did this. To Saraji and anyone else who questioned the propriety of the gesture, Zhanil would merely point out that his father’s own personal guard had been charged with looking after the royal offspring. As Adeja had mentored him, so Kalmeki would have a place in the lives of his sons. Fanfare sounded throughout the city. Wine and cakes would be distributed, along with donations to the city guilds. Similar gifts made their way to Cassiare and towns the length and breadth of Rhodeen. True to his word, Zhanil rewarded those who were loyal, yet even more importantly he needed to ensure the support of the guilds and populace as Solis Thanates undertook the tasks of the Overseer of the Royal Works. Once indoors, his mother quietly retired with his father, whose bemused, slightly hen-pecked expression indicated she was about to fuss over his health. Zhanil kissed them both, then indicated that Dashir should accompany him to the queen’s apartments. Amset was instructed to direct the nurses with the children to the nursery, where their father would visit them later. At least Saraji had the grace to wait until her ladies-inwaiting—all native women now—had withdrawn to voice her complaints. When agitated, she gave up all effort to speak to her

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husband in broken Rhodeen, and slipped into a torrent of Tajhaani verbiage that caused even her father to raise his eyebrows. “You allow her to behave this way?” asked Dashir. “I have absolutely no idea what she is saying.” Through her gestures, however, Zhanil guessed his wife’s irritation had to do with her new attendants. “You are right. She does not like being asked to make changes,” translated Dashir. Zhanil politely waited until she finished, then sharply replied, “You are barely home and already you must find something to gripe about. You will accept these women of the court as your attendants, and I will hear nothing more about it.” As she opened her mouth to protest further, he lost all patience. “Woman, you are a queen of Rhodeen, not a princess of Tajhaan! Your duty to me includes more than spreading your legs and spitting out royal heirs! I have been too lenient.” Despite his anger, he had no desire to humiliate her, least of all with her ladies still within earshot. And when her face crumpled and the tears started, smearing her kohl, he reached for her. “Saraji—” Dashir stopped him with a gesture. “No, you must be firm.” As Zhanil stepped back, Dashir took his daughter by the arm and addressed her in Tajhaani. She shook her head, he spoke again, sharply this time, then reluctantly she nodded. “I have told her I am now in charge of her household. I did not translate everything you said, of course, but she knows she will have no gift or tender words from you unless she obeys with good grace.” Zhanil saw the common sense behind the words. Not wanting to alienate his wife, in the past he had always sent a present to sweeten his demands. Now he saw his mistake. Because Saraji had always been spoiled, she had no incentive to change. A father who had raised many children understood what he did not: a parent must be gentle yet firm, and not resort to bribery as he had. Even here, in the queen’s chamber, he must exercise the royal will. “There will be no more translators,” he said to her. “Your women and servants will speak to you in Rhodeen. You will wear native dress, unless you are so great with child that you

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absolutely must wear looser clothing. When you do these things, and do them well, then I will reward you.” Saraji pouted, yet did not make more of a scene, and when prompted by her father executed a deep curtsey. “She will do as she is told,” Dashir promised. “Once Najai arrives, she will have a model to follow. Mahtal writes that my wife is learning our language rapidly and is already having the proper clothes made.” Zhanil lightly kissed Saraji’s cheek, gestured that she should dry her eyes and wash away the smeared kohl, then stepped into the outer gallery with his father-in-law. “I dare not assign her any Turya women. They are as tough and outspoken as their men, and I know what they would make of her.” Sighing, with one ear cocked to catch the female chatter coming from his wife’s apartments, he took in the heavy felt tapestry spread across the far wall. “I should have insisted years ago,” he continued as if to chastise himself. “When I saw how slow she was to learn our language, when I realized she could not read or write, I should have demanded that she improve. Perhaps I feared to upset her because it would affect her pregnancies, or because I did not want to be seen as a brute.” “Women are stronger than you know,” replied Dashir. “It takes more than a few tears and a shrill argument for them to miscarry. If you are as firm with her as with the rest of your subjects, I think matters will improve.” Satisfied that the ladies, secure in their knowledge that Saraji could barely understand them, were not mocking the queen for her outburst or kohl-streaked face, Zhanil began to walk down the corridor. Let her take this reprimand to heart so things might be better between us. He wanted so much to show her tenderness without spoiling her, and to truly be able to speak with her as he had never been able to do. “Not all my subjects approve of the changes I have made.” Dashir discreetly cleared his throat, pausing for a moment before answering, “Learning yet another language at my age is somewhat difficult. Whatever your intentions—and I believe them to be good ones—you must understand that my generation does not readily accept the Turyar as neighbors. Men like Zidanta and Labarnu, and even your bodyguard Kalmeki—I am

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willing to tolerate them because I know they want peace as much as I do. But you cannot expect everyone to embrace Turya ways as you have.” Those words gave Zhanil much to consider. I want to be strong, not overbearing. Glancing aside, he noticed a fair-haired young man in blue livery standing at attention at the end of the corridor; there was something familiar about him. “Who is that?” “That is Tarrel,” said Dashir, “one of your father’s charges from the temple of Abh. I had no servants when I arrived, and no valet. Tarrel learns quickly. He is loyal, discreet, and knows I will not harm him.” Zhanil shifted his gaze before the young man realized he was the subject of discussion. “I hope it is not too soon. My father reports that some of those taken were very badly used, and two of the women are pregnant. I’m sending Turyar into eastern Rhodeen to settle. They do not tolerate this sort of thing, and they will be my eyes and ears to guard against further infractions or dissidence.” “I thought the Turyar did not employ spies.” “Precisely,” answered Zhanil. “Is that wise?” “They do not discuss their business with outsiders, and they have such a reputation for being honest that no one will ever suspect them.” After a brief visit with his children, Zhanil retired to his chamber to bathe and rest before the banquet. Kalmeki found him on his terrace just as the servants were bringing in a selection of clothes and jewels. “Amset tells me the journey passed without difficulty. He also says the people want you to go on progress.” “It’s too late in the year for that,” said Zhanil. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to dismiss the servants, take Kalmeki to bed, and let the banquet proceed without him. “There’s too much to be done before I can think about leaving the capital again.” “Knowing that you intend to inspect the royal works will give the new overseer incentive to finish that first stretch of road.”

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“I have no doubt Lord Thanates will have the first five miles done by next summer.” A servant, murmuring his apologies, proffered a dark green silk coat embroidered with scrolling vines. Pearls embellished the collar and cuffs. Zhanil nodded, then waited for the man to withdraw before continuing, “My wife isn’t altogether pleased with the changes I want. Neither is the rest of my family.” Kalmeki reserved his judgment until Zhanil finished laying out the situation. “I agree that the queen should learn your language. I know you have wanted to be gentle with her, which is why I did not say anything before. As for your father and mother, and your wife’s father, perhaps it is too much to ask that they learn Turya.” Those were his thoughts exactly. However, he would not let Kalmeki or anyone see how he doubted his own decision. “The Turyar who came here with Arzhati learned to speak Rhodeen.” “They learned because they had no choice,” Kalmeki pointed out. “I did the same. I will not lie and say I would not like to see both languages spoken equally at court, but your father-in-law is wise to caution you this way. Let the young learn Turya. For now, it is enough that the older generations accept our presence here as neighbors, not enemies.” When Kalmeki spoke this way, Zhanil’s heart could not help but swell with love for him. “Change will come. Not today, or tomorrow, but it will happen. We’re standing on the threshold of a new world.” “I knew that when I first left the Turya-lands,” Kalmeki said dryly. Zhanil switched to Turya so the servants would not understand. “Humor me, love.” In a generation or two, he would have no such escape. Again, a manservant approached bearing an open casket of jewels in his arms. Kalmeki selected a pair of rings, one plain silver, the other set with a large emerald, and slowly, sensually slid them onto Zhanil’s fingers. Later, he might linger in the royal bedchamber under the pretense of guarding the king’s person. And when the lamps burned low and the small hours of the night approached, he might remove those same rings and

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suck his lover’s fingers into his mouth. Then he might undo rows of pearl buttons, peel back embroidered green silk, and ravish his turkan’s throat and lick his nipples into exquisite hardness; he might claim a stolen hour of lovemaking before Yhade woke and found him gone. For now, Kalmeki was as much valet as guard, and in these small gestures, imperceptible to others, he expressed a world of intimacy.

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Chapter Eighteen “Ardal is too young for this,” said Sephil. “He is old enough to understand that Tal Charne is where the kings of Rhodeen are buried, and that very important rituals take place there.” As usual, his son failed to grasp the essential point: a fouryear old did not belong down in the dark with the dead. “Zhanil, if you want to take Ardal up to the king’s platform to let him watch you and the priests perform the rites of the winter solstice, that is one thing. Taking him to see the tombs is quite another.” “My aim is to educate my son,” replied Zhanil, “not frighten him.” “Yet you are going to do precisely that.” Zhanil opened his mouth as though to say something, then apparently thought better of it. After a moment, he said, “I would never do anything to harm my own son. You will see, because you and Dashir will be there.” Sephil gaped at him. “I most certainly will not.” “Father, I realize Tal Charne is hardly a place you wish to revisit, but we must all do things for policy’s sake. The royal family must be seen to be unified—” “You keep telling me that.” That phrase, uttered so often in the past few months, had started to become cliché. As far as he was concerned, Sephil never wanted to hear it again. “Was it not enough that your mother and I agreed to join you here?” “You are the link between me and my son and the kings lying in the tombs,” continued Zhanil. “Dashir will be with us, and the highest officers of the realm. This is a state occasion, Father. I intend to have broadsheets published describing the event. The traditionalist factions should eat up every detail.”

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“And when your little Crown Prince starts crying because he is afraid of the dark?” asked Sephil. “What will the journalists say then?” To his consternation, Zhanil only laughed. “Ardal and Thanol have never been afraid of the dark. They sleep without a light, and they know the dead can’t harm them. I’ve told Ardal that these are his ancestors, his friends. I’ve ridden out to Lazphi’s barrow with him, and taken him to visit Grandmother Elian in Tal Sepha. The only thing that will be different this time is that he’ll have to dress up in royal robes and can’t ride my shoulders the way he usually does.” Sephil held out little hope that the public visit would go as his son planned. Why must he be so insistent on having his own way, and so stubborn when others try to correct him? Sephil tried to accommodate Zhanil’s wishes insofar as his need to maintain a private life allowed. He attended one council meeting a month as his son stipulated, and even learned a few polite Turya phrases in lieu of acquiring full fluency. I have done all I can, but building Rhodeen as he wants it is a young man’s dream and a young man’s task. I have my own duties now. Where he expected his cousin to agree with him over the crypt visit, Dashir offered surprisingly little support. “The only reason Zhanil does not order you is because you are his father.” “It is a relief to know the young autocrat has limits.” “Sephil, is this truly about Ardal, or is it about you?” Sephil clenched his jaw. “I can conceal my feelings,” he said coldly. “My fear of the dark—” “There will be lanterns. Zhanil is hardly about to let his son see a place of terror.” Dashir claimed the seat Zhanil had vacated only an hour earlier. “You do not want to go because you know you will have to place a candle on your father’s tomb.” “I do not wish to have this discussion.” Infuriatingly, Dashir refused to relent. “Better we have it now than in full view of the court,” he said. “You realize your brother is also buried there?” “Dashir, please—” “You are not going to get out of this one, and you know it. Even if you somehow manage not to go this time, Zhanil will

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continue to insist, and sooner or later Ardal and his siblings are going to start asking questions. What will you tell them then?” asked Dashir. Then he leaned forward. “Twenty-seven years is a long time to hold a grudge.” Sephil turned his gaze toward the wall and the tapestry that hung there, focusing on neither. “He does not deserve my devotion.” “He visited your tomb—or what he thought was your tomb.” In the pause that followed, Sephil sensed his cousin waiting, watching for some reaction. When none came, Dashir groaned in frustration. “When will you ever believe me, Cousin? I know from Zhanil that your father-in-law had letters from Brasidios expressing his remorse. Do you not even believe his own words?” “I know that he would have heaped scorn on me had he lived.” Sephil heard the unsteadiness in his voice, and swallowed hard around the ache knotting his throat. “For a high priest of Abh who preaches forgiveness, you are sadly lacking in that virtue yourself. Yes, I will say it: you are a hypocrite, Sephil,” Dashir said harshly. “I am done arguing with you over Brasidios, but you have no cause not to honor your brother. I will be disappointed in you if you do not. Zhanil did nothing to earn your scorn.” Their confrontation, coupled with the unavoidable prospect of visiting Tal Charne, soured what had become a cozy domestic arrangement. Sephil never expected that his reunion with his wife would reap such pleasant, unexpected rewards. Ketalya fussed over him and harangued his physicians, but once she was satisfied his wound was healing, her passion surprised him. On the very night of her arrival, they shared a bed, and he woke in the small hours to find her arms wrapped tightly around him. More than chaste kisses passed between them, and to his amazement he found himself responding. Her lovemaking was a gift, as Adeja’s had been long ago. After the day’s business, the royal family spent evenings together in the Queen Mother’s sitting room. A blazing fire banished the chill of lengthening autumn nights, and while the grandparents talked, read, or did needlework, the boys played on

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a rug before the hearth. Najai, newly arrived from Tajhaan, took great pleasure in helping the nurses with the infants, though in deference to her husband’s wishes she joined her stepdaughter for lessons in Rhodeen. Saraji recited for Zhanil what words she had learned that day, and basked in the praise he gave her when she did well. Sephil smiled at the obvious affection between Dashir and Najai, their lingering glances and small, intimate caresses. Not wishing to be caught staring, he turned to his grandsons. How well the boys played together! Ardal was gentle, sharing his toys, and Thanol idolized his older brother. Let them have a few years to be children before they have to be princes. Zhanil does not have to rush this. This was time, however, that he did not have. When he left the temple of Abh for the council chambers, Sephil sensed a change in the air, ripples of expectation that told him the court was waiting on his decision. What has that boy told them? Zhanil’s face revealed nothing, of course, and when confronted, he denied any complicity. “I have not made an issue of family business with my councilors, but the court is not stupid, Father. They have heard Dashir and I discuss taking Ardal to Tal Charne. I imagine people believe your hesitation is due to your having been shut up in the crypts. They are waiting to see how long it will take you to overcome your fear.” “They will have a long wait,” said Sephil. Zhanil did not comment on his reticence. “I have planned a similar excursion to Tal Sepha with Mother and Saraji. Saraji likes the tombs no better than you, but she has agreed to go.” Good for her. “Can you not wait a year until Ardal is a little older?” Zhanil smiled ruefully. “Your answer will be no different then than it is now.” Rumors persisted outside the royal council chambers, courtiers whispered like cicadas as the senior king passed, and no matter how Sephil tried to ignore them, to shut them out, he heard what they said. He will never pay his respects at the tombs of his fathers…he is afraid of the dark, like a child…he has hired sorcerers to curse his father’s spirit for exiling him. Where the

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gossipmongers got this last tidbit, Sephil did not know, only that it stung for being such a perverse approximation of the truth. Yes, I am a hypocrite. I never claimed to be perfect—gods know, I am far from it. But this one thing, this forgiveness, I cannot do it. “No one is telling you to forgive your father,” said Ketalya, “even though I think the time has come that you should. But the least you could do is make some public demonstration of mourning for your brother.” Sephil gaped at her. “Which one talked to you?” “Both of them,” she replied. “Dashir is right, as much as I hate to admit it. And yes, I know you publicly mourned your brother years ago, but that was in Khalgar. Rhodeen needs to see you make this gesture.” For twenty-seven years, Sephil had marked his brother’s birthday and the anniversary of his death by making offerings in the temple of Abh. So he had done this year, the first time he had done so in Rhodeen. Wherever Zhanil’s soul now resided, Sephil did not want it to be in the lightless dark. “People will misinterpret my going. Tal Charne is the place of the kings. Zhanil should have been buried in Tal Sepha, and I have gone there.” Ketalya refused to relent. “Already people misunderstand your intentions. Place your candle on the tomb for your brother. No one else need know that it is not meant for your father.” When he tried to leave to end the discussion, Ketalya went to a small, locked cabinet and brought out a packet of letters. “Ettarin gave me these before I left. This is your father’s correspondence, personal letters he wrote to my father.” Sephil did not take them. “I have read his words before.” “One letter,” she said, “the morning after our wedding. This is everything. And yes, I have read them, husband. Your father loved you, though it may seem otherwise to you.” Because his wife would not take them back, Sephil had no choice but to accept the letters. His first instinct urged him to shove them into the grate and burn them. He did not. For days, they lay untouched in a desk drawer, until at last he could no longer bear their silent reproach. His eyes skimmed through official business, news of

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Ampheres’s growing brood of children, and rumors of Turya incursions, seeking out the scant references to his existence. He is such a difficult child...always sickly...lags so far behind his brother I fear his mental faculties are damaged... “I was six years younger than Zhanil, you idiot! What did you expect?” cried Sephil. This was not love, just the same echoes of disappointment he had always heard from Brasidios. “One kind word from you—would it have been so hard?” Only in the last letter, the one he had read so many years earlier, did the tone change. Hearing the words in his father’s voice, which he had never forgotten, he burst into tears—angry, frustrated tears that brought his wife and three servants running. “What is wrong, husband?” Sephil dismissed the servants with a gesture, then, hiding his face in his hands, let Ketalya hold him. “What am I to do? Am I making a mistake?” Ketalya took in the letters scattered over the desk; he heard her shuffle through the papers, and felt her hands stroke his hair. “He loved you in the end.” “It is always easier to praise people when they are dead,” he said, sniffling. “You asked my advice and I gave it. Is it truly so hard to do this one little thing?” Her velvet bodice grew sodden where he lay against it; he felt guilty for ruining it, for burdening her with the matter when he did not even know how to sort through his own feelings. Old resentment simmered beneath his placid exterior, yet his memories of the sad, beseeching figure in Tal Charne made him hesitate. He visited your tomb. Surely Dashir would not lie about such a thing. Sephil wanted to forgive, but did not know that he could. Public scrutiny did not stop, and the rumor mill kept churning. At last, Sephil could bear no more. I will go for my son’s sake, and my grandson’s, and for my brother, but that is all. One early winter afternoon, he found his son meeting with his Turya chieftains in a tapestry-lined gallery. All six men, gleaming in the ostentatious gold ornaments they loved, their dress a riotous wash of color, bowed deeply to him before

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politely withdrawing. “Make the arrangements, Zhanil,” he said. “I do not care what day. Just finish this business.” Zhanil stared wide-eyed at him. Around his neck he wore a thick ring of twisted electrum. His coat, blue velvet and suede, was drawn in at the waist with a belt of silver plaques. Zhanil varied his dress to suit his audience, and made certain his sons reflected this practice. Ardal and Thanol had diminutive Turya costumes that delighted the chieftains. (ext he will insist on my wearing one of those hideous coats. “Are you certain, Father?” Sephil avoided giving a direct answer. “I will go into the crypts this once and only this once. Never ask me again.” One week later, bundled in thick robes and furs, watching their breath mist the air, the royal men left the palace for Tal Charne. Zhanil, Ardal’s hand tightly clasped in his, headed the procession, with Sephil and Dashir walking behind. Bodyguards and officers of the court followed at a discreet distance. Down the first ramp they went, from overcast day into perpetual gloom. Braziers offered scant heat and warmth. Sephil steadied himself for the descent, taking strength from those around him and the certainty that what his grandson could bear, he could also. Once, he felt Dashir’s hand on his arm, lightly placed as though to remind him that he was not alone— and, briefly, he felt a presence on his other side, faint and cold, reminding him where he was. To this, he dared not fix a name. At the first landing, Zhanil addressed his son. “This is the Sun Chapel. We always stop here before going in.” Last time, Sephil had not been in a position to notice much beyond the darkness, the dust, and his own fear. Now he saw that the chapel doors were new oak, their brass fixtures burnished until they gleamed in the candlelight like molten gold. Within, what he remembered as bare stone and cobwebs had been transformed. Hammered copper brought the sun-disk into vivid relief above an altar blazing with color. Tiles of rich green, turquoise, and cobalt banded the ancient marble. The air, once musty with age, was now redolent with incense and fresh plaster. Zhanil showed Ardal the candles atop the altar. “When you come here, you always take one for the dead. Right now, Seros

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will hold our candles until it is time to place them on your greatgrandfather’s tomb.” Beyond the landing, down the second ramp, the air grew colder, the gloom deeper. Sephil drew his fur-lined cloak tight around him, while his gaze remained fixed on his grandson. Ardal was behaving very well, as dignified as a Crown Prince ought to be, showing no fear. He cannot possibly like this place. It is enough to frighten even the hardiest men. Even the Turyar had avoided this place. Beyond stripping the Sun Chapel of its ornaments, they had not ventured into the tombs. Four guards pushed open the great doors. Sephil gasped at the sight before him. Blinking in the glow of a hundred lanterns that pushed back the shadows, he saw for the first time what the darkness had concealed. Hours of labor had brushed away the layers of dust, peeled back the spider webs, and restored the place of the dead. Had his father known that murals marched across the walls, or that the ceiling, so deep a blue, held a microcosm of the night sky? Beside him, he heard Dashir murmur, “I never knew this was here.” Zhanil turned, caught his eye, and nodded. They moved down the center aisle, past tombs whose faded effigies and inscriptions marked their antiquity. Zhanil paused during the progress to point out famous ancestors. “Charnos II built the great pyramids. He married a princess from Khalgar whose brothers were giants, and they carried the stones. Now over here is Serril VII, who built the first fortresses along the border where the Turya-lands are today.” How well Zhanil had memorized that information, for not even Sephil, forced to study the king-lists as a boy, could remember which tomb belonged to which king, or what most of them had done. This didactic exercise had its place in the whole carefully staged visit. Zhanil was emphasizing for the members of the court to see his family’s unbroken link to the old dynasty. Ardal might not yet understand about propaganda, but Sephil knew that under his son’s expert tutelage he soon would. Finally, they reached the last row of sarcophagi, and a tomb draped with the royal Sun banner yet adorned with no effigies.

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Names marked a brass plaque set at the foot of the sarcophagus: Brasidios III Charnides, King. Zhanil Brasides, Crown Prince. As Ardal could not yet read more than a few simple words, his father interpreted for him. “This is where your great-grandfather Brasidios is buried. Your great-uncle Zhanil lies next to him.” At this, his first glimpse of his father’s tomb, Sephil halfexpected the banner to move, and the stone slab to shift. A heartbeat later, he found he was holding his breath, waiting for something that never came. Oh, he is quite dead, the old goat, said a familiar voice. He’s been waiting a long time for you to come, I might add. Startled, Sephil looked about and saw nothing: no welcoming vision, no sardonic smile. And no one else had heard the voice. Everyone was intent on what Zhanil was saying to his son. Adeja? Who else would be rattling around in your head? The page Seros stepped forward with a silver salver. Zhanil took a candle, lit it from the torch Amhir carried, and placed it on the sarcophagus. “We say a prayer when we honor the dead,” he told Ardal. “Do you remember the words?” Lifting Ardal in his arms, Zhanil helped him with his candle, then they recited the prayer together. Dashir softly joined in. Sephil mouthed the words, but his attention was focused on the dead no one else could see. Please tell me I do not have to come down to this dreary place just to talk to you. I’m not tied to these tombs, Sephil. I can be your own personal delusion, wherever and whenever you like. Now the salver came to him. Sephil took a candle, lit it, then hesitated. Yes, love, he does want your forgiveness. He is standing there before you. In the shadows behind the sarcophagus, Sephil saw only empty space, and the luminous image of a moonlit hunt upon the wall. Then why does he not tell me himself? Strange, I seem to remember that he appeared to you just before I did. The candle trembled above the tomb. I forgive you. Sephil set the votive down beside his son’s and grandson’s offerings. Around him, the very air seemed to sigh in release.

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Dashir lit a candle and placed in on the tomb, then Stavron Melines as hereditary prince came forward. The court officials bowed deeply before the sarcophagus, while the Turya chieftains and guards observed in wary, respectful silence. Why did you wait so long to let me know you were here? Do you have any idea how much hurt I felt when I knew you were not coming back? Adeja’s presence, so lighthearted, became momentarily grim. I had no other choice. You know that. That offers me little comfort. I didn’t come before because you didn’t need me then. I always need you, Adeja. (o, you don’t. Once again, Sephil sensed Adeja’s humor shining through. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. “Father, do you need a moment?” Zhanil’s voice broke through his haze, and he realized he had adopted a devotional posture. They all think I am praying. Go on, Sephil. You’ll see me again in the world above, when you need me. Sephil waited a heartbeat before answering, “No, I am ready.” Adeja’s presence faded, leaving him cold and bereft. Then he felt a nudge. Looking down, he saw Ardal reaching for his hand. “Can Grandpa walk with me?” With a smile like a sunbeam, the boy banished his trepidation. “Yes,” replied Sephil, “Grandpa will walk with you.” Taking Ardal’s hand, returning the boy’s confident smile, Sephil left the place of the dead and ascended into the world above.

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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. Her Jewish mother, dog Sarra and kitty-muse Molly help her keep her sanity. Ms. Bryce maintains a website at http://www.lebryce.com.

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