The Quartz Key

The Prince of the city of Ajantha entered the House of Kemel, surrounded by his guards and retainers, but with very little fanfare. Two guards moved to block the doors behind them, while the rest fanned out to protect their Prince from any threat that might appear. They did not expect trouble, since while not well-loved, their prince *was* well-respected, but they were ever-vigilant in their duties.

The employees of the house immediately descended on him like a pack of dogs rolling over to bare their bellies and necks before the alpha dog. The Prince stared down his long hooked nose at the fawning mass, his lips curled into an expression of disgust. While he expected the respect and deference due to his position, he loathed obsequiousness. Unfortunately, it was something he encountered every day.

There was a sharp handclap, and the servants melted away, bowing -- and in more than one case almost crawling -- as they backed up. To turn their back on the Prince would have been a disrespect punishable by a flogging.

The overweight, richly-dressed man hurrying towards them was obviously Kemel, the owner of the establishment. His face was flushed and he was breathing hard. He was in need of some good, honest exercise, the Prince thought to himself with a sneer. Kemel spent to much time being waited on, obviously. The Prince, however, had been trained as a soldier in his youth and still sparred regularly to maintain an impressive build.

"My Prince, you honor my establishment with your glorious presence," the man said breathlessly as he came to a stop, bowing low in the flamboyant manner that was currently the rage in court.

"Indeed," the Prince said dryly. Of course he was honored; a Prince spent more money than a commoner. As well, saying that a Prince frequented your establishment was the best sort of advertising.

"How can we serve your royal self?" the man asked, bowing yet again, practically groveling. The Prince was tempted to just kill the worm, but unfortunately, he was supplier of the finest merchandise in the city. Merchandise that in this case was important enough to bring the Prince out in person instead of simply summoning the man to the palace.

"I need an... item. One that matches a very specific list of requirements."

The Prince glanced around, pointedly, at the small crowd of employees still watching intently from the corners of the room. It wasn't every day that someone of royal rank came to the House of Kemel, and they obviously hoped to find out why. There were plenty who would pay highly for such gossip.

Quickly understanding the meaning of the Prince's look, Kemel finally straightened up and waved his people away. "What are your requirements, Glory?"

"A slave. Noble-born, preferably. Attractive, naturally, between the ages of fifteen and twenty. Male."

"Bed companion?" Kemel asked, suddenly all business. His voice sharpened, and the Prince smiled. The slaver was not as foolish as he liked to pretend. Suddenly, he found himself almost respecting the man. Almost.

"Yes. But more importantly, a confidante, a companion."

"For yourself?"

"My son."

"We have a noblewoman from the north..."

"Male," he repeated. That surprised the slaver, he could see, but while he was willing to be... flexible on the other items, that was one requirement that he was not going to back down on.

Kemel was silent for a moment, his eyes unfocused as he considered the possibilities.

Finally he gestured towards a door. "Come with me, my Prince. I do not know if I can exactly match your requirements, but I do have one possibility." The Prince nodded for the man to proceed, even though it would mean turning his back on his Prince, and followed as the plump man lead the way. "He is a recent acquisition, from east of here. The grandson of a desert chieftain. His younger brother sold him to one of my agents when the old man died," the man said as he went.

"I take it that the older brother was to inherit?" It was an interesting way to dispose of a rival. Usually, he would expect the deposed brother to be killed to prevent him from coming back to try to reclaim his place.

"Yes, in a manner of speaking. However, he is... unusual for his kind. An albino, but without the pink eyes. Because of that, he cannot not go out in sunlight. It would have been impossible for him to function as chieftain, despite his grandfather's wishes. He even stepped aside in favor of his brother, but if he stayed, it would have divided the tribe, according to my agent. That's why the younger brother sold him rather than kill him. It was necessary to get rid of him, but he didn't have the heart to harm the boy, even though there were those close to him that wanted the brother dead."

The Prince nodded. An entertaining tale. However, "A desert barbarian, even the heir of a chieftain, is hardly what I would call noble-born," he pointed out.

"He is actually quite well-schooled, my Prince. Literate and as well-read as a nomad can be. His grandfather indulged his scholarly leanings. He is very graceful as well, although with no training in the dance. However, he does have a bit of a temper when pushed. We planned to train him for a few more months to make him a little more docile before selling him. Also," the man added persuasively, "he is, as yet, a virgin."

The Prince raised an eyebrow. "How old?"

"Just short of nineteen."

The Prince snorted softly. "I did not realize that you could reach that age and still be a virgin."

Kemel shrugged. "His strange looks made his people consider him possibly demon-sired. Between that and an overprotective grandfather..."

The Prince nodded. This could actually work to his advantage. A virgin might be more controllable. As well, someone who'd been a target of his own people before being cast out would be grateful for a place and protection. Yes, this one sounded like he had potential. "Show me him."

Kemel nodded and led the way to a narrow stairway. The Prince motioned one guard to follow, but indicated that the rest should remain behind. The captain looked upset, but nodded his obedience.

The stairway was steep and narrow, and led to an equally narrow hallway, lined with lacy panels on either side. The Prince stopped and looked through them.

To each side was a series of rooms. They were all quite simple, with a pile of cushions in one corner, a few objects for the occupants to entertain themselves with and the occasional mosaic or tapestry to add interest to dull, white-washed walls.

In the first room, an elegant woman with the slanted eyes and yellow skin of the far east reclined on her pile of cushions, playing a soft melody on a stringed instrument sitting on her lap. The tune was haunting and unlike any that the Prince had heard before. He watched her hands moved and could easily imagine them moving equally skillfully over an instrument of a different sort. His own instrument swelled at the thought, and he quickly controlled himself.

"They cannot see us through the screens," Kemel said softly as he led his client on. The Prince smiled, realizing the truth of the statement. If the occupants were to look up at just the right moment, all they would be able to see was a dim outline. As well, the screen would no doubt muffle their voices. It was a very clever arrangement.

Halfway down the hall, Kemel stopped and gestured towards the left. Stepping close to the screen, the Prince looked down into the room.

Like the other rooms he'd noticed in passing, this one was sparsely decorated. The only furniture -- if you could call it that -- was a pile of cushions that appeared to serve duty as both a seat and a bed. In a corner was a small covered chamber pot, amusingly made from fine silver, he noticed, amused. The outside wall was covered with a large tapestry that depicted an angel and a demon engaged in a battle that was more erotic than violent.

The slave was pacing his chamber, not impatiently, but more from boredom, the Prince thought. As Kemel had said, the young man showed great grace. If trained properly, he would be the finest of dancers. Or warriors. It might even be worth training him -- in secret, of course -- to be a bodyguard for his son as well, since no assassin would think a bedslave worth guarding against.

He wore mostly black; full pants with a high-necked tunic over it, glistening with black on black decoration. It served to emphasize the pallor of his skin, which was almost completely without color, like an albino. And his hair. It was white, but when the light hit it just right, it seemed to shimmer a light... pink? Darker near the roots. Whatever the cause, the result was beautiful and exotic, just like the boy.

"Yes," the Prince said, almost a sigh. "He does not look like a desert barbarian at all."

At the softly-spoken comment, the young man looked upwards, somehow having heard them. The Prince met his eyes and fought the urge to gasp. Albinos always had pink eyes, but this boy's eyes were a silver that almost glowed in the soft lamp-light. For a moment, he was sure that the boy could see him clearly. But them he turned away and dropped on his pile of black and silver pillows. He curled up on them in a way that would seem almost calculated to entice if he were not so obviously innocent.

The Prince smiled to himself. Perfect.

Staying silent, Kemel gestured the Prince to follow him to the end of the hallway, where a door led to the man's private offices.

The Prince sat, while Kemel, of course, remained standing. "You say he has a temper?"

"As the son of a chieftain, he is not accustomed to taking orders. When pushed, he pushes back. However, because of his brother's actions, he is also given to bouts of depression."

The Prince's satisfaction grew. Argumentative enough to challenge Nemir, but vulnerable enough to appeal to a young man's romantic and protective instincts.

"I will take him. My majordomo will collect him at sunset, since you said that he is sensitive to light. I trust that this will suffice?"

Kemel's eyes went wide as the Prince casually tossed him a small velvet bag. Inside were five gemstones of the highest quality. "It is far to much," he stammered, despite the greed in his eyes.

The Prince waved the comment away. "In return, I expect you to be discreet. Full details of the boy's origins are to be kept confidential. However, if anyone asks -- and I am sure they will -- I will name you as the source of the boy."

Kemel preened at the implied praise, as well as the promise. The name of his House on the lips of the Prince would bring him a great deal of new business.

"I will do as you ask," he said, bowing low. "The boy and his possessions will be ready when your majordomo arrived."

"Good."

Business concluded, the Prince got to his feet and allowed the slaver to lead him back down to the foyer. The easy part -- finding an appropriate slave for his son -- was complete.

More difficult would be getting the boy to *accept* his new slave.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Two ----------------------------------------

Nemir rode his stallion through the gates into the courtyard of his father's palace and allowed a groom to take the reins while he climbed down. Then he reclaimed the reins and led his mount towards the stables. Most nobles in his age group would have simply handed the beast over to the servants to tend to until the next time he wanted to ride, but Nemir was not typical. Like his father before him, he was trained as a soldier and he preferred to take care of his horse, his weapons and his armor himself.

The stables of the Prince of Ajantha were famed throughout the land for both its size and the quality of its beasts. Only the finest of thoroughbreds were fit for the royal stables. Thoroughbreds like Sirocco, Nemir's personal mount.

He led the blood red stallion into his box stall and set to removing the saddle and tack, setting the fine leather aside to clean later. Then he took up a scraper and went about removing the layer of sweat and desert sand that dulled the stallion's normally bright coat.

There was a barely polite cough from the stall's door. "What?" he barked, not stopping his grooming efforts or turning around.

"My Lord, the Prince has commanded your presence as soon as you returned to the Palace."

Nemir nodded, glancing at the messenger just long enough to see the man's expression of disdain. He recognized him as one of the minor nobles who infested his father's court, doing as little as possible while trying to curry favor with the Prince. "I will attend him as soon as I have cleaned from my journey."

"Forgive me, my Lord," the man said, not sounding sorry at all, "but the Prince requires your presence first. The dust of the road does not offend him." The man bowed and backed away, his expression clearly saying that it *did* offend *him*.

Nemir frowned, but carefully did not allow his displeasure to upset his stallion. His father might not care that he was still covered with the sweat and dust of several days' travel, but *he* did. After two weeks of inspecting the forts that guarded Ajantha's borders with adjoining princedoms, Nemir had been looking forward to a cool bath and perhaps some sleep before reporting to his father.

Still, the Prince commanded his presence, so he would obey. He finished grooming Sirocco, then covered him with a light blanket. He picked up his saddlebags and tossed them over his shoulder, then headed for the palace, pausing only long enough to give orders to a stable boy on the feed for his horse and the cleaning of his tack. He would return later to make sure that his orders were followed properly.

The messenger was waiting for him outside the stable doors, his nose pinched with displeasure and a perfumed cloth raised to block the natural aromas of the stable. Nemir sneered at the man's pretentious clothing and attitude, but said nothing as the man led the way to his father's study.

He knew the way already, but obviously he was not trusted to follow orders, Nemir fumed silently as he walked down hallways tiled with marble. The walls on either side were covered with bright frescoes that showed the history of Ajantha in all its glory. He took some small pleasure in the trail of dirt that he knew he was leaving in his wake, even though the only ones who would suffer as a result were the servants who would have to clean the floors later.

The messenger stopped outside the carved and gold-leafed doors to the Prince's private study. He pushed the double doors opened and dropped to one knee. "Your Glory, the Lord Nemir," he said in an unctuous tone. Then he rose to his feet and backed away to allow Nemir past before shutting the doors.

Nemir bowed to the angle required. "My Prince," he said. He lifted his head to regard his father.

The Prince of Ajantha was dressed simply in a tunic and leather pants, like the retired soldier that he was. However, the pants were of the finest leather, dyed the deepest of black, and the tunic of rare silk, dyed the indigo blue of the house of Ajantha and covered with embroidery picked out in silver with inlaid gemstones that sparkled in the lamp-light.

And unlike most nobles of his age, the Prince was lean and well-muscled, thanks to daily practice with sword and bow. He also still rode like the soldier he'd been in his youth, the soldier his son now was. His hair was still a glossy black, cut short. His skin was unfashionably tanned and his face could never be considered more than distinctive with its sharp chin and prominent nose, narrow and hooked, looking like it would suit a hawk better.

The Prince did not look angry, which confused Nemir. While he did not recall doing anything that might have angered his father, he could think of no other reason why he would have been summoned without even being allowed the time to wash and change his clothing.

"Nemir," his father said with a small smile and nod. "I have news for you." His tone was warm, but with a note...

Nemir stiffened. While that did not seem threatening, his instincts said that he was not going to like the news. "I am yours to command, my Prince."

"The Prince of Mathan has been in contact with me." Mathan, Nemir knew, was one of the largest princedom's adjoining Ajantha, and one with which they had a long and antagonistic history. "He has a daughter."

Nemir's eyes went wide and his nostrils flared. "Father--"

"No," the Prince interrupted, holding up a hand to forestall the expected protests. "It was inevitable that you would need to marry, and equally inevitable that it would be for political reasons, as I did. Your duty as a future prince to this city requires it, and you *will* submit."

Then his expression softened. "However, the girl is only twelve, so you will have five more years of freedom before you must bind yourself to her and only her.

"But that does not mean complete freedom," he cautioned as Nemir breathed a slight sigh of relief. "You are my heir, which means you must take care. And above all, you must not endanger the line of succession. For the last eight years, you have been a soldier, devoting yourself to the way of the Warrior. Now it is time for you to learn the way of the Prince."

Nemir lowered his head in submission, not letting his anguish show. He had known that this day would come, but he had always told himself not yet. It seemed, however, that 'not yet' had become 'now.' "As you say, my Prince."

"There are those who would use you, my son. Now, more than ever. There have been rumors of discord among the nobles. They will seek favor with you, thinking you easy to manipulate." The Prince smiled at the outrage in his son's face. "They think wrong, of course. However..." His face hardened. "One thing becomes paramount now. The line of succession must be kept certain."

"I do not understand?" Nemir said, puzzled by his father's roundabout comments.

"As heir, you will be sought by many, including the daughters of those nobles who would manipulate you. They will attempt to draw you to their beds, to reach your ear. And if that does not work, they will seek to conceive a child that could be used against you. Or to replace you, if they can. That cannot be allowed."

The Prince tapped lightly on his desk made of imported ebony. "There can be no bastards to endanger the throne, therefore you will go to your marriage bed a virgin to women. If I discover that you have broken this rule, whether the girl is noble or slave or any rank between, *she* will suffer for your indiscretion."

He regarded his son with sympathy. "That does not mean that you need to be a virgin altogether. Indeed, I doubt that you are a virgin now." Nemir flushed, remembering nights where brother warriors shared bedrolls and more. No, no virgin he.

"However, that does not mean that the nobles of the court might not use their sons to control you either. So, I have dealt with that as well.

"When you return to your chambers, you will find a new slave waiting for you. He is foreign, but high born, from the desert tribes. You will train him as your valet. You will also train him to fight. He has a great deal of raw potential, I think. He will also be the only one to share your bed. He will be your constant companion until the day you go to the marriage altar."

Nemir opened his mouth, but could not find the words to express his anger. How could his father order *this*?

"And before you can protest, there is no changing my mind. You cannot dispose of the boy to suit you, I have told him that. At the end of five years, when you marry, he will be freed and the two of you will decide his place, here or elsewhere, then."

The Prince smiled softly. "And this need not be a punishment," he said. "If you embrace this wholeheartedly, this boy will be to you as Konda is to me."

That sharpened Nemir's gaze. Konda was his father's friend and closest confident, as well as captain of the palace guard. The Prince nodded. "When I was brought home to learn the arts of governance from *my* father, Konda was presented to me in the same way, although he was a new guard rather than a slave. And it was the same for my father and his grandfather before him. And so it will be for your son someday."

Nemir bowed his head. "I do not like it..." he said.

"But you will obey," his father finished for him, sympathetically. "Now, I suggest that you go meet your new companion. And Nemir?"

Nemir paused at the door. "Yes, my Prince?" he ground out.

"I trust you not to punish the boy for what is beyond his control."

Nemir nodded curtly, then stomped down the hallway, heading for the royal quarters.

His father had him in a position where he could do nothing. It was not in him to defy orders that would result in punishment for others, and he would not harm the slave, who was innocent in this.

However, that did *not* mean that he had to embrace the boy the way his father wanted. The boy could follow him around, if that was what was necessary, but he did not need to accept him or even acknowledge him. He certainly had not intention of training a slave in how to fight!

And as for his bed, it would remain cold if need be. He had no desire to take a slave to his bed simply because it was his only choice. He would remain celibate, if that was his only other choice.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Three ----------------------------------------

Judas stood back and watched as the palace servants prepared the suite for the return of their -- and now his - - master, trying very hard not to tremble as he prepared for the third major upheaval of his life. Trembling was a weakness, and weaknesses could be used against him. He'd been warned not to show any weakness to the Prince's son, by the Prince himself, no less.

The first upheaval in his life had been expected, and if anything, he was surprised that it had not occurred years earlier. It had started with the death of his grandfather, Chief of the Tribe of the Sands, and ending with his expulsion from the tribe.

His grandfather had been a proud man who had been forced to watch as each of his children had died before him, from illness, battle wounds, and, in one case, treachery, until of seven sons and daughters, only the youngest remained. He had doted on her as she grew up, and when the time had come, he had broken tradition and allowed her to choose her own husband, a handsome and daring young warrior of the tribe. When she had quickly become pregnant, the entire tribe had celebrated.

But less than a year later, they were grieving. First, the handsome young warrior had died in a raid on a rival tribe's herds. Then, a month later, the Chief's daughter had died birthing twin sons.

The younger, Jamal, had been everything a tribe could hope for: large and lusty, with dark hair, bright eyes and dusky skin.

Judas, on the other hand, had inspired fear and suspicion. His white skin started to burn the moment it was exposed to direct sunlight. His hair and eyes were colors never seen before in the tribe. And the birthmarks on his forearms reminded even the least superstitious among them of bat wings. As he grew, his height and slender build set him even further apart from his short and stocky brother. By the time of his grandfather's death, the majority of the tribe considered his at best an ill-omen, and at worst, demon-spawned.

But his grandfather had ignored the whispers. Perhaps he never heard them at all. Whatever the reason, he was determined that Judas, as eldest, would become Chief after him. Everyone knew that this was impossible, Judas included, but the elderly man had been insistent. However, on his death, Judas had immediately stepped aside in favor of his brother. His brother was not shackled by rumors and fears. Jamal was not forced to remain inside tents during the day. Jamal was a warrior, respected and loved by his people.

In other words, Jamal was everything that Judas was not.

But still the whispering continued, even after Jamal was acclaimed, and the whispers grew in numbers and volume until Judas had resigned himself to a seemingly inevitable death. Jamal was doing everything he could, but in the end, if he did not reject his brother, he risked the tribe turning on him as well.

It was into this volatile situation that the slaver arrived. The next day, when he left, he took Judas with him, carrying a small chest that had belonged to his mother containing all that was left to him in this world. Jamal had explained to him, tears rolling down his handsome face.

The slaver worked for a man named Kemel. This Kemel, he said, dealt in the finest merchandise. His slaves were bought by nobles seeking concubines that were beautiful and exotic, who lived pampered lives. The picture he painted was one of luxurious ease, and while Judas was skeptical, his brother saw this as his only chance to save his much loved brother.

And so he had come to the city of Ajantha and the House of Kemel. He'd quickly been evaluated as promising and placed in seclusion. For an extended period -- he was not sure how long, although certainly more than a month -- the only persons he'd seen were Kemel twice and the trainers he had assigned to Judas's training. He was drilled in the basics of dance, and he had been told that while he was graceful, it would be years before they considered him a *true* dancer. Similar evaluations had come from his music instructors. He could pluck a simple song on a guitar or harp, but not much more as yet.

Based on their words, he expected to spend months, if not years, being trained into what they wanted him to be, and he had resigned himself once more, this time to his new life. Perhaps he would even come to enjoy this new life, although for now, he missed the clean dry air of the desert and the constant hum of the voices of the tribe outside his tent.

But he hadn't been given time to adjust. He'd been waiting for the next of his trainers to come break the monotony of his day when Kemel had arrived, followed by a stranger. He'd been sold, he was informed with great pride. Sold to the Prince of the city, no less. Before he could grasp the news, he'd been hurried out of the establishment and into a carriage, carrying only his small wooden chest. The man in the carriage with him had remained silent during the short trip to the palace, and Judas had been too stunned to try to ask the questions running through his mind.

Once at the palace, he'd been brought into the presence of the Prince. Following the training that had been drilled into him in his first days at Kemel's, Judas had dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the cool marble tiles.

The Prince had ordered all others to leave, then had told Judas to sit up.

"I have bought you for my son," he had informed Judas. "You are to be his most constant companion until his wedding day. On that day, you will be freed and given more than enough wealth to support you the rest of your days should you choose to leave him. You will entertain him, listen to him, guard him. And you will be his only bed companion, if he so chooses. If he does not choose so, you will watch to make sure he takes no others to bed. But understand this. *I* own you. He cannot send you away, and if I learn that you have shirked in your duties, it is *I* who will punish you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Judas had replied, proud that there was no tremor in his voice.

"Good." The Prince's voice had softened then. "It will not be too onerous a burden, I think. Nemir is a good man. But there are things you should know about him. He does not mind weakness in a person, so long as no show is made of it. Be everything you can and he will accept you. Pretend to be less than you are and he will despise you. Be honest with him in all respects, even if it is to disagree with him, and he will respect you.

"Now, Nemir is currently inspecting the border forts. When he returns, he will be taking up permanent residence here at the palace. He has been training as a soldier up until now. Now it is time for him to train as a Prince. Until his arrival, you will remain in his suite. You will not leave the suite except in his company. In the meantime, I will have books sent, since I understand that you read, as well as a wardrobe befitting the heir's companion."

He had paused and regarded Judas for a moment before smiling. "You will do quite well, I think. Do not disappoint me."

After that dismissal, Judas had been escorted to these rooms and had remained there. That had been the second upheaval in his life, leaving the tight, but comfortable confines of the House of Kemel from the palace of the Prince. Now, the third would come, the man to whom he was now bound for the next five years, regardless of the choices of *either* of them.

There was a disturbance in the halls, and all the servants dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the ground. Judas knelt as well, but remembering the Prince's warnings, he did not prostrate himself like the others, settling for just dropping his gaze to the floor as the door opened.

He kept his eyes down as he heard a muffled thud of something heavy hit the floor, then footsteps coming his way. He kept his eyes lowered but his back straight as a pair of scuffed and dirty boots came to a rest in front of him.

He waited, but the boots didn't move and their owner didn't speak. He did his best to remain calm, but his pride prickled at the deliberate insult. Finally, he refused to wait any longer for acknowledgement. He looked up.

Nemir, heir to the throne of Ajantha was a handsome man, but not exactly what he'd expected. He looked to be at most a year older than Judas. Like his father, he did not look much like nobility. His naturally dark skin was tanned even darker by sun and wind, and looked as tough as leather. There were creases around his eyes from squinting, and Judas could see the signs of calluses on his hands. His travel leathers were stained and covered with dust. Judas felt more than a little over-dressed in his black-on- black silk tunic and pants.

And Nemir reminded him painfully of his brother, cut from the same cloth.

"I don't want you here." Nemir's voice was deep and dry, with a hint of anger underneath. There was more there, but Judas couldn't interpret it. He was good at reading people, but not someone he'd just met, if you could even say that they'd *met*.

"Neither of us has much choice in the matter," he said softly.

"I can find my own lovers."

"If you do, I'll be the one who suffers for it." But the question was, did Nemir care? The young man's flinch reassured him.

"I don't want you in my bed." He was sounding belligerent now, suddenly seeming much younger than his years.

"I have a pallet," he replied, nodding at the thin mattress in the corner with its pillow and cover. A slave's bed, yet ironically more comfortable than any bed he slept on growing up in the desert.

Nemir stared at him for a long moment until Judas was fighting the urge to fidget, to strike back, then nodded. "Good. Just as long as we understand each other." Then he turned away, seeming to dismiss Judas from his mind, and headed over to grab his saddlebags from where he'd dropped them. Judas sat and watched as the man started to unpack, wondering what he was supposed to do now.

It was going to be a long five years.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Four ----------------------------------------

Nemir woke just before dawn, as was his wont, but not feeling rested for once. Normally, he slept like the dead but he hadn't the night before for a number of reasons.

First and foremost was the suffocating feeling of having been fenced in, both by the palace walls after years of sleeping in mostly tents or under the stars, and by society, which was now decreeing the path of the rest of his life. Growing up, he had reveled in the freedom he'd been allowed, if submitting to trainers and commanders could be called freedom, and he did. He'd know that one day that would end and he would be called on to fulfill the duties of heir, but he'd done his best to pretend otherwise. But now everything was being decided for him, from his marriage to his very companions.

And that led to the second reason that he had not been able to sleep properly: The slave boy his father had purchased for him. The boy was like nothing he'd ever seen before, and as a result, someone whose simple presence would draw attention to *him*. No doubt, that was why his father had chosen him, to ensure that Nemir learned to deal with that attention quickly. The boy's freakish height, more than a handspan taller than Nemir, who was not a small man, and the eerie hair and eye color even drew Nemir's eye, despite his best efforts to ignore him. The breathing coming from the pallet in the corner sounded unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent bed chamber. And this was to be his constant companion and only allowed bed partner until the day he was joined to a wife he'd never met.

The lack of sleep had left Nemir feeling exhausted already, but he knew that there was no point in trying to sleep further. His lessons in the politics, diplomacy, literature and science that a prince needed to know would be starting immediately after the morning meal, so now was his best chance for some sword practice. He was *not* going to allow his skills to rust due to lack of use. He slipped from the bed and padded silently to the wardrobe for his practice leathers, not bothering with a robe to cover his nakedness.

A small gasp told him that the boy was awake, but Nemir refused to acknowledge him. He dressed quickly and headed for the door to the suite.

"Where are you going?" a soft voice asked. He wanted to ignore him, but basic courtesy would not allow it.

"To spar before breakfast," he said, reluctantly turning around.

The boy was sitting up on his pallet, wearing a dark nightshirt that covered his upper body but left his long legs bare to Nemir's eyes. He might have thought it an enticement to bedding if the boy was not so obviously innocent of guile.

"May I come with you?"

Nemir rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed was a tagalong. "Don't you have other things you should do?" he asked sharply.

"No."

"Then *find* something!"

The boy seemed to slump in on himself, his silver eyes looking to his lap. "I am not allowed to leave the suite unless it is with you," he said softly.

"How long have you been here?" Nemir asked with a frown.

"Eight days." The boy still would not look up, and Nemir castigated himself for taking his anger out on him. The suite was spacious, with four large rooms -- the bedchamber, an office, the receiving room and a bathing chamber -- but the concept of being confined to them for even a day was painful to him.

"Fine," he said, and the boy's gaze finally flew up, surprise plain to see. "Well? Dress quickly! I won't wait long."

He waited impatiently as the boy dressed, all in black again. "Don't you have anything in a different color?" he asked, although he had to admit that the effect was striking. Probably deliberately so.

"It was all I was given," was the reply. A slave had no choice in what he wore, anymore than he had a choice in what he did.

Nemir sighed, unable to hold onto his anger in the face of the boy's simple acceptance. "We'll deal with that this afternoon," he said, heading for the door again, the boy following silently. Mentally, he cursed his father for doing this to him, then quickly retracted the curses, praying that the gods had ignored his foolishness.

It had been years since he'd lived in the palace on a regular basis, but the route to the practice yard was still burned in his memory. He'd lived in the same suite as a child, although his nurse had lived in the room that was now an office, and he'd spent much of his free time at the practice yard watching the guards train, fascinated by the grace and skill of their movements. His father had even come with him on occasion, and had been his first teacher, handing him a small wood practice sword when he was only five. His grandfather had still been alive then, and as merely heir, his father had had more time for his son. Nemir missed those days.

He took the final turn and passed through the open doorway into the yard that sat on the eastern side of the palace. The palace ran along two sides of the yard, with the guard barracks on the third side. The open end led towards the stables. Even though the sun was barely above the horizon, the palace side was bathed in brilliant sunshine. There were warriors already drilling, and Nemir felt at home for the first time since his return to Ajantha the day before. He took a deep breath and appreciated the scents of dirt and dust and the sweat of honest men doing honest work. This was probably the only place in the palace where he would find such scents.

He stepped forward, then paused when he realized that for the first time, his shadow was not following him. He turned and found the boy hugging the shadows. "What?" he snapped. "Afraid that they might tease you? Call you names?" he mocked.

"No." The boy's voice was low, but firm. Nemir frowned. Why had the boy asked to come with him if he wasn't willing to follow all the way? Perhaps he was afraid of getting dirty.

"Then what's the problem?"

The boy hesitated, then took a step forward, holding his left hand out so that it was in direct sunlight. In the light of day, the pale skin was almost translucent, blue veins easily seen beneath it. Nemir could even see the faint shadows of the fine bones beneath the surface. He stood there, silent, for a long moment. Nemir was about to snap at him again when he noticed what was happening *to* that hand. Immediately, he pushed the boy back into the shadows, grabbing his hand. The back of it was burnt red and he could see small blisters forming already.

Nemir had been burnt by fire in the past, and he knew that the boy had to be in great pain, but he did not make a sound, simply biting his lower lip until Nemir thought it would bleed. The fortitude necessary to stay silent impressed him, against his will.

"Does this always happen?" he asked, horrified. The boy nodded.

Nemir considered postponing his practice session, but was reluctant to do so. "Can you wait until later for some salve for that?" The boy nodded, and he couldn't help feeling a grudging respect. "All right."

He led the boy down the hallway and around the corner into the open corridor that ran along the south side of the yard. A series of arches provided a view of the men sparring. In the evening, the nobles of the court would watch the guards fight in matches, betting on the outcomes, but this early in the day, the corridor was empty. And facing north, as it was, it was deep in shadow and would remain so the entire day.

"Stay here, boy," he ordered, then hopped over the low wall that separated the packed earth of the yard from the marble of the corridor. "As soon as I'm finished, I'll get you some burn salve before the morning meal."

"Judas."

"What?" The single word, spoken softly but firmly, caught him off-guard.

"My name is Judas, not 'boy.'"

He grimaced, but said, "Fine. Wait here, *Judas*."

As he strode over to the equipment racks for a practice sword, he found himself angry again, seemingly without reason. As he started to stretch, he finally realized why.

The boy had a name. A nameless slave could be ignored. *Judas* could not. He glanced over to where the boy was waiting, a pale, ghost-like shadow out of the light of the sun. His burnt hand was held cradled against his chest, pale against the stark black of his tunic, but all of his attention was focused on Nemir. Nemir had never been the subject of such intense and personal scrutiny that he could remember. Ignoring him for the five years until his marriage was going to be more difficult than he had expected.

Nemir turned away again and concentrated on stretching his hamstrings, then moved to the upper body muscles. When he was as limber as he was going to get, he selected a practice sword and moved out to a bare patch of earth and started the opening movements of the sword dance.

And yet... his eyes kept turning south, to the boy, wondering just how he'd come to be here. High-born, his father had said, and yet also a slave. Soft and untrained in the arts of war, yet able to bear pain without protest. Born in the desert, where men lived in tents, yet unable to withstand the light of the sun. So many contradictions in one person. He was a puzzle, and Nemir had never been able to leave a puzzle lie.

Then a guard approached him and offered to spar, so Nemir forced away all thoughts of his unwanted and unusual companion, retreating in the familiar, comforting dance of the sword.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Five ----------------------------------------

Judas watched as Nemir bowed formally to another man dressed in the simple leathers of a soldier or a guard. They moved gracefully into set positions, dull metal practice swords held ready, and stopped.

A moment later they were in motion and Judas could see why so many referred to sword-fighting as a dance. He also understood why his teachers at the house of Kemel had told him that he needed years of training before he would be considered a true dancer. The ease of the two men as they moved together, in concert and conflict at the same time, showed long years of training, and Judas felt a flash of jealousy. The same jealousy that he'd lived with all his life, the jealousy of those who could go out in the sunshine and do these things without fear.

His hand still throbbed where he held it to his chest protectively. He ignored the pain, he and it being old friends. As a child, he'd left the safety of his tent several time, each time convinced that the Gods must have taken pity on him. Each time he'd been wrong. By the time he'd reached his manhood, he'd come to understand that the Gods were never going release him from his curse.

But even though he'd given up on testing the limits of his curse, it was impossible for him to avoid the sun always. The tribe traveled from oasis to oasis with the herds, and he'd had to travel on horseback, swathed in robes to hide him from the sun. Unfortunately, a stray gust of wind might blow up his sleeves, or sweep back his face covering, and he'd be burnt before he could rearrange his clothing. He'd learned long ago to accept the pain and thereby ignore it.

As he watched the two men battle, he began to see a different side to Nemir. It took him a while to realize what the change was, since he'd only known the young man for less than a day, but it finally struck him: Nemir wasn't angry. From the moment he'd looked up into the handsome face of the Prince's son, he'd seen nothing but anger.

The anger hadn't been aimed at him, though. At least not personally. He was angry at Judas not as a person but as a concept. Judas could even understand it, a little. Nemir hadn't asked to be saddled with a slave ordered to dog his every step. He hadn't asked to be ordered to take that slave and *only* that slave to his bed.

The thought of that made Judas shiver. He had no illusions about whether or not Nemir would do so, despite the man's protests. After all, Nemir was young and in his prime, a time when his sexual energies would be at their peak. Judas knew that sooner or later, Nemir would want sexual satisfaction. Self-pleasuring was not very satisfying, he knew from personal experience, and Nemir would either turn to him or someone else.

Judas was not sure which possibility scared him more. His appearance meant that he was the only person in his tribe to reach his age of majority still a virgin, something he'd long resigned himself to, and during the brief time he'd spent at the House of Kemel being trained, the bed-arts was the one realm he'd not had any instruction in. He'd quickly learned that this was because a virgin commanded much higher prices. Nobles liked to... train their bed slaves to their own tastes, whatever those might be. As a result, he had no concept of what Nemir might want of him.

If Nemir took someone else to his bed, he would not have to worry about that, but he would have to worry about *his* punishment would be. It had been made very clear to him that he was responsible for making sure that the Prince's son did not compromise himself, although he was not sure just what he could do to stop that. He had no illusions that if Nemir *did* go against his father's orders, the Prince would find out. Even in Nemir's quarters, Judas had never been alone during the time leading up to the master's return. Palace servants were everywhere and they saw everything. Nothing that Nemir -- or Judas -- did would remain a secret. It did not bother Judas. Living in tents all his life, surrounded by the constant attention of a tribe, he was used to the scrutiny of others. However, he did not think Nemir was as used to the attention, and he prayed that the man would learn soon.

At least Nemir seemed to be an honorable man, not inclined to punish as slave for existing, and he doubted that Nemir would deliberately bring punishment down on his head either. The only real question was what might result from action not properly thought through.

"And what have we here?"

The unexpected voice made Judas whirl around. Other than the Prince and Nemir, no one had addressed him since his arrival at the palace. He'd been ignored by the servants as if he were just a part of the furnishings in Nemir's suite. He was not sure whether or not he should respond to the comment.

He was even more unsure when he saw who had addressed him. He'd never seen the man, of course, but he was obviously noble-born. He wore ornate robes that proclaimed to the world that he'd never had to dirty his hands with work or even his own defense, since they would have hampered any attempt to do either.

Instead, a guardsman in a bright -- but far less hampering -- uniform was a discreet distance away, watching Judas for any signs that he was a threat, and Judas would wager that a dozen or more servants waited on the man's every whim.

Which begged the question: Why was he *here*?

"Noble one," Judas said, bowing to the exact degree he'd been taught.

The man walked a slow circuit around Judas. It was disconcerting to be examined this way, like a fine beast or costly statue being considered for purchase.

The man came to a stop in front of Judas. The smile on his face seemed open and friendly, but Judas could see that it did not reach his eyes. "You would be the heir's new... companion," he said in a tone that verged on insulting.

"Yes, noble one," Judas replied, determined not to look foolish in front of the man. He still wondered what the man wanted.

"And a most unusual one at that," the man murmured, reaching out and not quite touching Judas's hair. There was a flash of an expression on his face that was equal parts calculating and covetous. Then it smoothed away to bland interest once more. And beneath it all, there was no sign that he truly saw Judas as a person. Another might not have noticed that, but it was a look that Judas knew all to well from the members of his tribe who thought of him as demon- spawn, when they dared to look at him at all.

The man's eyes, which were still looking him up and down, came to rest on his damaged hand, still held to his chest protectively. "But you're injured!" he cried in apparent horror.

Judas resisted the urge to hide his burnt hand behind his back. At the reminder, it set to throbbing, and a glance down showed that the skin was starting to crack and peel. "It is nothing," he said softly.

"I disagree, poor boy. Come, let me take you to the healers."

"That is not necessary, I assure you," Judas protested, glancing towards the practice yard. The man's eyes followed his gaze to where Nemir was still sparring, oblivious to what was happening in the shadowed corridor adjacent.

"I'm sure that the heir would not object to you seeing the healers immediately," the man said, stepping forward and laying a hand on Judas's shoulder. "After all, a burn that severe must be excruciatingly painful."

As if on cue, Judas's hand started to throb even more than before, and he had to fight back a cry of pain. He wanted to step away from the man, but the instructions drilled into him by his teachers at Kemel's told him that it would be considered a deadly insult.

"Fair morning to you, Lord Morlan," Nemir said from the low wall that separated the corridor from the practice yard. His hair was matted and his skin glowed in the morning sunlight with the sweat of his exercise. Judas had not noticed him ending his spar or coming over to join them.

Immediately, the man -- Lord Morlan -- stepped away from Judas. He breathed a well-hidden sigh of relief and relaxed. The pain in his hand started to subside again.

"My lord heir," Morlan said, bowing in a way that verged on obsequiousness. Or insult. "I was just suggesting to your... companion that I take him to the healers, since he seems in great need of their services.

Nemir glanced at him and he shivered, wondering if he would be in trouble for someone else's actions. It did not seem fair, but that was the lot of a slave, he knew.

Then Nemir turned his attention back to the lord. "That is most kind of you, but also unnecessary. I will see to it myself as soon as I have scraped the sweat from my skin."

"It would be no bother--" Morlan started to say, but Nemir cut him off.

"I will see to it."

Obviously recognizing the steel in Nemir's bland voice, Morlan bowed again. "As you wish, my lord heir."

Nemir nodded and waited, pointedly, until the man excused himself and left, the guard following behind with n amused look. Then he turned back to Judas. "You should be more careful to whom you speak," he said icily.

Judas stiffened in outrage. "I am a *slave*," he spat. "I do not have a *choice* in the matter." The voice of reason told him that speaking this way was a mistake, that he did not want to antagonize the man he was going to have to live with for at least five years, but his pride overrode self- preservation. Slave, he might be, but he still had his pride.

Pride of the desert met the pride of a prince and soldier. Met and clashed through their glares. The sound of steel clashing from the practice yard was the perfect complement to the battle of wills.

Surprisingly, it was Nemir who broke eye contact first. "Give me a moment to cleanse myself. Then we'll go to the healers to see to your hand," he said, then quickly headed away, going to where he'd left his tunic.

Judas watched him go, his anger washing away as if it had never been. He waited, confused, as Nemir used a soft leather strap to scrape the sweat from his skin and wondered.

Had he just won a battle or lost?

---------------------------------------- Chapter Six ----------------------------------------

As he used the leather scraper to remove the sweat from his skin, Nemir tried to recapture the calm he'd felt while sparring with the guard. That feeling was elusive, though. He despised Lord Morlan under the best of circumstances, and finding him trying to ingratiate himself with Judas was beyond belief. The man had gall!

Nemir set aside the scraper and picked up a handful of sweet-sand from the barrel at the cleaning station and used it to scrub himself. He could have waited until he returned to his suite and have a water bath -- a luxury beyond the means of all but the richest in the small desert-bound city-state -- but after years as a soldier, the sand was comforting in its familiarity. Once it had absorbed the last of his sweat, he took up the fine brush hanging from the barrel and used it to remove the last of the sand from his body, leaving behind only the gentle scent that gave the sweet-sand its name.

As clean and refreshed as he could be, Nemir pulled his breeches back on, then his tunic. He ran his fingers through his hair and considered the length. It could use a trimming, and not with a knife this time. No matter what his own preferences might be, he did not want to reflect badly on his father. Reluctantly, he added a visit to the palace barber to his mental list of things that must be done before the evening meal. He groaned at the thought of that event: he would be on display as the heir returned home, the focus of eyes and plots.

The tailor would be another stop, since his old formal robes were too small for him. He also needed to arrange for something other than black for Judas to wear. Something especially nice, he decided, to make up for his harsh words earlier. He should not have taken out his anger at Lord Morlan on Judas. The boy was right: as a slave, he had no choice in the matter.

Still, he would have to warn him to be wary of the man, and others too.

But first, he needed to take the boy to the healers, he thought guiltily. If he'd known how much worse the hand would get, he would have done so immediately instead of indulging him in a spar that wasn't *really* necessary. A lesson that his own needs would not always come first from now on, he decided.

He glanced around for his vest and found it dangling from the hand of the guard he had been sparring with. "I believe this is yours," the smiling man said.

"Thank you," Nemir replied, taking the vest and putting it on.

"Will you be by later?" the man asked, and there was no mistaking the invitation in his eyes or his smile.

He was a handsome man, perhaps five years older than Nemir. His skin was tough as leather and darkly tanned from sun and wind and sand. He had handled the practice sword with the authority of long experience, and Nemir felt a shiver of desire, remembering what sword calluses felt like sliding over his body, his manhood.

But he sighed and shook his head. "Perhaps, but not for *that* sort of sword dance," he said regretfully.

The man's gaze slid over to where Judas was waiting patiently, and his smile turned wry. "I suppose if I had that for my bed, I'd not be wandering either. Still, if you change your mind, ask for Jorak. And the more the merrier," he added with a merry wink.

Nemir couldn't help smiling as the man walked away. The simple, bawdy humor of the common guard had finally succeeded in restoring his good humor, and his only regret at that point was that he would not be able to take him up on the offer.

Having regained his balance, Nemir headed over to Judas. "The healers have their center this way," he said, gesturing down the hallway in the opposite direction from the way they'd come earlier. "They aren't far, since many of their charges come due to training accidents here or at the stables. Being close is more convenient for those who have to carry an injured person to them. They do keep a healer stationed in the court proper, just in case of assassination attempts, illness or a case of vapors, but it is mainly a ceremonial duty, and one not much liked."

Nemir kept up the travelogue as he led the way, carefully concealing his amusement. Judas seemed thrown completely off-guard by his change in mood. Well, if he was going to be around for the next five years, he had better learn to deal with it. Nemir held grudges for a long time, but his furies were intense and burnt out quickly.

There were only two turns before the hallway opened directly into the large room that was home to the palace healers. A fountain sat gurgling pleasantly in the middle of the room; an unexpected luxury. There were those who protested the waste, but the fountain remained. It actually had a practical purpose; providing water for cleansing of wounds or healer's hands.

However, he had forgotten the large skylight in the ceiling that filled the space with sunshine. Judas shrank back against the wall, avoiding the large pools of light. An elderly healer dressed in his traditional white robes came over as Nemir tried to figure out a way to protect Judas from further burns. "Do you have an injury, my lord?" The man asked. Nemir wasn't sure if the man somehow knew who he was or if he just called everyone as 'my lord.'

"My companion has an extreme sensitivity to sunlight and has burnt his hand as a result."

The healer recognized the problem immediately. "Come with me," he said. He led them around the perimeter of the room where there were still shadows until they reached a door. On the other side of the door, they found a windowless office with books and scrolls and tablets on every flat surface, storage cases along the walls except where broken by hangings that depicted plants valuable to healers. He lit two oil lamps hanging from the ceiling by chains, allowing a warm glow to illuminate the room.

"Now, let me see your hand," the man said, his gray hair and deeply lined face adding the wait of command to the mildly spoken request.

Obediently, Judas held out his hand. The man examined it closely, but did not touch it. The skin was an angry red, contrasting vividly with Judas's natural pallor. The skin was peeling, and Nemir knew that it had to be painful, but Judas showed no sign of it. Grudgingly, Nemir had to recognize the strength of will necessary to keep from showing the pain.

"I must say, I am impressed," the healer said with a definite tinge of disapproval in his voice. "The last time I saw a burn this bad was during the aftermath of the Hamajii fires. However, it is small and localized, so easier to treat. Wait here."

"Hamajii fires?" Judas asked after the healer had bustled out of the room.

"Hamajii is one of the poorer quarters of the city," Nemir explained. "More than twenty years before I was born, a fire razed the entire quarter. My grandfather sent even the palace healers to treat the injured and ease the dying, although many of his court thought that was a mistake."

"Do you?"

Nemir bristled at the question, but quickly realized that there was no accusation in the question, just an open request for information. "No, I don't. A Prince is prince to *all* his subjects, not just those with money. Rumor had it, though, that the fires were deliberately set on the orders of someone high-born. No proof was ever found to support those charges, though." Nemir sighed and shook his head. "There are still those who believe that the quarter should never have been rebuilt." He didn't bother to hide his disgust at that attitude.

Judas nodded in response, but remained impassive. Nemir was finding it difficult to read the boy's expression, but before he could probe for more of a reaction, the healer returned, carrying a glass jar filled with a whitish substance and stoppered with a wood plug. "Here we go," he said, placing the jar on the desk -- or more accurately, on top of a pile of books sitting on the desk -- and removed the stopper. Immediately, the smell of dust was overwhelmed by the sharp scent of herbs.

He scooped up two fingers worth of the salve and gestured for Judas to hold out his hand again. The salve was quickly spread over the burn on the back of his hand, then worked into the skin with gentle strokes. Almost immediately, Judas's expression eased and Nemir realized just how much strain had been there: he had not recognized it until it was gone. Still, he would know it the next time he saw it, he told himself.

"There," the healer said, replacing the stopper on the jar, then using a cloth to clean the excess off his fingers. He picked up the jar and handed it to Judas, who took it awkwardly, one-handed. "Reapply once a day until there is a layer of new skin that is no longer tender to the touch. Then put the jar away until the next time." He smiled ruefully. "With a... disability such as yours, I'm sure that there *will* be a next time."

"Thank you, noble one," Judas said, bowing his head.

The healer waved off the gesture with a snort. "My name is Kale, not 'noble one.' Save the titles for the court fops who think they deserve such titles." He shot a pointed look at Nemir. "I am a healer, and that title means far more to me. It is my duty and my vocation. Now, come to me if you need anything." The smile turned impish. "In fact, return even if you do not need to. If we aren't busy, I would enjoy the chance to talk with you. It's been years since I last had the chance to speak to a member of the tribes, and it would be nice to hear some new stories to go with the old."

Judas glanced to Nemir, who was quick to say, "I'm sure there will be many such chances, Healer Kale." He was already planning to speak to his father about lifting the restriction that prevented Judas from leaving his quarters except in his company.

"Good. Right now, however, I do have duties to attend to. I'm sure that you would prefer not to leave through that sun-filled room." He moved over to one of the wall hangings and pushed it aside to reveal a small doorway opening into a dark corridor. "Turn right and it will lead to an alcove in the main corridor," he said, then winked. "And please, do not spread that information around. I like to sneak out unnoticed from time to time."

Nemir couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped. He also couldn't stop the small flash of jealousy: he did not think he would be allowed the same sort of escape from his own duties. Still, he did not begrudge the man his own back door. "Thank you," he said, then led Judas into the dark space, made darker when the hanging fell into place behind them.

The hallway was narrow and dark, with an old musty smell that said the palace slaves did not know of its existence. No one had cleaned there in decades, at least. Nemir wondered how many *other* such passages were secreted around the palace and who knew of them. He resolved to search his suite carefully for any signs of hidden passages. They could be useful to him, but they could also be a danger if anyone else knew of them.

"How did he know I was of the tribes?" Judas said softly in a puzzled voice.

Nemir smiled, unnoticed in the near-total darkness. "Your accent is an obvious sign. And even if you had remained completely silent, palace gossip would have told him." He decided that this was as good a time as any to acquaint his new shadow with the less than pleasant facts of palace life. "The palace is a breeding ground for rumor and intrigue," he said seriously. "Within a day of your arrival, your name, origin and purpose would have been known to any who cared to, and your connection to me means that nearly everyone did."

Up ahead, he could see the patchy glow of light shining through a lattice, indicating the end of the passage, so he contented himself for the time with one last warning. "Guard your tongue well. It can mean the difference between life and death."

---------------------------------------- Chapter Seven ----------------------------------------

Judas followed Nemir back to the suite in silence. He kept trying to memorize the twists and turns of the corridors, but finally had to concede defeat. All his life, he'd lived in nomadic camps where all you needed to remember was the design of each family's tent. Even his time at Kemel's hadn't prepared him for the maze-like interior of the Prince's palace. He'd never even seen a structure that exuded age and complexity like this one.

Equally confusing was the man he followed. He'd only known Nemir for a day, and the man had gone through so many mood changes that he despaired ever understanding him. Learning the twisted pathways of the palace seemed a far more achievable goal, even if he *was* ordered attached to the man's side.

Among the tribes, life was too harsh to allow any form of deception. Everyone was open about their thoughts and feelings. Even if they concealed them, out of courtesy to another, they never *lied* about them. Nemir, he would have to learn to deal with by trial and error. And after his encounter with Lord Morlan, he was beginning to feel like he'd been dropped unarmed into a pit of sand vipers.

Thankfully, they reached the suite without encountering anyone other than a few servants or slaves who had simply bowed silently as he and Nemir passed.

Still, he breathed a deep sigh of relief as the door shut behind them. After the morning, the rooms of the suite now said 'safety' to him. For a moment he thought that he might never leave them willingly again, but pride stiffened his spine, telling him that hiding from his new world was not an option.

"My lord heir," a new voice said. The stranger rose from the chair in the reception room where he'd been sitting. He was tall and slender, but well-muscled. He moved like one of the desert cats that had followed Judas's tribe's camp. His hair was steel-grey, contrasted vividly by thick, black eyebrows. The shape of his nose echoed the beak of a raptor and his dark eyes seemed to see everything. Judas felt like a small mouse under the eye of a predator when that sharp gaze turned his way.

"Konda!" Nemir said, sounding pleasantly surprised. "I was not expecting you."

"Actually, you were," the man, his solemn expression transforming into a wide smile.

Nemir blinked, looking confused. Then his expression cleared. "I beg your pardon. I had not expected you to be my teacher in this."

"Who better, Nemmie? Since I was not born to the court life, I see it somewhat more clearly. And my position allows me to see *all* of the maneuverings, not just a small piece. You must be Judas," he suddenly said, turning towards him.

Judas jumped slightly at unexpectedly being addressed. He bowed his head as he had been taught and answered, "Yes, noble one."

Konda laughed. "Not quite. And certainly, there is no need for ceremony between us. "He took Judas's hand between his own and smiled down at him kindly. "I know, right now, all of this is new and confusing for you, but that will pass. However, if you ever need advice about being companion to a royal heir, come to me and I will pass on the fruits of my own experiences." He winked, and Judas started again.

He glanced at Nemir, wondering if this was one of those people he needed to guard his tongue around, even thought the diminutive name he'd used for the heir implied a fond familiarity.

Nemir groaned and rolled his eyes. "Don't worry," he said when he finally noticed Judas's expression. "Konda was my father's shadow, like you are mine. Or so I was told for the first time yesterday. However, I wonder if it is wise for *me* to let the two of you exchange stories?"

"Now why would that be, Nemmie? Just because I know all kinds of embarrassing stories about your childhood?"

"Exactly."

Judas kept looking from one to the other, head reeling. He was pretty sure that they were teasing each other, but wasn't sure where he fit into the picture. Finally, he nervously pulled his hand away from the other man and took a step back.

"Now, I assume you went sparring this morning, so in all likelihood, neither of you has eaten yet," the man said, pretending not to notice as Judas moved away. "So I took the liberty of ordering a meal. We can eat as I start your lessons in politics and diplomacy."

Judas took this as an indication that he should take his leave, so he headed for the doorway to the sleeping chamber, but Konda's voice stopped him. "Sit, Judas," he said in a voice accustomed to command, and waited until Judas obediently settled on a stool off to the side of the room. "These lessons will be of value to you as well," he continued in a gentler voice. "You have not been exposed to this sort of society before, and your new position, even as a temporary slave, will put you at the center of it. You need to know what I have to teach as much as -- if not more than -- Nemir."

Judas nodded, the explanation being quite true. Perhaps, if he'd been given this instruction earlier, he would have been better prepared for the incident with Lord Morlan.

He folded his hands in his lap, noting as he did so that the pain in his burnt had was almost completely gone and the skin already showed the early signs of healing, much sooner than he would have expected. The jar of the salve was sitting on the table near the door, where he'd placed on their arrival, and he made a mental note to store it away safely. He'd never come across a salve as effective on his easily-damaged skin.

Then Konda began to speak and he focused all of his attention on the man.

>>>~~~<<<

Breakfast had come and gone, as had lunch, before Konda decided that he'd passed on enough information to allow Nemir to acquit himself in a way that would not embarrass his father that evening. By that time, Judas was beginning to think longingly of the simpler life of both the desert and Kemel's house. Even the maneuvering for position among his grandfather's warriors was like the games children played compared to the poisonous plots of the Prince's court. And yet neither Konda nor Nemir seemed to consider it anything less than expected.

But finally, Konda took his leave. Judas felt as if his head would burst if they had continued any further, and he despaired of ever learning everything he would need to survive the next five years.

Palace slaves cleared away all the traces of the meal as Nemir started to pace, muttering to himself. "Why couldn't I have been born a simple soldier?" he asked the empty air. "Or a farmer? At least there, the only manure I would have to deal with would be spread on the fields."

A slave approached and waited to be acknowledged. "My lord Heir," she said, bowing low. "The royal tailor is here."

Nemir groaned, then looked over to Judas. "The next step of the torture. Formal robes for tonight."

Judas wasn't sure what to say in reply, so he kept silent. When in doubt, remain silent he'd already learned. He was beginning to think that it was the most important lesson he would learn.

The tailor turned out to be a man so lean than he was almost skeletal. He came accompanied by a stream of slaves and assistants carrying bolts of fabric and boxes of pins, as well as sample robes, no doubt to determine size and choose style. He was obviously confident of his position, since he directed his people to set up without waiting for permission, then ordered Nemir to strip to his breeches.

Judas watched in bemusement as Nemir allowed himself to be pushed and prodded, posed and draped with pin-filled cloth, with nothing more than the occasional roll of his eyes and comments that were frustrated, but at the same time, perfectly courteous. That puzzled Judas until one comment that was a little too caustic was answered with a carelessly placed pin and a heart-felt apology for drawing blood.

Finally, Nemir was allowed to step down off the low stool he'd been standing on so that the drape of his robes could be perfected and change back into his own clothing. Then, with a grin that could only be described as evil, he gestured to Judas. "Your turn," he said.

Judas went blank. "Me?" he asked in confusion.

"Of course, you. After all, you need something appropriate to wear tonight."

"Wear to what?" he asked.

Nemir's smile widened. "You are my companion, are you not? If I have to go to the court banquet, so do you. Or would you prefer to hide here?"

Actually, Judas thought to himself, he would. But the near- glee on Nemir's face roused his pride again. Without a word, he stripped to his own breeches, as Nemir had, and stepped up onto the stool, back straight.

Nemir's expression seemed pleased, although he still wasn't sure he was reading it correctly, and he turned to the tailor. "Anything but black," he said, almost pleadingly. "All the clothing he was supplied with before my return is unrelieved black. It makes him look like a priest. Or a ghost."

The tailor walked around him slowly as his assistants waited for orders. Judas blushed under the intense scrutiny. "Remove those," the man said with a frown, gesturing to the wrappings Judas had kept on his forearms. "They will interfere with the measurements."

Judas's eyes went wide. He raised his arms to his chest, holding them protectively close. After the first day, not even his keepers at Kemel's had interfered with the wrappings.

"What is it?" Nemir asked, the sarcasm back, but somehow his tone was also soft. "Hideous scars? Deformities? It does not matter."

Judas met his eyes, pleading silently, but there was no give. Reluctantly, he undid the long bandages wrapping his arms and let them drop.

Several of the slaves, and even a couple of the assistants, backed away with gasps that made him wince. He'd heard them before, as a child, from visiting tribesmen. Between that and the whispers of his own tribe, he'd quickly learned to keep the markings covered.

Nemir, on the other hand, stepped closer, close enough to reach out and touch Judas. "Are those natural?" he asked, only honest curiosity in his voice. "Or are they tattoos?"

Judas resisted the urge to hide his arms and the damning birthmarks there. On his forearms were black marks that closely resembled batwings. "I was born with them," he said softly, looking at his feet. The marks were yet another of the unusual things about him that had convinced his tribe that he had to be demon-sired.

"Interesting. I was thinking perhaps dark blue."

Judas looked up in confusion, but Nemir had already turned away and was talking to the tailor about colors and styles. The glances sent his way showed nothing of the fear and hate he was too used to.

Once more, Nemir had both surprised and confused him. Would he even understand the man?

---------------------------------------- Chapter Eight ----------------------------------------

Nemir discussed styles and colors with the royal tailor while keeping one eye on his new slave. Judas was standing on the stool, obediently holding his arms out and turning as the assistant tailors indicated, looking almost pathetically confused and out of place. Nemir had no doubt that the boy had never been in a similar situation before and a small, cruel part of him found it entertaining.

The rest of him found himself pitying the boy. So far that day, he'd learned that the boy was handicapped in a way that would have killed most tribesmen, that he had a quick and agile mind that he seemed almost afraid to reveal and that he'd been completely cut off from his own people because of their petty prejudices and superstitions.

That, combined with his almost ethereal appearance, was making him a fascinating puzzle, which he found extremely annoying. He had not time to be distracted by puzzles. At least not yet. However, he had more than enough time to look forward to in the future to unraveling all the boy's secrets.

And strangely enough, he *was* looking forward to it.

But for now he satisfied himself with watching the boy try to stop from fidgeting. It was a pity that he'd not had the same training as Nemir. A pity for Judas, that is, as Nemir suppressed a wince as one of the assistants 'accidentally' jabbed the boy with a pin when he shifted his weight without permission.

While he'd never considered it that way, Nemir's training as a soldier was going to prove useful in the court. The first example of that had been his own lack of fidgeting. A soldier had to be able to keep watch silently, not making any move that might attract the attention of an enemy. Nemir had once had to hold the same position from sunrise to sunset, observed by his commander to make sure that he did not shift or even relieve himself. It had been a long and frustrating day, but he'd held, passing the trial. He'd never expected that to be useful for a fitting, but he'd been able to hold still while keeping his mind occupied.

Judas, it was obvious, was not prepared for that.

As well, the banquet that night would stretch his observational skills. He'd always sneered at the petty machinations of the noble-born, but his first lesson with Konda had shown him just how little he knew and how what he did not know could endanger him. Konda had force-fed him the basics, and he prayed that he would remember them when he needed that knowledge. Still, he had not been able to hide his disgust, which had earned him a lecture in parting not to take things too lightly. These were the people he must deal with from this point on. People that he would have to rule.

Judas, on the other hand, had shown an almost horrified fascination when he had not been able to hide his feelings. He'd stayed silent, at first, but Konda had encouraged him to speak up, and while his questions had betrayed his complete innocence, they'd also proved how quickly he learned and how adept he was at piecing together fragments of knowledge into a whole. Despite his own greater familiarity with the people and events discussed, although not too much more familiar, Nemir would have to work hard at these lessons to remain ahead of Judas in what was already becoming a contest in his mind.

"Enough," the tailor finally barked, waving his assistants aside. "My lord heir," he said, turning to Nemir with a bow. "We will have robes for the two of you ready before sunset. The others we discussed will be delivered as they are finished."

"My thanks," Nemir said with an nod. He did not offer the man money, nor would it have been accepted. The Prince supported him more than adequately, and tailors fought for the chance to work at the palace, where the finest of materials were provided for them to work with and the members of the court encouraged them to greater and greater heights of creativity. And when they chose to leave, they could command amazing fees to reproduce that magic for those not lucky enough to have the services of the court tailors.

The man and his entourage packed with amazing speed, considering how far the tools of their trade had spread across the room. After they left, Nemir nodded to one of the palace runners. "Tell the barber that we will need his services before the dinner hour," he told the young girl. She nodded, and headed off at speed.

Nemir turned to his companion and smiled at the boy's stunned expression. "Get some rest," he said, his tone almost gentle. "There is time for some sleep before we need to prepare for the banquet."

Judas looked uncertain, but Nemir did not wait for him. Stripping off the clothing he'd barely gotten back on after his own fitting, he headed for his bed. He normally would not sleep in the middle of the day, but the evening's festivities would no doubt go late, so he fell back on soldier training which told him to get his rest while he had the chance.

After a moment, Judas followed. Already in his bed with only the gauzy bed-curtains between himself and the world due to the high mid-day heat, Nemir watched through slitted eyes as Judas unlocked the chest he had next to his pallet and carefully put the jar the healer had given him inside and relocked it. Nemir wondered what else was inside and how a slave, however recently so, had been allowed to keep a locked space.

Yet another puzzle to ponder.

>>>~~~<<<

The heat of the mid-afternoon was oppressive, even deep inside the palace made of stone, and Nemir woke bathed in sweat and almost panting for breath. He'd slept for several hours, which should be enough to sustain him through the evening, so he decided to get up. The barber would be coming shortly, along with the robes for the evening, so he would just have enough time to bathe first.

Judas's pallet was empty, the blanket that would be necessary once the sun went down folded up neatly at the end with the thin pillow carefully positioned on top of it. The locked chest was placed between the pillow and the wall. Nemir eyed it speculatively for a moment, but decided to let it go for the time being.

In the reception room, he found Judas curled up on a cushion reading one of the books that Konda had left for them, so absorbed that he didn't notice the looks that the two servants tidying up the room unnecessarily were sending his way. Their expressions cleared to blank masks the moment they noticed Nemir and they dropped to their knees, but Nemir had seen the mixture of hate, fear and lust that had been there. He glared and nodded for them to leave, which they did quickly. Judas hadn't stirred the entire time, except to turn the pages of the leather-bound history of the city.

Nemir couldn't help smiling at the expression of intense concentration on the boy's face, the crease between his nearly invisible brows as he obviously tried to puzzle out the archaic language of the old book. "You don't have to read it all today," he said softly.

Judas nearly jumped out of his own skin before controlling himself. "I'm sure Lord Konda will want his book back."

Nemir shrugged. "If he does, my father has a large library we can borrow from. In fact, I expect that the volume you are holding came from that library. It can stay here until we finish it and are ready to move to the next."

Judas flinched at that, although he wasn't sure why. "I'm sorry. Did you want it first?" He closed the book carefully and held it out. Nemir blinked, wondering why the boy seemed so nervous. Or more nervous than before.

"There are four volumes here to read," he said, rubbing at the dried sweat that was itching on the back of his neck. "I'm sure I can find enough to keep me occupied while you read that one. Besides, I read it when I was a child, so all I would be doing is refreshing my memory."

Judas nodded and returned the book to his lap, although he didn't open it again.

The silence was starting to be awkward. "There's just enough time to bathe before the barber arrives," Nemir said finally. "Would you assist me?"

That brought on a flinch again, and he quickly realized why this time, but Judas quickly got to his feet before he could reassure him that his virtue was safe. Nemir sighed and waited for the boy to flee the room in a panic, but he just headed for the bathing chamber with a determined expression on his face. Nemir followed, feeling more than a little frustrated. While Judas was his for the taking, as a slave, and despite his resolutions, he was not sure he could stay celibate for five years, he had no intention of molesting the boy. He wasn't ready to completely give in to his father's plans, and he certainly was not going to bed an unwilling partner.

Inside the tiled and slightly cooler room, he found Judas, already nude, filling the sunken tub. Pipes carried the lukewarm water from the central cistern that serviced the entire palace.

Deciding that actions spoke louder than words, Nemir stripped and stepped down into the deep tub. He picked up a sea sponge, transported across the desert by merchant caravans, and started to soap himself. Sweet sand was fine for everyday use, but soap and water was necessary before presenting himself to the court.

Judas was standing, fidgeting ever so slightly, watching in silence as Nemir bathed. Once he'd soaped and rinsed every part that he could reach, Nemir turned and held out the sponge. "I cannot do my own back," he said simply.

Judas took the sponge and soap and gingerly put it to use. "A little harder," Nemir prompted, then groaned with pleasure as the scrubbing intensified. He hung his head forward and let Judas continue with his task until every part of his back tingled. At that point, he pulled away and crouched down until the water reached his neck.

Standing up again, the soap all gone, he took up a handful of a softer, milder soap and scrubbed it through his hair. He cursed softly as a bit of soap made his eyes sting.

At that point he heard a splash and felt the water move around a second body. Then he felt finger moving into his hair. "Cover your eyes," Judas said softly from behind him.

Not replying, he rinsed the suds from his hands, then used them to shield his eyes. Judas's fingers quickly worked the soap through his hair, then urged him to duck under the water to remove the suds.

His task done, Judas moved back and started to climb out of the tub. Nemir reached out and grabbed his wrist. There was a flash of fear in his eyes, but it vanished quickly. "You need to bathe to," Nemir pointed out. "Will you allow me to wash your back as well?"

Judas stared at him for a moment, then nodded, almost shyly.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Nine ----------------------------------------

Judas held still as Nemir scooped up a handful of the soft soap from a bowl set on the sunken tub's edge and worked it into a lather against his back. Then the sponge he'd used on Nemir was used by the man to scrub *his* back.

He'd never had his back scrubbed before and he found that he liked the feeling. Now he understood why the other man had groaned in pleasure, and found himself leaning back into the scrubbing, his eyes closing as he enjoyed the sensation. Nemir chuckled, but there was no derision in the sound, so Judas decided to ignore him.

When his back was clean, Nemir used his hands to lift water to rinse the rest of the soap away. Judas expected him to climb out of the bath at that point, but instead, the heir tugged at his arm to turn him around and started washing his chest and arms as well.

"Stay close to me tonight," Nemir said, his eyes on his self-appointed task. "There are those who will try to trick you into saying something that will reflect badly, so just stay silent if you have any doubts."

Nemir took up a handful of the other soap and lifted his hands. "Close your eyes," he ordered, then started to work the soap into Judas's hair. Judas had to fight to keep from gasping; the massage of fingers against his scalp felt even better than the scrape of the sponge against his skin. "Actually, staying silent might be a good idea. The nobles of the court have all been raised to ignore the servants. If you stay silent, they may say things in your hearing that they would not say in mine. Rinse now."

Judas pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger and dipped below the surface of the water. When he surfaced, he pushed his sodden hair back and blinked the water from his eyes. When they cleared, he found Nemir staring at him with an intent expression.

They were standing in the deep tub almost chest to chest. A little startled by the expression of Nemir's face, he dropped his eyes a little and found himself becoming fascinated by the way the man's breathing made the muscles of his chest expand and contract. Once more, he could not help comparing his own slender frame to Nemir's stocky, firmly muscled one.

After the silence stretched up, his gaze returned to Nemir's face and saw that the man was swaying towards him, lips slightly parted and eyelids drooping sleepily. Judas's heart started to pound as he realized that Nemir was about to kiss him.

Then Nemir's eyes flew open and he stepped backwards, looking almost shocked. "I trust you can finish your lower body?" he said, climbing out of the tub, looking at anything *but* Judas.

"Yes," Judas said softly, his heart rate slowing again.

"Don't take too long. The barber will be here soon."

With that, Nemir nearly fled the room. Judas watched him go, confused, and wondered if he was relieved or disappointed that Nemir had not followed through on his apparent intentions.

>>>~~~<<<

By the time he'd finished his bath and dried off, he could hear voices in the outer chamber. He used one of the waiting bath sheets to dry himself, then put his breeches back on.

When he exited the bathing chamber, he found Nemir sitting on the stool he'd so recently been standing on with a man holding a knife standing behind him. His eyes went wide and he rushed forward to grab the arm holding the knife as it descended towards the heir's unprotected throat.

The armed man spun and his forearm connected soundly with Judas's jaw, sending him sprawling. "How dare you!" the man blustered, then kicked out, landing a solid blow on Judas's ribs, driving the air from his chest.

His foot was drawing back for a second blow when an ice- cold voice stopped him. "Stop."

To Judas's amazement, the man did just that. "My lord--" he started to say, but Nemir cut him off.

"Do not touch him. Are you alright, boy?"

Judas nodded, pushing himself upright to a seated position. His side ached, but there was no damage, although he would certainly have a mark in time. If anything, the use of the name 'boy' hurt more. "He had a knife," he said softly, looking back and forth between the two men in confusion.

Surprise flashed across Nemir's face, then he chuckled. "He is a barber. How else would he shave me?"

At that point, Judas finally noticed the remains of a lather on Nemir's face. Earlier, the man had sported a closely trimmed beard. Now his face was bare of any facial hair. As well, Nemir's hair was of a shorter and more even length. Embarrassed, he dropped his eyes. "I apologize, my lord," he whispered, his face burning.

"There is nothing to apologize for," Nemir said, squatting in front of him, ignoring the spluttered protest from the barber. "Better that you err on the side of caution."

"He should be punished," the barber said angrily. "Slaves do not attack free men!"

Nemir twisted around to glare at the man. "I will not punish him for trying to protect me, even if there was nothing to protect me from. Or do you believe I should not *be* protected?"

"Of course not, my lord heir. But protection is the province of the guards, and he is a *slave*. Slaves should not be allowed to act above their station."

Nemir rose to his feet, his face dark with anger. "Enough. You have finished your task, so go."

"My..."

"Silence! Or do you believe that it is the province of barbers to lecture nobles?"

The older man stiffened, then bowed. "Of course not, my lord heir." But his gaze was still hot and angry on Judas as he left the suite.

Nemir sighed, then turned back to Judas. "So much for having your hair trimmed."

"I am sorry..."

"Don't be, Judas. I will not fault you for trying to protect me, although you might be more circumspect about it in the future. In the meantime, do you know how to shave another person?"

Judas blinked at the sudden change of subject. "I used to shave my brother."

"Good." Nemir went into the bedchamber, then came out carrying a small, but obviously very sharp dagger. "Since you interrupted my shave, you can finish it."

He handed the dagger to Judas, then sat down and lifted his chin expectantly. Judas stared at him in shock. They'd known each other for only a day and Nemir trusted him -- a *slave* -- at his throat with a knife? He touched the edge with the pad of his thumb and winced as the skin parted easily.

Nemir was watching him, one eyebrow raised in an amused challenge. That amusement was enough to provoke him into motion. He stepped forward, took Nemir's chin in his hand and started to carefully scrape the last of the beard from the man's face.

The activity made him very nervous, although he controlled it so that his hands would not shake while the razor-sharp blade was at Nemir's throat. Remembering his own reaction to such a sight, he could only imagine what a guard might think seeing a slave with a dagger pressed against the heir's flesh.

Fortunately, there were no interruptions before he finished his task. He cleaned the blade against his breeches, then handed it to Nemir before heading to the bath chamber to soak a cloth in water to use to wipe the last soap and hair from the man's face.

Once that was done, Nemir ran a hand over his chin. "Very nice," he said. "I prefer a beard, but as long as I need to be shaved, I believe I will let you do it." Judas couldn't help smiling at the compliment.

At that point there was a knock at the entrance. At Nemir's nod, Judas went to the door and opened it. "Yes?"

It was one of the tailor's assistants. She had bundles of cloth slung over one arm. "The robes," she said, nodding to her burden.

Judas stood back and let her enter. "The master tailor told me to see that they fit properly," she said, setting the clothing down over the back of a chair. Then she stood back and settled into a waiting posture.

Nemir strode over to the chair and separated the clothing into two piles. One, he handed to Judas. "Dress," he ordered, then unashamedly stripped himself. Judas could not mistake the flash of interest on the young woman's face and deliberately placed himself between her and Nemir. Not that he was jealous of that interest, of course. He was simply performing his duty of ensuring that the heir remained chaste until his wedding.

The clothing he held were far simpler than the outfit Nemir was dressing in, but it was also richer than any he'd ever worn. The breeches were white, as was the shirt with loose sleeves that gathered at his wrists, making the fabric billow. The soft boots sent to go with the outfit were dark blue and almost fit. Considering the length of time they had, he was surprised that they found anything that would fit his long, narrow feet, and while the fit was not perfect, it was a pleasant change from the slippers he'd been wearing since leaving his tribe.

And for over it all was a knee-length tunic made from a heavy fabric died a deep blue that reminded him of the desert sky after the sun had set but before the light had completely faded. It had wide shoulders that hung like short sleeves over the longer sleeves of his shirt. The edges of the sleeves, hem and neckline were embroidered with a very simple design of silver and a deep pink that almost matched the roots of his hair.

"Let me see," Nemir said, coming over to stand in front of him. Judas held still as the man adjusted the hang of the tunic and looked him up and down. Nemir smiled and nodded. "Much better than black," he said in a satisfied tone.

Naturally, Nemir's outfit was much more luxurious while being similar in design. His breeches were of a dark brown velvet and his ivory-colored shirt was of silk instead of the plain linen that made Judas's. The boots were his own, shined to a high gloss, and the dark red tunic was open down the front and sides, held together with gold laces. The ornate embroidery was also gold, with rubies sewn in until he almost shimmered in the light of the room's lamps.

The tailor's assistant walked around each of them, checking the hang of the cloth and every seam. Two loose threads were snapped off, then she stepped away, looking pleased. "The fit is proper," she said. "Do you like the design?"

Nemir ran his hands down the front of his tunic, smoothing a tiny wrinkle, and nodded. "Very impressive, especially considering the speed of execution. I am extremely pleased." He smiled and the young woman nearly glowed at the praise.

However, if she was expecting a more personal thanks, she was disappointed. Nemir escorted her to the door and sent her on her way with another smile, but nothing more.

Then he turned back to the room and headed for the sleeping chamber. Knowing that they needed to leave soon, Judas waited where he was, a little confused at the delay.

Nemir emerged again with a gaudy, jeweled dagger tucked into the top of his boot and strapping another, more functional looking dagger to his thigh, just under his tunic where it would not be obvious but would be easily reached. The first was obvious just for show, distracting watchers from noticing his other weapon.

He paused and looked at Judas. "Your hair is a mess," he said bluntly. "Sit."

Judas sat down on the stool, wondering if Nemir intended to cut *his* hair. Instead, a towel was placed around his shoulders to keep his finery from getting any wetter and a comb started tugging at his hair determinedly and not very gently. Luckily, his hair was very fine and the tangles were soon gone, but before he could say anything, it was tugged at again.

Finally, Nemir stepped back. "Stand up. Let me see."

Judas stood, his head feeling strangely unbalanced. He reached back and felt the heavy plait that now fell halfway down his back, along his spine. Only the hair around his face had been left loose. He'd never braided his hair before, and it felt... different.

Nemir nodded with obvious satisfaction, then headed for the door again. "Time to go, Judas," he said, pulling the door open.

And like a lamb to the slaughter, Judas followed.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Ten ----------------------------------------

The banquet was exactly as Nemir had expected: long, tedious and more than a little embarrassing. Nemir disliked being the center of attention and on this night, he could not avoid it. Worse, he knew that it was not just for the one night; it was from now until the day he died.

But he was pleasant and respectful, not wanting to spoil the night for his father. While the Prince understood and, to a degree, shared his son's feelings, his pride in the young man was obvious to all. This was his first opportunity to present his son to the court as a man. Under the circumstances, any father could be forgiven.

Thankfully, with the setting of the sun, the desert air had cooled considerably. As a result, he was nearly comfortable as the Prince proclaimed that his son, having proved himself a man on the fields of battle had returned to take his place at his father's side as aide and heir. In addition, Nemir's betrothal to the first daughter of the Prince of Mathan was announced.

For Nemir, the most embarrassing point of the evening, and one that he had not expected, was the moment when everyone in the room except his father had knelt to acknowledge his elevation from heir-presumptive to Heir. He'd had to fight to keep from fidgeting until the crowd had stood once more.

The formalities finally over, the court moved to their seats in the banquet hall. The placements of the seat spoke volumes for the status of the members of the court with the most powerful seated closest to the dais.

The dais was where the Prince sat, raised up so that he could see the entire room and so that all could see him. Konda, as his chief guard, despite being past the prime of youth, had his place standing behind his Prince's reclining couch.

The Prince's chief wife would normally take the couch next to his, but since the death of Nemir's mother more than five years earlier, the Prince had not elevated any of his concubines to that position, Instead, Nemir took that place as the reason for the night's festivities. And while normally a slave would not attend at all, except as a server, Judas was seated on a cushion on the floor at his feet. While this was highly unusual, no one would question it, since the Prince had expressed no disapproval.

Talk began as the servers arrived, setting out the platters of food. In the corner, a group of musicians provided musical accompaniment to a dancer who weaved her way around the room, hips swaying and filmy garments floating in the breeze from the windows.

"So, Konda tells me that he expects you to learn quickly," the Prince said, leaning close so that they could not be overheard.

Nemir picked up a round, flat-bread and filled the center with some of the heavily spiced meat and potatoes from a bowl before answering. "I do not like politics," he said tersely before rolling the bread and taking a bite.

His father chuckled. "Beware of anyone who *does* like politics," he advised, exchanging glances with Konda. Knowing now the truth of their relationship, Nemir wondered how he could have missed seeing it before. There was an easy intimacy there that told him that they were more than just Prince and guard.

"Those who love politics and the games involved play to benefit themselves," Konda said in agreement. "And for them, betrayal is a way of life. Treat the game as an exercise in war and tactics. Learn it well, but avoid the blood-lust that makes it an addiction."

Nemir nodded, then glanced down at Judas. The boy was hunched over to minimize his exposure to the room, and while his eyes were fixed on the colorful tiles of the floor, the tilt of his head said that he was listening to every word.

Noting that the boy's position behind his couch shielded him from most eyes, Nemir surreptitiously cut a wedge of the sharp, golden cheese and passed it and a flat-bread to him. The boy had not eaten since midday, and since the banquet would go late into the night, it would not be fair to make him wait until morning to eat again.

When he looked back to his father, he saw an approving smile on the man's face -- and a slightly smug one on Konda's -- and could not suppress a flash of anger. While he loved his father dearly and found Judas less of an irritation than he'd expected he did not like being manipulated. Not even when it was to supposed to be for his own good.

The brief moment of anger, quickly covered up, also did not escape his father's notice, and the man's expression softened. "I do understand your feelings, my son," he said. "In this and everything else. When my own father summoned me home to become Heir, I was miserable. I loathed the court and the falseness I saw there. And when he informed me that Konda was to be my shadow and all that entailed, I felt betrayed. I felt that he did not trust me to behave as a true Heir should."

He paused to take a sip of the heated spice-wine in his goblet. A slave rushed forward to refill that small amount consumed from a pitcher the moment he lowered the goblet, then moved back again.

Nemir was astonished. His father had just put into words exactly how he felt. "If that is so, why inflict the same on me?" he asked, then flinched. His tone had sounded more appropriate to a small child just denied a treat.

The corner of his father's mouth quirked up into a small, private smile. "Because in the end, it was the right choice. I learned this, as did my father and his father before him and hopefully you will as well. A companion is the one person we can be completely honest with and who returns the favor in turn. Konda is my truest friend, most honest advisor and staunchest ally in the face of those who would use or destroy me. And if you allow it, in time Judas will can be the same for you."

Then he chuckled softly. "Not that I would have believed that at first, myself," he said wryly. "It was nearly a month before I said anything to Konda other than a curt order to which I neither expected nor wanted a response. It was a year before I admitted first to myself, then to him, that we could be friends. And even then, it was nearly another year before I admitted that I was not made for celibacy."

He met Nemir's eyes with a wicked grin that was quickly smoothed over into the calm, dignified expression more appropriate to a Prince. "I am glad to see that you are at least a *little* less stubborn than I," he said. He glanced over at Konda, his face lighting up for a moment. "And I hope that when you reach my age, you will look back and say that could have made no better choice for you. It is what I would say to my father, were he alive."

Nemir sat silent, unable to think of a response. He had learned more about his father in one conversation than he had in all the years that had come before. Perhaps it was because they'd spent little time together since he left to become a soldier while still too young for such discussions.

He looked over to Judas and found the young man sneaking a glance. He saw consideration, confusion, sympathy, pride, fear and a host of other emotions before Judas ducked his head again, blushing faintly.

He looked back to his father and nodded in acceptance. "I hope you are right," he said simply.

>>>~~~<<<

After the last of the food was cleared away, the festivities began in earnest. The tables were removed and the musicians who'd filled the air with gentle tones during the meal were joined by more of their fellows and the music picked up in tempo.

As well, more dancers appeared, this time less demure in their movements. Nemir noted with distaste how some of the court -- and not just the males -- reached out to fondle the dancers as they passed by. There were not many, but he made careful note of the ones who did. Morlan, he was unsurprised to see, was included in that number.

There was little he could do about it at the moment, though. There would always be those who considered their birth to be justification for such behavior. It did not matter if the object of their attentions was slave, free or even another noble. As long as they were lower in status...

Nemir snorted in disgust and put down his goblet. He was becoming intoxicated, he realized, and well on his way to maudlin. True, he could do little to change the attitudes of other. However, in time they would come to learn that those who *acted* on those attitudes would find little favor in his eyes. Perhaps then they would modify their behavior, if only in public.

Still, it would be years before that happened. Nemir sighed. "Come," he said to Judas who haunted his side as he had all night. "I feel the need for fresh air."

Judas nodded obediently and silently followed him out onto the terrace that overlooked the city. Nemir leaned against the stone balustrade, looking out into the dark.

The city was dark, but he could see clearly in the light of the nearly full moon. And even so, the city was not completely without light. Here and there, he could see the glow of lanterns through open windows, as well as the cheerful glow of bonfires. Fireworks sent sparks of color into the sky at periodic intervals. The celebrations, his father had decided, were to spread well beyond the walls of the palace.

And in the distance, he could hear the sounds of pipes and singing, reminding him of nights spent around the campfire out in the desert. Nemir breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh air, free of the incense and perfumes inside, pretending for a moment that he *was* out in the desert. Then he set aside those fantasies and turned to look at Judas.

The boy was standing next to him, back straight and eyes fixed longingly on the desert dunes, barely visible in the distance beyond the city walls, and Nemir realized that he was not the only one who longed for the freedom of the sands outside the city. The moonlight glittered suspiciously on the boy's cheeks, but when he turned back to Nemir a moment later, his eyes were dry.

Then his eyes widened in shock and he threw himself at Nemir, knocking him to the ground, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of metal hitting stone.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Eleven ----------------------------------------

As the evening wore on, Judas tried to decided which was worse, being ignored by the majority of the people in the room after a single appraising look or *not* being ignored after that initial appraisal. He was not used to being the target of such lustful looks. He found more and more that he wished that he could return to the suite he now shared with Nemir to wash away the invisible grime that he seemed to feel covering him.

Finally, he resorted to keeping his eyes down and tried not to feel the touch of all those eyes. However, with nothing to distract except the bits of food that Nemir was able to slip him, he could not help listening to the conversation between Heir and Prince.

From the sound of things, while he'd been promised his freedom at the end of his five years, once Nemir was safely wed, the Prince seemed to expect that both he and Nemir would want him to remain as his companion. Judas did not know how he would feel when that time came, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that he had time before he and Nemir would have to decide on the path of his future.

The one question that he did not like to consider was where he would go and what he would do if he *did* leave.

Based on his first brief meeting with the Prince and the conversation he was now listening to, he found the Prince a man worthy of respect and very reminiscent of his grandfather in many ways. He struck Judas as being scrupulously fair. And while he would not want to be on the man's bad side, he found that he actually liked Konda.

But in the court they were the exceptions. Most of the people reminded him of the arrogant young warriors of his own tribe. The ones who believed themselves invincible and immortal, deserving the best of everything that the tribe had to offer in return for their prowess in the raids and defense of the tribe. His grandfather had kept them in line when he was alive, along with the older and wiser warriors, but now..

Judas held back a sigh. He loved his brother dearly, but if Jamal had any serious failings it was his willingness to listen to his friends before the advice of older and wiser men. Flattery and companionship could easily lead Jamal along paths that could be disastrous.

Still, he was not without hope. Judas knew that several of those bravos had urged his brother to dispose of him in a more permanent way even *before* their grandfather's death. That Jamal had refused and found another path suggested that he was still his own man. However, Judas would probably never know for sure what direction Jamal would lead the tribe in.

"Come," Nemir said suddenly, snapping Judas from his reverie. "I feel the need for fresh air."

Judas followed gratefully as Nemir lead them out onto the terrace. Surprisingly, they found themselves alone there.

Out in the clear night air, Judas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was the first time he'd been outside, unconfined, since he'd been turned over to the slavers. He'd gone from the slaver wagon to the House of Kemel, then the palace in a carriage. His time spent waiting for Nemir during his sparring session that morning had been the closest he'd come to being outdoors in weeks. This was even better, though, and he planned to enjoy this chance.

He lifted his face to the light of the full moon, and for a moment, he pretended that he was back home, standing outside his tent. The murmur of conversation through the open doors to the banquet hall and the distant sound of singing combined to mimic the night sounds of the tribe's camp. Unfortunately, the ripe smell of the city interfered with the illusion.

Sighing, Judas opened his eyes again and looked out over the roofline of the city. In the distance, he could make out the walls that surrounded the city and beyond them, barely visible, he could see the desert dunes.

They stood in silence for a while, Judas feasting his eyes until he realized that there were tears running down his cheeks. He blinked furiously for a moment to clear his eyes, then turned away. There was little point in torturing himself with a past that was no longer part of his world.

His attention on his immediate surroundings once more, Judas found Nemir watching him with an expression that looked suspiciously like sympathy. Judas's pride flared, and he was about to tell the Heir what he could do with his unwanted sympathy when a movement seen out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Turning his head slightly, he saw the movement again, drawing his eye to a building near the palace, no doubt home to one of the nobles inside.

Standing on the rooftop was a man, lifting something to his shoulder. Judas's eyes went wide as he realized that it was a crossbow.

There wasn't time to shout a warning, so he threw himself at Nemir, knocking the shorter man to the ground. It seemed as though he could feel the passage of the deadly projectile as it passed over his head, through the space that had been occupied by the Heir only a moment before.

Nemir truly was a soldier. As soon as he hit the tiles, he rolled so that he was on top of Judas, shielding him. A moment later, he pushed up, making sure that their attacker's line of fire was blocked by the stone balustrade. He looked cautiously over the top in the direction that the crossbow had been fired from, then stood up. "Whoever it was, hr is gone now," he said, offering his hand to help Judas to his feet.

Judas was not quite so confident, but he was not going to show fear. He took the hand and the assistance, his eyes roving, looking for the next threat to appear.

Nothing.

And amazingly, the assassination attempt on the terrace seemed to have gone unnoticed by either the guards below or the nobles inside. Music, conversation and much too polite laughter spilled through the open doorway, but there were no cries of shock. Judas glared in the direction of the doorway, wondering what was so wrong with those inside that they had not noticed that their newly returned Heir had nearly been killed.

Nemir shook his head, still holding onto Judas's hand as if to restrain him. "We are out of sight of the door," he said softly, "and there was not enough noise to attract attention. I would prefer that it stayed that way."

Judas shook his head in disbelief. "Someone tried to *kill* you," he protested, but not loudly enough to attract attention, although he was not sure why. "Shouldn't..."

"Shouldn't I summon the guards? Order a house by house search?" Nemir suggested, the corner of his mouth quirking up at Judas's annoyance. "Our would-be assassin will be long gone with no witnesses to describe him, I am sure. The only result of raising the alarm would be to say that I am vulnerable." He bent over to pick up the spent bolt from where it lay on the tiles slipped it into some pocket inside his robe.

Judas just stared at him. "You *are* vulnerable."

Nemir sighed. "We are all vulnerable," he said sadly. "My grandfather died at the hands of assassins and there are rumors concerning my mother's death." Then his eyes went intense, focused on Judas. "But now I have you to watch my back." The expression Nemir's eyes made Judas's breath catch in his throat. Oh how he wished that he could read the young man better. "You will watch my back, won't you?"

Judas swallowed. "Yes," he said, barely above a whisper. He would. There was something about Nemir that drew him, fascinated him, and he did not want him to die before getting to know him better. As well, he did not want to know what the Prince would do if he let the Heir die but survived himself. He swayed in place, his gaze locked to Nemir's

"Nemir? Are you out here?"

At the unexpected voice they nearly flew apart, both looking towards the open doorway. Judas could feel his face heating up. A quick glance at Nemir found him to be outwardly composed, however he seemed to be breathing a little more heavily than even the near miss would warrant. Then he turned his attention back to the slim figure back- lit by the lamps inside.

The figure stepped out onto the terrace, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence, resolving into a young woman the same age -- or near to -- as himself and Nemir.

She was nearly as slim as a boy, with a subtle figure, but none would ever mistake her for one. Her long hair hung loose, falling in a straight curtain to her waist, held back from her face by jeweled combs. Her garment was a simple wrapped gown that left her smooth shoulders bare, but the deep red silk was obviously expensive and complimented her complexion perfectly. Judas also noted that the color was a near perfect match to that of Nemir's own red tunic.

He recognized her from earlier, of course. He'd carefully examined everyone in the room, looking to apply what Konda had started teaching them that morning. She'd been seated two-thirds of the way down the hall, indicating a lowly status in the court. She'd also seemed to show no interest in the dais, keeping her attention on those seated around her, but now she was smiling brightly at Nemir. "Oh Nemir. I thought you were never going to return!"

She nearly threw herself at Nemir, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him on the cheek. Judas's back went rigid with shock and he wondered what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to ensure that no woman became too 'close' to the Heir, but there was little he could do at that moment short of pulling her away physically.

Fortunately, after a moment of surprise, Nemir was the one to disentangle himself from the girl. He pulled away until she was at arm's length and carefully examined her face, a puzzled frown on his own.

She waited patiently until his expression changed to one of surprise. "Layla?" he said in a tone of delighted disbelief.

"Who else would I be, pray tell?" she said archly, holding out her arms in a way that invited -- and received -- an inspection of *more* than just her face. Judas's stomach began to churn. She seemed far too familiar with the Heir for his comfort.

"You've changed," Nemir said, his admiration clear.

"So have you. When last I saw you, I was the taller and able to defeat you in a wrestling match. When the nurses were not around, that is," she added with a smile. "Nearly ten years have brought a lot of changes to us both.

"I suppose they have. Judas!" Nemir turned and gestured for him to step forward. "Layla, this is my companion, Judas. Judas, I would have you meet Layla, my favorite cousin. Her mother came with her sister as chaperone when she traveled to Ajantha to wed my father."

"And she fell in love with a noble of the court and chose to stay," Layla finished for him, regarding him with an expression that was slightly confused.

Then she seemed to dismiss him, as so many others had that evening, and turned back to Nemir. "I want to know everything about what you have been doing since you left to be a runner for the guard. We've heard tales of your exploits. You've become quite the heroic figure."

Nemir seemed pleasantly embarrassed, unlike earlier when he'd simply been embarrassed, and Judas's disquiet grew. "Such stories rarely have much to do with the truth," he said. "They exaggerate, if not out and out lie."

"Perhaps. Then you will have to tell me the truth and let me decide for myself."

She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and steered him back towards the door and the banquet hall inside. Judas followed behind them, both relieved that Nemir was going inside where the danger, if no less real, was less immediate, and disturbed by the presence of the young woman. Although he tried to convince himself that a childhood friend, especially so closely related, was not a danger, he could not help worrying.

A worry that would continue for the next five years, he thought to himself wryly.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Twelve ----------------------------------------

Looking back, the banquet had been a mixture of contrasts. The boredom of sitting around watching others talk about things that were of no interest to him and the heart- pounding rush of excitement when someone tried to kill him, leaving him feeling more alive than he had since his return home. Facing a court filled with people he disliked, like Morlan, compared to the pleasure of being with those more pleasant, like Judas and Layla.

Meeting Layla again had been an unexpected joy. As children, they had been inseparable. They'd taken their lessons together. Layla had later accompanied him to his early weapons training, despite the objections of her nurse, although she'd merely watched, not participated.

He'd nearly forgotten her in the years he'd been away. When he *had* thought of her, he'd assumed that she would be married, perhaps even a mother by the time he returned to the city. Instead she'd become an elegant and confident young woman determined to make her own way. She was an artist now, she'd told him. She'd faced down opposition and persisted until she found a teacher willing to take her on as a student. He remembered that strength of will well. Naturally, she had her suitors, drawn by her obvious beauty, but she'd chosen to stay on the path she'd picked.

"Is that why her position in the court is not as... elevated?" Judas asked the next day while they ate lunch before their lessons. It had been nearly dawn by the time they'd reached their beds, so Nemir had chosen not to go to the practice yard that morning, although he had no intention of letting that happen too frequently.

"In part, I'm sure," Nemir replied, setting aside the rind of the fruit slice he'd been eating. He picked up a cloth and wiped away the juice running down his chin before continuing. "Also her parentage."

Judas frowned as he tore off a chunk of bread from the loaf. "But she is your cousin. How can her parentage be an issue?"

"Her mother and mine were sisters, as I told you," Nemir said, reaching for a slice of cold meat. "However, while my mother was the daughter of a wife -- first wife, in fact -- hers was the daughter of a concubine, a woman from the north taken in raids and sold to our grandfather. She came to Ajantha as my mother's servant, although they were dear friends."

He paused to eat a little more, then continued. "It was that friendship that allowed her to marry as well as she did. However, her husband was only a minor member of the court. As a result, most of Layla's status *does* come from being a blood relation, but it will only take her so far."

"I see," Judas said, although his expression told Nemir how foreign he found the concept. "So by being seen with you at the banquet last night..." he said as he considered what he'd been told.

"She becomes the focus of those higher than herself, which will help her find a patron for her art," Nemir finished. It had not escaped his notice how she'd maneuvered them inside so that she could be seen on his arm for an extended length of time and it did not bother him either. He remembered her fondly from his childhood and was more than willing to help her. As well, she was a far more pleasant conversationalist than most of those who'd wanted to speak with him and he told Judas so.

The boy did not look overly pleased by that. Nemir had to hold back his laughter; with any other, Nemir might have accused them of jealousy, however, he knew that this was not the case with Judas. No, his objections would no doubt come from his orders to make sure that Nemir did not break his promise to his father not to take a mistress or risk a bastard.

However, there was no danger of that with Layla. He was about to say as much when the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Konda. While Nemir could choose to pass on his spar for a day, these lessons would continue every day until his father and Konda decided they were finished.

"So now you have seen the court," Konda said without preamble, sitting down at the table with them and pouring a goblet of ale from their pitcher. "Do you have any observations?"

Nemir snorted. "My observations would not be fit for polite company," he said, remembering the behavior he'd seen the night before and the cutting comments that he was still not sure whether or not he'd been intended to hear.

Konda laughed. "I believe that goes without saying," he said, then sobered. "However, you would do wise to keep that reaction to yourself. The Prince may rule, but he does so only with the support of his court. Several have tried to go against the will of the court in the past and paid the price. Assassinations have happened."

"And it nearly happened again last night," Judas said with a stubborn expressing, making Nemir groan. He had not wanted anyone else to know about that yet, but Judas obviously felt differently. While he could understand the boy's reasoning, he still wished that the boy had kept his mouth shut.

Konda immediately stiffened and shot an angry look at Nemir. "And why am I hearing this for the first time now?" he asked in a deceptively soft voice.

If there was one thing Nemir disliked more being second- guessed, it was having to justify his actions. "Considering the timing, I felt that informing the entire court that someone had tried to kill the Heir the day of his elevation would have been... inadvisable. There was little chance of catching the would-be assassin at the time. Besides, at the distance, he did not have a hope of succeeding." This was blatantly false, but he hoped that Judas would at least back him up in *this*.

He did, but even Nemir did not find his assurances believable. Certainly, Konda's expression said how little faith *he* put in the words. However, he seemed willing to let it be for the time being. "What *can* you tell me about it?" he said in an acid tone.

Nemir nodded to Judas, since he was the one who'd see the assassin. "It was a man on a rooftop," he said reluctantly. "I saw a small flash of moonlight on metal and a sense of movement, and when I looked, I saw a man with a crossbow. I knocked the heir to the ground." He glanced back and forth between the two men watching him. "I know that wasn't exactly appropriate..."

Both Nemir and Konda snorted. "Anything that keeps Nemmie alive is appropriate," Konda said, ignoring how Nemir's eyes rolled at the use of the diminutive. "Any crime can be forgiven if committed for that purpose." Then he turned back to Nemir, all business. "Which rooftop and did the bolt reach the palace?"

Nemir described the building, then reluctantly admitted that he had the bolt that had been fired at him. Konda immediately insisted that he produce it. He grimaced and headed for the sleeping chamber. He'd been too tired to find a good spot for it where the servants wouldn't find it so he'd tucked it into the space between the mattress and the wall where it would remain undisturbed while he slept.

The tip was bent where it had hit hard stone, but it still was sharp enough to draw blood when he touched it. He headed back to the sitting room and handed it over to Konda. He did not like giving it up, but his father trusted Konda so he supposed that he should as well. Still, trust did not come easy to him.

Konda examined every detail of the bolt, turning it this way and that. He reached the pattern of paint banding the shaft of the bolt and grunted. "This is from the stores of the Palace Guard," he finally said, setting the bolt down on the table. Nemir stared at in disbelief.

"Are you sure?" he asked, reaching out and rolling it over.

"Yes. The Guard use a very distinctive pattern on the shafts of their bolts and their arrows. Their swords also use a design not used anywhere else."

"So the assassin was one of the guard?" Judas asked in a horrified voice. Nemir could understand that: The Guard had access to all parts of the palace and were tasked with protecting the Prince and the Court. If one of them was a traitor, it would cause chaos. However, that was not the only possible explanation.

"It could also be someone who has gained access to the armory," Nemir said. "Or a guard could have been bribed to provide bolts to an outsider, or even a drawing of the banding pattern so that a fake could be made."

"Only the Captain of the Guard and his lieutenants have access to the armory," Konda said.

"Perhaps so," Nemir replied, remembering the surprise of the hidden passage from the chief healer's office. "But the guard do receive them. As well, I doubt that the captain paints each bolt's banding himself. No, the bolt does not necessarily point a finger of accusation. In fact, that might be exactly what it is intended to do." Judas looked confused, but Nemir just felt tired. These sorts of plots within plots were why he preferred the Desert Guard.

"So there is not way to find the man using that?" Judas asked, disappointed.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. No matter how the bolt was obtained it needed to be done by someone inside the palace. As well, to bribe a guard or an arms maker would require a great deal of money. If that person can be located, that will lead us to the assassin's employer."

"Well put," Konda said with an approving nod. "You would make an excellent investigator. I will talk to the Captain about whether any of his people have been acting in a suspicious manner or if any materials have gone missing recently."

"Are you sure that he can be trusted?" Nemir asked. He knew that suggesting that the Captain of the Palace Guard might be a traitor was taking a suspicious nature to new depths, but such an early move against him inspired paranoia.

"I think so." Konda smiled fondly. "He is my brother, after all."

There was little that could be said in reply, so Nemir held his tongue. Instead, he picked up the bolt again and glanced at Konda. When there was no protest, he took it back to his sleeping chamber and looked around for a safe place to store it.

Now that he was rested, the answer was obvious. His weapons chest sat against the wall next to the cabinet that held his clothing. He unlocked it and set the bolt inside, next to the bolts for his own crossbow. Comparing them, he could easily see the differences between the Palace Guard and Desert Guard designs.

That done, he returned to the main room where he found Konda and Judas in hushed, earnest conversation. He stopped and frowned. He did not know why the sight bothered him, but it did.

"Now that that little surprise has been taken care of, let's return to the subject of last night's banquet," Konda said, straightening up. He made no mention of what the two of them had been talking about, and Nemir found himself reluctant to ask.

Nemir sat down and resigned himself to a long afternoon.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Thirteen ----------------------------------------

The sun wasn't yet up in the sky when Judas started his day. He'd always had an affinity for the sun, perhaps due to his disability. He could always tell exactly what direction the sun was and how high in the sky it was, even from inside with no access to a window.

After nearly a month, they had established a routine. He woke each morning as Nemir started to stir. They rose together and dressed in silence before heading to the practice yard where Nemir performed his exercises and sparred for a while. Usually he sparred with Jorak, the guard from the first day, but occasionally with others. Jorak disturbed him somewhat. He made no secret of his attraction to Nemir and flirted with him openly. It made Judas uncomfortable.

However, Jorak did not make him nearly as uncomfortable as Nemir's lovely cousin Layla. Only a few days after the banquet, they'd arrived at the practice yard to find her waiting. She'd watched with Judas as Nemir went through his routine, then chatted pleasantly for a while before leaving to tend to whatever she did during the day while Nemir and Judas returned to the suite to eat the first meal of the day.

After that, Konda arrived to continue their lessons. The politics of the Court had been joined by lessons in economics and the laws of Ajantha, as well as the diplomatic relationships between the city and its neighbor states and the God-King who sat in judgment over them all. It was enough to make Judas's head spin, but he applied himself to the lessons diligently.

After lunch, the lessons took a more practical bent. Nemir sat and observed as his father dealt with ambassadors from as far away as the fertile lands of the lake country, making trade agreements. He also watched the law courts when they met every third day to hear cases and render judgments, then discussed those verdicts with the wise men who sat as judges. On a few occasions they had even consulted him, asking his opinion on what he had heard. Whether this opinion affected the outcome of the cases, they did not say.

Evenings were often taken with Court functions where Nemir -- and Judas -- observed the nobility and learned about the internal politics of the city. As with diplomacy and law, it was a chance to put their lessons into practice.

Then after all that, they returned to the suite that had become home in Judas's eyes and fell into their respective beds, exhausted. It seemed to Judas that the Prince worried unnecessarily. Nemir had neither the time not the energy to bed any of the no doubt willing ladies of the Palace.

Judas could hear Nemir, already dressed and moving around the sitting room. He dressed quickly and went to join him. He could have remained in bed until Nemir returned, but his pride would not allow such indulgence. He would not let Nemir think him weak or lazy. As well, as comfortable as the suite was, he did not want to let pass the chance to see more of the Palace.

They fell into step easily leaving the rooms and heading for the practice yard. The route was now permanently engraved in his mind, since they took it every morning. On the way back, though, Nemir took a variety of paths through the Palace, showing Judas a different section nearly every day. They had returned to the healers in the first few days to make sure that his hand was healing. Since then, he had seen the kitchens and the workshops where the potters and weavers and carvers worked, as well as all the other artisans that the Palace sponsored.

As well, the library had been a revelation. He had not thought that there were so many volumes in the world, and he took advantage of it. He read voraciously on every subject, his abilities growing with the written word in leaps and bounds. Nemir was even teaching him to read other languages, allowing him to expand the number of books he could plunder.

Unfortunately, in that time, Konda's questioning had not led him to the person behind the attempt on Nemir's life, which was a source of continued worry to Judas.

~~~

As expected, Layla was waiting for them in the shaded corridor overlooking the practice yard. "A beautiful morning, Nemir, Judas," she said brightly as they arrived. They both returned the pleasantries, then Nemir hopped over the low wall onto the sand and walked over to the racks of practice weapons.

Jorak was not there that day, so after his warm-ups Nemir tapped a different guard to spar with. The young man was obviously new to the Palace Guard and reluctant to risk hurting the Heir, but after he relaxed a bit, he proved to have a fluid style that obviously delighted Nemir.

Layla sighed happily. "It is such a delight, watching young men perform, don't you think?" she said to Judas in a conversational tone. "When I was young, I used to pretend that it was me they were fighting."

"As you say," Judas replied softly, although he did not see the appeal of that. He replied when spoken to, but never volunteered anything in return.

For the first while, when she joined them in the mornings she had ignored Judas, focusing all of her attention on Nemir. She had even asked him why he did not simply leave Judas in the suite to amuse himself, since he obviously had no real reason to accompany him. The fact that Judas was within hearing meant nothing to her.

Nemir's response had been short and firm. Judas was not an object to be put away and forgotten or a servant to be ordered around, he had said. If he chose to come with Nemir, he was always welcome. Layla had wisely chosen not to press the issue.

Not long after, she had begun her attempts to befriend Judas. He had not rebuffed her attempts, nor had he responded more than politeness required. He knew that Nemir found the tension between them frustrating, but said nothing, choosing to leave them to resolve their difference on their own.

As usual, Judas ignored Layla, instead keeping his attention on Nemir. He had not forgotten that the bolt that had nearly ended Nemir's life was guard-issue and worried that he might be vulnerable. As well, he found more and more that the sight of his charge, sweat-soaked and dressed only in a pair of old breeches, fascinating.

As of yet, Nemir had not sought to claim his right to use Judas's body, and as time went by and he got to know the other man, Judas found himself wishing...

More and more, he found Nemir occupying his thoughts and even more disturbingly, his dreams. The dreams hinted at things he knew about but had never experienced. Things he never thought he *would* experience. Things that made him wish that Nemir were not so determined to remain celibate rather than do as his father expected.

Nemir was coming their way, the sun gleaming on his bronzed skin. He seemed to almost radiate vitality and Judas, who could not move freely in the light the same way, found himself staying close, as if he could absorb the warmth of the sun that Nemir glowed with through him.

Layla reached out to touch Nemir's arm, and to Nemir's eyes her hand lingered a little longer than would be called proper. "Nemir, are you coming to Lord Ber's hunt tomorrow? Do say that you are," she said in a pleading tone.

Nemir's eyes met Judas's. "I had not decided yet," he said evasively.

Layla pouted prettily. "You should. You never socialize with others your own age. It is not healthy."

"Layla--"

"You should not remain so aloof," she pressed. "It makes them wonder why you avoid them."

Nemir chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "Judas would not be able to come," he said.

Layla's eyebrows went up. "Why ever not?" she asked, obviously surprised after Nemir's insistence that Judas could accompany him anywhere.

Nemir opened his mouth, no doubt intending to explain, so Judas quickly spoke first. "I am not... able to leave the Palace," he said, ducking his head. He left her to interpret that as she wished. He certainly did not want her to know of his disability.

Nemir frowned, but did not contradict him. It was, after all, the truth, though vaguely phrased. "So you see," he said instead. "It would not--"

"I think you should go," Judas broke in. Nemir's expression was one of shock, so he explained. "She is right. You need to meet with your... peers. Outside of official Court functions, that is."

Layla looked as surprised as Nemir, but quickly overcame it. "There, you have official permission," she said, and though the tone was light her mouth twisted slightly on the last word. "Please, do come."

Nemir still hesitated. When he looked over again, Judas nodded, encouraging him. He sighed. "Very well. What time does the hunt form?" he asked.

"Just after dawn," Layla said eagerly. "Before the heat of day builds."

Nemir looked unsure, but nodded. "I will tell my teachers that I will be unavailable tomorrow, then," he told her.

Layla made a delighted noise that was nearly a squeal and stoop on tip-toes to kiss Nemir on the cheek. "I promise, you *will* enjoy yourself," she said, then moved back again. She glanced over at the practice yard and saw the length of the shadows. "Oh, I'm late. I'll see you tomorrow!" she cried, then hurried off, her slippers silent on the marble floors.

"Are you sure?" Nemir asked Judas once she was gone.

Judas already felt uneasy about his decision, but was careful to hide his feelings. "I assume, considering the status of the hunt members, that there will be guards. As well, you will be armed, so well able to defend yourself."

"But what will you do while I am away?"

Judas was warmed by the worry. "If you are concerned about that, we can stop at the library. I will spend my day reading quietly and consider it well-spent."

Nemir still looked a little dubious, but he nodded and said wryly, "And you will probably enjoy your day more."

Judas forced a smile. "Considering what we have seen of Lord Ber and his friend, you may be right. But you *do* need to learn more about them than their Court faces."

"Know thy enemy," Nemir said a little grimly.

Judas nodded, but a chill ran through him. He prayed that those words were not prophetic. For the first time since Nemir's return to the Palace, the Heir was going to be out of his sight and his ability, however poor, to protect him.

Everything would be fine.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Fourteen ----------------------------------------

Nemir woke at his usual hour the next morning, but from there he diverged from his normal routine. Already he was beginning to regret giving in to Judas and Layla's urgings.

Instead of his practice clothes, he donned his riding leathers for the first time since his return to Ajantha. It had been an entire month since he'd last been in the saddle, he realized with a start. He'd had his practice sessions, but thanks to the lessons that filled his days, he'd not even left the Palace. His stallion would barely recognize him, although he was sure that the beast had been well-cared for in his absence.

He shook his head and promised himself that he would not wait so long again. He had not even been to the stables to check that his mount was being properly cared for. His former commander would be horrified.

He broke his fast with Judas, silently as usual. Just simple bread and cheese and fruit, since he was going to be in the saddle for at least an hour or two. He wrapped some of the leftovers and tucked them into his saddlebag for later, then checked his weapons carefully.

Since this was a hunt, the bow was the weapon of choice. He strung it and checked it carefully, then loosened the string for travel to prevent damage. The arrows in his quiver were checked to ensure that they were straight and true. The fletching was all firmly attached and the shafts were free of any cracks or warping that could spoil their flight. He tested the points with a finger tip, then sucked away the tiny bead of blood that resulted. His extra strings were also checked before being placed in the pouch hanging from his belt.

But there had been an attempt on his life, so he did not stop there. He had sharpened his daggers the night before and he slipped the obvious ones into the top of his boot and a sheath strapped to his forearm. Then he fastened a third at the small of his back where he could quickly reach it, but it was concealed by his vest. Finally, a short sword was hung at his waist, completing his armament.

"You look like you're preparing for war," Judas observed from his cushion at the side of the room. A book rested beside him with a glass of water. The tone was light, but the expression in his eyes said that he was worried, despite his insistence that Nemir join the hunt.

Nemir grunted softly as he checked to make sure that the sword sheath did not impede quick movement. "The desert is dangerous, as you well know," he said. "I prefer to rely on myself rather than the guards for protection.

Satisfied, he straightened up and turned to Judas. It still felt wrong to be leaving him here, like some sort of pet. "Are you sure--" he started to say, but Judas cut him off.

"Go," he said with a smile. "I plan to return to bed after you have left, then spend the day reading. I will see you tomorrow" He sounded confident, but after a month together, Nemir had learned to read the other man's expressions well enough to see the nervousness that Judas was hiding.

Nemir still thought it unfair that his father had ordered that Judas not leave the apartment without him. He'd asked him to relax that rule, but the Prince had been adamant. It was for Judas's protection, he had said. As Nemir's companion, he could become a target. It was a thought that had not occurred to Nemir and which sent a chill through him.

Still, he hesitated at the door until Judas deliberately picked up a tome he had removed from the library the day before and opened it to the first page to start reading.

Nemir laughed and took the obvious hint.

~~~

Watching the confusion as the hunt came together, Nemir regretted even more having agreed to come. The courtyard in front of the stables was a study in chaos, with grooms bringing out mounts to be looked over and either accepted or rejected by spoiled young nobles who were more concerned with how impressive a beast looked than its abilities. Nemir could not restrain a snort of disgust as he saddled his own mount himself.

As well, servants were busy, loading packhorses with an endless stream of packages containing tents and travel food for the overnight expedition. Nemir had seen *armies* travel with less baggage than this one hunt.

The sun had climbed halfway into the sky and Nemir was fighting frustration by the time everything was organized and the hunt was underway. At several moments he had had to resist the urge to simply take command, start barking out orders. Proving his leadership abilities was not the point this day, even if they were desperately needed at that point. Instead, his reason for joining the hunt was to interact with nobles of his own age in a more social environment than the Court.

Still, the party with all its guards and servants and grooms was finally moving out into the city and along one of the winding streets that led to the nearest city gate.

The complicated twists and turnings of the boulevard were deliberate, not the product of a city growing over time. As a soldier, Nemir approved of the design. Any invading force would have to fight for every inch of ground as they tried to reach the Palace, unable to see what was waiting for them around each corner.

History had proven the design as well. Invaders had attacked the city before, although not in recent generations, and not a single force had made it even half the distance to the Palace before being destroyed.

Layla brought her mount up next to his, all smiles and bright cheer. "I'm so glad you came, Nemmie," she said, reaching over to pat his arm. Nemir was well aware of the eyes on them, both within the party and the citizens watching the party ride by. He found a smile in response to hers, which was not too difficult now that they were moving.

"It is a pleasant change from the all the lessons," he said honestly to her and all the other less welcome listeners.

And it *was*. For the first time in a month, he was about to ride through the city gates out into the desert were life might be dangerous, but was also refreshingly simple. He longed for the clean air and a horizon unbroken by anything built by human hands.

"I know that lessons are important," Layla said, not noticing the way his eyes were focused on the distant gates, "but you should not spend *all* of your time at them. You are still young. There will be plenty of time in the years to come for serious pursuits. Enjoy life!"

The words rang in his ears and resonated in his mind. She was right. His entire life had been given over to work and duty, it seemed. Why should he not enjoy himself?

A tension he hadn't realized was there drained away. Feeling free, he smiled down at his cousin, more openly this time. Her expression went from concerned to pleased. Then she closed the veils she was wearing to protect her skin from sun and wind, leaving only her dark, flashing eyes visible. Acting on impulse, he leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

Then he realized what he had done and tensed again. It had been an innocent gesture, but to an observer it might appear less so. If his father heard...

He found himself wishing that Judas was there. If felt strange, not having his shadow beside him. He wondered what Judas was doing, even though he had a good idea. Then he wondered if Judas could ride.

Nemir snorted. Of course Judas could ride; any child born to the desert would learn to ride before they walked. But limited to the night, how *well* did Judas ride?

As the question occurred to him, so did a way of learning the answer. Surely his presence was not required at Court *every* night. While it was unlikely that they would be allowed to leave the city at night, there was no reason that he and Judas could not go for a starlit ride.

Already making plans, Nemir turned his attention back to Layla as they passed under the arch that formed one of the three gates that pierced the thick city walls. She was watching him with a little crease between her eyes, her expression hidden by the blue veil that matched her riding clothing and even the tooling on her saddle.

Then the crease was gone. They passed back into the bright sunlight and her eyes were sparking. "Remember our riding lessons when we were young?" she asked impishly.

He nodded, his suspicions aroused by the playful tone.

"Good."

Then a piercing whistle came from behind her veil and she snapped her reins, sending her gelding into a gallop.

Laughing, Nemir tapped his stallion's flanks with his heels and sent him following. Behind him, he heard a whoop and the thunder of more hooves as he passed her.

Then he abandoned himself to the feel of the wind in his face and the thrill of the race.

~~~

The city's primary source of water was the Merenth, a wide river that meandered through the desert until it reached the Lake districts. Fields hugged both sides of its banks, producing the grain that fed the city.

The hunting party followed a road that ran parallel to the river. More than an hour after leaving the city they finally were out of site of the cultivated lands. There they stopped and ate their mid-day meal while the servants set up camp.

Considering that they would only be there for one night, the camp was unnecessarily ornate to Nemir's eyes. The tents were made of brightly-colored silks. Thick carpets covered the sands inside, and the cots were far more comfortable than any he'd slept on during his years in the Guard.

Of course, the tents for the servants and guards were less luxurious. The plain white canvas and basic cots were standard Guard issue. It made Nemir feel nostalgic for his past.

During the afternoon, the nobles lazed around the camp while guards were sent out to find a likely hunting location. Game trails leading to the river were the best places to find prey, Nemir knew. In these borderlands between the desert and river, there would a wide variety of prey to chose from, as the tracks would tell.

But none of the highborn seemed interested in participating in the tracking. Their idea of a hunt, it seemed, was to have servants flush out the prey so that it be killed with a minimum of effort. So they rested during the heat of the day while others worked.

However, Nemir could not bring himself to do the same. Instead, he joined the guards in their tracking, to their obvious approval. Jorak, especially, did not bother to hide his disdain of the privileged lords and ladies who had stayed behind at the camp.

After a while, his example seemed to make a difference. Two of the nobles, Dansen and Markus, left the camp and came to join them. Bother were trained fighters, as all men of their rank were, but Nemir was surprised at how little they knew about tracking. He found himself taking on the role of teacher, showing them how to move silently through the greenery. He quietly explained what to look for and where to look, identifying the tracks that they found.

Nemir was surprised to find that he liked being instructor. As well, he found that the two men, obvious friends, had the sort of sense of humor he could appreciate. Neither seemed inclined to take themselves too seriously.

Perhaps this excursion would be more enjoyable that he'd expected.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Fifteen ----------------------------------------

Once the door had closed behind Nemir, the desire to keep reading quickly disappeared. Judas had been staring at the page for several minutes, but could not name one thing that had been said in the print. He set the book down carefully, in deference to its obvious age, and looked around.

The room was silent. Nemir was not given to idle chatter, unlike his cousin, but he was rarely silent. As well as the normal sounds of rustling clothing as he moved and breathing, Nemir would mutter to himself as he read or wrote. From time to time he would comment aloud to Judas, looking for another opinion.

And even when he did not move, he was *there*. His presence filled any room he was in. Now that presence was gone, however temporarily.

Judas found himself fighting the urge to run after the man to try to convince him not to go. However, it would look foolish, since it was he who had convinced Nemir to go. As well, despite the unease that filled him, Judas knew that this was necessary. Despite his stubborn independence, Nemir needed to form connections, alliances, with the noble born he would have to deal with for years to come.

Unfortunately, the cold knot in his stomach did not respond well to the logic of the argument. He could not escape the feeling that something bad was going to happen, and he was not there to stop it.

Unable to remain still, Judas stood and started to pace. He chewed absently on the end of his braid as he did his best not to speculate on all the things that could possibly happen to Nemir. The sound of his bare feet slapping against the floor echoed in the room, mocking him and his fears.

Finally, he decided to do one of the things he'd told Nemir he planned to by going back to his pallet to try to sleep. He hoped that the oblivion of slumber could fill the empty hours until his master returned.

~~~

Sleep proved elusive, and when it did come it was far from restful. Judas tossed and turned, troubled by dreams he could not remember, until the sound of movement from the outer room woke him. He finally conceded defeat and rose from his bed.

The servant had already left, but a sparse midday meal had been left on the table for Judas. In the month he'd been there -- although it felt more like years -- the servants had gone from believing that Judas was demon-spawn to considering him unworthy of their notice. While Judas was thankful that they no longer made gestures to ward off evil in his direction, he wished that they did not avoid him so determinedly, now more than ever. He would have liked to have someone to talk with.

He ate slowly, lacking anything better to do with his time. When he was finished, he returned to his cushion and the book he'd set down earlier. Hopefully this time he would be better able to concentrate. He doubted that he would see anyone before an evening meal was brought for him.

As a result, he was surprised to hear a polite knock at the door to the suite. Before he could reply, the door opened and Lord Konda entered.

Judas blinked in surprise as he quickly stood. "My lord," he said. Then he frowned. "Were you not told that Nemir was with Lord Ber's hunting party?" Then another thought occurred. "Has there been an accident?" His heart started racing as barely remembered images from his nightmares ran through his mind.

Konda smiled reassuringly. "No, there has not been an accident. Yes, I did know that Nemir was not here. However, you are."

"My Lord?"

Konda sat down at the table and waited until Judas did the same. His tone turned chiding. "Nemir's absence does not save *you* from having lessons." Then he laughed, no doubt at Judas's shocked expression. "These lessons are not simply for Nemir's sake. You need them as much as, if not more than, him."

"I don't understand. I thought I was just supposed to be..." He stopped and ducked his head, embarrassed. Concubine was the kindest word he could think of. He'd certainly heard far more blunt from the servants when they thought he could not hear. However, he could not bring himself to repeat any of them.

Konda reached across the table and covered Judas's hand with his own. "No, that is not what you are supposed to be. You are supposed to be his advisor, his protector, his supporter, his confidante. But most importantly, you are supposed to be his *friend*."

"And warm his bed," Judas added bluntly.

Konda shrugged. "As I did his father's," he reminded Judas. Then he raised an eyebrow. "Are you yet?"

Judas felt like his face was on fire. He closed his eyes, wondering if it were possible to die of embarrassment. "No," he whispered.

"Do you want to?" Konda sounded only mildly curious, but his gaze was intent.

Judas could feel his stomach clench. This was the first time he'd allowed himself had to face that question. "Yes," he mouthed, unable to say the word aloud.

Konda nodded. "I am glad to hear it. Now, I know how stubborn Nemir can be, but I watched him grow up and know him well. He *is* weakening." He grinned and winked. "I'm sure you've noticed."

Judas thought about it, looking in his memories for any evidence to support the man's statement. Several events came to mind, looks that he still was not sure how to interpret, times when he'd thought that Nemir was about to kiss him. However, he did not know how much those memories were colored by his own carefully concealed desires.

"I... am not sure," he finally said when he realized that Konda was waiting for a response.

"I am. Unfortunately, as I said, Nemir can be very stubborn. He will not wear down on his own any time soon. Something must be done to force him to change his mind."

"Like what?"

Konda tapped a finger against the tabletop, considering the question. "There are several possibilities," he said at last. "Seduction, after all, has a long history. However, the method used must be tailored to the persons involved and the circumstances. For Nemir, the direct approach is often the best. Simply tell him that you *want* him to bed you."

Judas's eyes when wide and his stomach did its best to wrap itself around his spine. "I..." He choked on the words.

Konda's expression turned wry. "No, I suppose that would not work for you. Nor would the solution I used on his father, I think. However, there *are* ways of telling him without words."

Relieved, Judas picked up his glass and took a deep swallow of the thin, bitter ale that had come with his meal. "How do I do that?" he asked, honestly curious. He'd seen the courting games that his age-mates in the tribe had played. However, since he was unlikely to have the chance to play them himself, there had seemed little point in learning. Now he wished that he had paid closer attention.

"Try standing closer to him," Konda said, pursing his lips. "Close enough so that you are almost touching him. It will make him more aware of you. When he bathes, go with him. Wash his back or his hair without waiting to be asked. That way he will become comfortable with your touch. Think of it as taming a wild animal."

Judas considered the advice and came to the conclusion the yes, he could do this. It was a small effort, one that could easily be denied. And if it worked...

His blood ran hot and cold at the same time. Vague, undefined ideas of what it would be like ran through his mind. Images inspired by couplings overheard when he was younger played in his imagination. They scared him a little, but the fear blended with excitement in an intoxicating mix.

His mouth gone dry again, Judas drained the glass he still held in his hand, one dribble running down his chin in his clumsy haste.

"Now that *that* has been determined," Konda suddenly said, slapping the palm of his hand against the surface of the table, making both Judas and the dishes jump, "there are still lessons. The day before last, you and Nemir observed court. Tell me about the cases and what you thought of the rulings."

Forcing his thoughts away from dreams and fantasies was not easy, but Judas managed. "The first was a dispute over grazing rights," he said, closing his eyes and concentrating. "One family complained that the other had allowed their goats to over-graze an area held in common trust..."

~~~

Judas stumbled to a halt, frowning as the words refused to come. Normally, his memory was very good, but now he could barely remember the vaguest details of the fourth case. Of the arguments made by the parties involved, he remembered nothing. His stomach seemed to be churning with the effort.

"Judas?"

He opened his eyes to see Konda staring at him with a concerned expression. "Yes?" he asked, trying to remember what he was supposed to be saying.

"Do you feel alright? You look... unusually pale."

He always looked pale, he wanted to say, but when he opened his mouth, nothing emerged. Instead, he simply stared at Konda, trying to tell if it was the man who was swaying or if it was the room that was spinning.

Then Judas blinked in surprise. Konda, who had been seated across the table from him was now standing at his elbow, looking down at him. "Judas, you are worrying me. Can you stand? I think you should go to the healers."

"I'm not... supposed to..." His words were slow and slurred. His tongue felt like it was two sizes too large.

"No arguments," Konda said firmly, urging him to his feet.

"'M fine," he mumbled.

The sudden movement of standing proved to be a mistake. The room was now definitely spinning madly around him and the floor was tilting at a disturbing angle under his feet.

'Earthquake' was his last thought as the room went black and the floor rushed up to meet him.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Sixteen ----------------------------------------

The afternoon's hunting had been quite successful by Nemir's reckoning, although not according to the disappointed Lord Ber. Two desert deer had been taken as they came to the river to drink, along with a brace of waterfowl. All of these were now roasting on spits over two cooking fires.

However, Ber -- as he was telling everyone within hearing distance -- had his heart set on killing a lion. He wanted a skin to hang on the wall of his receiving room, proclaiming his prowess as a hunter.

But, naturally, he did not want to risk himself in the process.

As they sat around the fire on the silk cushions, Ber regaled them all with details of hunts past and a vivid description of what would happen the next morning. His friends were all listening with wide-eyed awe, hanging on his every word and obviously believing it all. Nemir, on the other hand, was finding it difficult to hide his contempt.

During one particularly grandiose tale of hunting one of the beautiful but deadly striped felines of the Lake Country, Nemir was barely able to suppress a laugh. He certainly doubted that Ber had ever taken the two month journey to get there. Behind him, he heard a muffled snort from Jorak, who was standing guard at the edge of the camp. Across the fire, Markus and Dansen were both discretely rolling their eyes.

While Nemir found Ber arrogant and obnoxious, Markus and Dansen were anything but. In the two men, who were long friends, Nemir had found a pair of kindred spirits.

Dansen was the son of a minor noble, however his gentle humor made him much sought after for parties. He was a man who made friends easily and enemies not at all.

Markus, on the other hand, was not native to the Great Kingdom. He'd traveled from the lands far to the north to learn the metal-forging techniques of the Kingdom. He was watched closely, believed by many to be a spy, but his exotic red hair and blue eyes made him as sought after as his friend, especially by the women of the court.

"What of you, my lord Heir? Any exciting hunts during your time in the guard?"

Nemir was a little surprised to be addressed directly by Ber. The young man seemed to rarely allow other to speak, preferring to dominate the conversation himself.

"None as exciting as the ones you have described," he told the man diplomatically. He hear a small chocked sound from across the fire, but Ber just preened at the perceived compliment.

"Surely you are just being modest," he prodded. Ber's expression was open and curious, but his eyes had a glint in them.

Nemir's eyes narrowed. Everyone was watching him closely, waiting for his reply. It was obvious that Ber's questions were designed to embarrass him, to make him appear less than the other man.

However, unlike the other man, Nemir had no interest in embellishing the truth in order to impress others. He had no need to make himself seem more important that he really was. "Hunting in the Guard was for food. Lions, while they are impressive and dangerous creatures, make a poor stew." Chuckles answered his quip. "This," he said, gesturing towards the cooking fires where their meal was nearly finished roasting, "would be considered a successful hunt."

"But what about the thrill? What of the challenge of pitting yourself against a canny prey?"

Nemir found the man's arch tone annoying. "Enemy soldiers are the 'canny prey' for the Guard," he said, a little coldly. "A lion is simply a danger to the camp to be removed as quickly as possible."

"So you *have* hunted lions before!" Ber sounded almost gleeful.

"As part of a large party, and the beast was killed by the archers."

That brought out a pout. "There is little sport in that."

The disappointed look on the petulant noble's face angered Nemir, although he was careful not to show it. "The life of a trained Guard is too valuable to risk unnecessarily. Enough will die in battle."

Ber looked as if he wanted to disagree with Nemir's statement, but obviously he thought better of it. After all, Nemir had been one of those guards until just recently. Antagonizing one's future Prince was not a wise idea. However, Nemir was pleased to note several heads nodding in agreement with him.

But the conversation was abruptly ended by the announcement that the roasting fowl were ready, and talk was abandoned in favor of filling their stomachs. The birds were quickly reduced to bare bones. The deer followed, except for the portion that was set aside for the guards and servants.

By the time everything edible had been consumed, the hour was late and people started to drift towards their tents, alone or in discreet pairs. Nemir delayed retiring to his own overly-luxurious tent. It was the first time since his return home that he would sleep alone. Already, he found himself missing the comfortable sleep sounds of Judas on his pallet in the corner.

As his excuse for delaying, he set about banking one of the fires for the night. As he worked, he heard a throat being cleared behind him. He turned and was relieved to find Jorak standing there rather than one of Ber's friends. The guard moved closer to help him finish his task.

"Lord Ber may not have liked your words, by we Guards appreciated them," Jorak said softly as they worked side by side.

"It was the simple truth," Nemir replied.

"That makes them all the more appreciated."

The fire ready for the night, Jorak straightened up, then glanced at Nemir from the corner of his eyes. "I need to check the perimeter before seeking my bed. Would you care to join me?"

As with the first time he'd met the man, Nemir easily read the other offer implied in the man's words. The first time, he'd been sorely tempted by the handsome guard. Only the knowledge that his father would punish the innocent Judas for Nemir's indiscretions had restrained him.

And now, strangely enough, he was not tempted at all. Jorak was still a tempting man and becoming a good friend, but he felt no desire for his body. "Thank you, Jorak, but no."

Jorak turned to face him straight on, then smiled broadly. "Oh, you have it bad, don't you?"

Nemir's eyes narrowed. "I do not understand your meaning," he said.

"The pretty boy with the unusual hair that is usually attached to your side. The one who looks at you as if you were the Ruler of the Great Kingdom himself. He is more to you than just a concubine, is he?"

"He is *not* my concubine."

Jorak's eyes went wide. "You haven't bedded him yet?" Nemir's expression must have given him away, for the other man laughed. "Then you are a fool. You want him and it is obvious that he wants you. Why do you deny yourselves the pleasure?"

Then his smile disappeared. "Or is a slave not worthy of your attentions?"

Nemir bristled at the accusation. "That has nothing to do with my reluctance," he said defensively. "But I prefer willing bedmates, and a slave has little choice."

"And you have not seen how willing he is? It is hard not to see the jealous glare on his face when we spar, or the suspicious looks he gives the lady Layla when she shows her own interest in you too plainly." The last confused Nemir, and Jorak laughed once more. "You had not seen that either? You are a perceptive man, my lord, but very blind."

"But we are cousins. We grew up together. How could..." he stopped.

"She is a woman, and you are a handsome, powerful man. It would be unnatural for her *not* to want you." He chuckled.

Nemir was reeling under the shock of the revelations. From any other, he might have doubted the statement, but he trusted Jorak's judgment. However, he was not sure how to react to the revelations.

Jorak obviously saw his confusion, and his voice softened. "Go sleep," he said. "Morning is soon enough to decide what *you* want."

He turned to go, but not before making one last comment. "Given a choice. I would take the boy. His feelings look to be more honest than the woman's." Then he disappeared into the darkness.

Nemir moved to his tent in a daze. He slowly undressed, then settled onto his cot. He was not so confused that he forgot to place his weapons within easy reach, though. Then he lay there, staring up at the fabric of his tent, letting Jorak's words run through his mind.

His father had bought Judas for the express purpose of sharing Nemir's bed, but Nemir had refused to bed him, despite the attraction he felt for the boy. His sense of honor had not allowed him to force himself on Judas, or anyone else for that matter. He had never considered that his attention might *not* be unwanted.

But according to Jorak, whose word he trusted despite the short time they'd been acquainted, Judas *did* want him. Nemir considered all the other possible reasons why he should not take Judas as his lover and found that they all came down to pride and a stubborn refusal to submit to his father's machinations.

He laughed softly at himself. Jorak was right; he *was* a fool. Still, if he had made a mistake, it was one that could be easily corrected. As soon as he returned to Ajantha.

~~~

Nemir woke to the cool, dark grey of the pre-dawn. He could hear the servants and guards moving around the camp, talking in hushed tones. The nobles, he assumed were all still in their beds. A pity. If Ber truly wanted a lion skin, this was the time when he should be hunting.

Nemir dressed quickly and left the tent. A sparring session was not likely that morning, but he would not let that keep him from his exercises.

Several of the guards nodded to him as he passed in search of a suitable spot. He stopped and asked one for suggestions. He was directed to an open space, not directly visible from the camp. Scuff marks showed that it had already been used for that purpose that morning.

The sky had brightened to a soft grey and the horizon was turning pale shades of pink and orange by the time he finished. The sweat was dripping from his body and he was pleasantly warmed by his exertions. He turned to return to camp and found that he had a very familiar audience.

Layla's hair was uncombed and her eyes still blurry. She was dressed simply and had a sleepy smile on her face. The effect was very attractive, he noted. Almost as if by design. "You do that so well," she said, then yawned prettily. "But need you do it so early?"

"I might not have the chance later," Nemir said, picking up his over-tunic, feeling a little uncomfortable. After his conversation with Jorak the night before, he was seeing things in her smile that he had not noticed before.

Layla stepped closer as he checked his blade, then wiped the sweat from his chest and face with a rag he had brought for that purpose since he would have no chance to bathe. "And you do it so much better than the clumsy child I remember receiving his first lessons with a blade. Of course, you have grown... greatly since then."

With those words, she reached out boldly to touch him. Her fingers skimmed lightly across his chest, slowing as they approached a nipple made pebble-hard by the gentle morning breeze.

Nemir froze for a moment, then quickly restrained her hand. At the touch, she swayed even closer to him. Her eyes were large and dark, looking up at him. Nemir let her go and took a step back.

Immediately, her posture shifted and her expression was once more the playful one of his childhood friend. Nemir found himself wondering if perhaps he'd imagined the temptress of a moment earlier.

She turned so that they were walking back to the camp side by side. "I came to tell you that the morning meal is nearly ready. The guards say that they have seen lion tracks, so Lord Ber wants to move quickly." She tucked her arm under his. While there was nothing inappropriate in the gesture, Nemir had to fight the urge to pull away.

"I am surprised," he said instead. "Ber did not seem the time to rise at this hour."

Layla laughed. "If you want something badly enough, there is no limit of what you might do to get it," she said. "Even waking well before dawn." The stroking of her fingertips against his forearm suggested that she was speaking of more than just Ber's desire to kill a lion.

Nemir was trying to think of a way to discourage her without insulting his oldest friend when he noticed that all the normal morning birdsong had disappeared. He stopped and set his hand on his sword hilt.

"Nemir, what...?"

He waved her silent, his eyes searching the surrounding greenery.

There was a soft coughing sound. Then a figure emerged from the shadows, swaying as it moved forward on four paws.

"Nemir..."

Nemir slowly moved so that he stood between Layla and the approaching lioness. "When I tell you, run for the camp," he whispered. She nodded.

The lioness had nearly reached them when he pulled his sword from its sheath and cried, "Run!" Layla ran.

And at the same moment, the lioness sprang.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Seventeen ----------------------------------------

Judas rolled over and started to heave again as his stomach protested the movement. Thankfully, this time he was able to suppress the urge to void his stomach yet again. However, he was unsure whether that was because he was improving or because there was little left in his stomach to come back up.

At least he no longer felt like he was about to die. For much of the night before, he had *wanted* to, the pain was so great. He had never experienced anything like the cramping and fever that had nearly killed him according to a healer who had not realized that he was listening.

Konda had carried him to the Healers after he had collapsed. Luckily, Healer Kale had been there to stop him from stepping into the center of the room beneath the open skylights, saving Judas from being badly burnt in addition to what already ailed him. The man had also stayed during the painful treatment that had followed.

Gentle hands lifted his head and held a cup to his lips. He sipped the cool water gratefully. The herbs mixed into it also helped to settle his stomach. He sighed as he settled back onto the mattress. Everything was so confused. He could not tell how much time had passed, or where he was. All he knew was that the room was cool, dim and quiet, and that the bed beneath him was soft and clean.

Whoever had helped him pressed a hand to his forehead in a comforting gesture, then left. Judas went back to sleep, not having opened his eyes.

~~~

"Judas?"

The voice was soft and coaxing, as was the hand shaking his shoulder. Judas opened his eyes to see who it was.

A lantern had been lit and was sitting on the small table in the corner, filling the room with a soft and soothing yellow glow. He looked up and found Nemir looking down at him with a concerned expression.

"You're back," he said unnecessarily. Then he noticed the bandages binding the other man's left arm to his side. "What happened?" he said, struggling to sit up. Nemir pushed him back down with his good arm.

"It's nothing," he said dismissively. "Certainly, I was in less danger than you, it seems."

Nemir looked angry, and Judas cringed slightly. "I'm sorry--" he started to say, turning his head.

"No! Don't be," Nemir said vehemently, grabbing Judas's hand and squeezing it. "There is nothing for you to feel sorry for," he continued in a softer voice. "Rest for a while more, now. We'll be going home soon."

"Okay," Judas said, then closed his eyes. But after sleeping for most of a day, he found sleep elusive. Still, he tried, if only to please Nemir.

"What happened?" Nemir asked, his voice shaking with emotion. Judas nearly opened his mouth to answer when he realized that they were not alone in the room.

"There was poison in the ale that came with his lunch yesterday," Konda said. Judas was surprised that he hadn't noticed the man earlier. "If I had not been there when he collapsed, he would not have survived."

Judas shifted his position in shock, and the two men fell silent for a moment. He remembered thinking that the ale tasted unusually bitter, but the idea that it might have been poisoned never occurred to him.

"Who did this?" Nemir was furious; he recognized the emotion in the man's voice easily for once.

"We do not know yet, but I have people I trust investigating. We have not found the servant who brought the lunch tray for Judas. Judas has not been coherent enough to question yet. However, there is no guarantee that we will find the culprit."

"Unacceptable," Nemir shot back. "The attempt to kill me was one thing; it is almost expected for someone of my rank. But an attempt on Judas?" He paused for a moment, and Judas wished he could see the man's face, but he did not want to open his eyes. He did not have the energy, and he also did not want the two men to stop talking. He needed to hear this.

Nemir sighed. He sounded tired to Judas. "My father tried to warn me when he refused to lift the restrictions on Judas's movements. He said that it was for his own protection, that Judas could be a target because of me. I did not believe him." Nemir's hand, which Judas was surprised to find still holding his own, tightened almost painfully.

There was a deep sigh from Konda. "In my first year as your father's companion, there were three separate attempts on my life by those who either considered me an impediment to their access to your father or who wanted to punish him for some slight, real or imagined. However, as a trained Guard I was well able to protect myself, although none of those attempts involved poison."

"Judas does not have that training," Nemir protested.

"Which can be easily corrected, but only by you. Come now, Nemir. You trained others to fight during your time in the Guard. Can it be any more difficult to teach someone as naturally graceful as Judas?"

There was silence for a moment. "Father suggested that,"

"And so you refused," Konda said with a laugh.

"I did not want him around. I wanted to ignore him as much as possible."

Judas stifled the sound that tried to escape his throat. Konda had been wrong and now his hopes had been dashed.

"And now?"

"I... had trouble sleeping last night," Nemir said reluctantly. "It was too quiet in the tent."

"You missed him." Konda sounded amused.

"Yes, I missed him." Nemir laughed suddenly. "I am a fool. Jorak had to point out to me how inept I am at reading people, or at least their feelings about me. Or my feelings for them."

"So now what will you do?" Judas held his breath, his hopes rising again.

"I take him home. When we are both physically able, I teach him how to fight."

"And?" Konda prompted.

Nemir snorted. "Such prurient interest does not become you, Konda. What happens in the bedchamber is between myself and Judas, and us alone." However, Nemir's thumb stroking the back of his hand told Judas volumes.

There was a knock at the door, and Judas was disappointed when Nemir let go and stepped away from the bed. A moment later, the door opened.

"How is he, Healer Kale?" Nemir asked.

"Weak, and he will be so for a while," Kale replied. "The herbs we used to purge the poison from his system will take another day or two to pass completely. Until then, he should drink plenty of water or fruit juice and stay in his bed. After that, it will take several days more for him to regain his strength. I have a mixture of herbs for him that will help the process, as well as a salve for your arm."

"Thank you, healer," Nemir said respectfully. "May I take him home now?"

"It would be better for him to stay here, at least for another day until we are certain that the poison has been purged."

"No. I would... feel better if he was where I could keep an eye on him myself."

"In that case," Judas could hear amusement in the elderly man's voice, "as the sun has just set, I see no reason to detain him."

Nemir returned to Judas's bedside and tapped his shoulder. "Judas, it's time to go," he said softly, assuming that he was waking the man.

Not wanting to reveal that he had been listening to the conversation, Judas opened his eyes and made a show of rubbing them. At the door, Kale and Konda were watching them. From the amusement he saw there, neither was fooled by his act. Thankfully, they did not seem inclined to enlighten Nemir either.

"I don't have to stay?" he asked, more than a little relieved. It wasn't that the room was uncomfortable, and the people were more than helpful, but he wanted the familiar setting of Nemir's apartment around him.

"Not unless you want to."

"No, I want to go home."

Nemir smiled, and it seemed to hold an even greater warmth than before. "Then home it is. Can you walk?"

Judas carefully pushed himself into a seated position. Then with Nemir's help, he stood up. He swayed for a moment, but managed to keep to his feet. "I... think I will need help," he said, holding onto Nemir's good arm tightly.

"And you will have it," he was promised.

Konda moved to his other side, and carefully supported by the two men, Judas made his way through the hallways back to the apartment that had become home in more than just name. Once there, he fully expected to settle onto his pallet to sleep once more, exhausted by the walk, but instead he found himself maneuvered to the large bed that Nemir slept on. He stared at it in surprise as he was urged to lie down.

"I cannot--"

"The pallet is not suitable for someone who is ill," Nemir said firmly, cutting off his protest. "You will sleep here."

Nemir's tone allowed no refusals. Feeling more than a little dizzy, Judas gave in and went where Nemir directed.

Nemir's bed was a place he had never really expected to be, and so had not let himself imagine what it would be like. The mattress was firm, but also softer than his pallet. The sheets were cool against his skin. Nemir pulled the top sheet up over him, and he turned on his side and breathed in deeply. The pillow he rested on smelled strongly of Nemir's personal scent. It was... soothing, and he quickly fell asleep.

~~~

Some time later, he woke to the feeling of the bed moving underneath him. He shifted in alarm, momentarily forgetting where he was, but a familiar voice quickly calmed him.

"It's just me," Nemir said softly, slipping under top sheet next to him. All the lamps had been extinguished, leaving the room in complete darkness. Judas had no idea what the hour was, but it felt late.

He lay there in the dark, acutely aware of the warmth radiating from the man laying next to him. He had not shared a bed with another since the day his brother had decided that he preferred to share a tent with his friends instead of his brother and grandfather. He certainly had never shared one with a... lover. He was not sure what he should do.

Nemir sighed suddenly, then stared to snore. The quiet sound was comforting in its familiarity, and Judas began to relax. When Nemir rolled over, he was daring and did not move away.

With Nemir pressed warmly against his side, his head on Judas's shoulder, he went back to sleep once more.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Eighteen ----------------------------------------

Nemir woke, passing from sleep to awareness at a lazy pace. He knew at once that the hour was later than his usual rising, but since he was in no shape for his usual spar, the lateness of the hour was not a problem.

He rarely slept this late in the day. However, he was pressed up against the reason he'd slept so deeply and restfully. Instead of a pillow, his cheek was resting on a warm and gently moving chest. His injured arm was cushioned on his bedmate's waist, and he had one leg slung over a leg not his own. He opened his eyes and smiled. The bedmate he was so tightly wrapped around was Judas.

Thinking that perhaps Judas would be disturbed by how tightly he was holding him, he tried to shift away slightly. But Judas muttered a sleepy protest and rolled over to follow him. His heart -- as well as other potions - - swelled at the trust in the movement.

Then Judas froze in his arms, obviously waking as well. Nemir did not try to move away again, choosing instead to wait for the reaction.

Judas opened his eyes and met Nemir's gaze. His pale eyes were wary. Then he relaxed and smiled shyly.

This was not the first time that Nemir had wanted to kiss Judas, but for the first time he did not resist the urge. He moved slowly, as if approaching a timid creature, and gently pressed his lips to Judas's.

As kisses went, it was not very passionate. However, it was intensely satisfying in its honesty. He knew from what Judas had told him that he'd never been kissed before, so he had no way of knowing how to respond. The innocence of it inflamed Nemir, but he refused to press too hard. They would have years together, and he did not want to risk scaring him.

After a long moment, he pulled back and was delighted by the surprised look on Judas's face. He brushed a lock of hair away from the boy's face. The hair was silky-soft against his fingers, and he indulged himself by stroking it a little more.

Judas was blushing when he finally forced himself to release the long pale strands. "Good morning," Nemir said cheerfully.

The blush intensified. "Good... good morning," Judas replied softly.

To Nemir, it sounded like an invitation, and he was moving to accept it when he shifted his injured arm to much. He gasped as he felt one of the gashes pull open.

Judas immediately sat up with a concerned expression. "Are you all right?" he asked, reaching for Nemir. "Your arm..."

Nemir used his good arm to push himself up into a seated position as well. "It will be fine," he said, disregarding the fact that he could feel the blood soaking into the wrappings. "I've been hurt worse in the past."

Judas did not listen to him. Instead, he started to unwrap Nemir's arm carefully. He made a horrified sound as he saw the fresh blood coloring the inner layer of the bandage.

"Oh, sweet Nimu," Judas gasped when the four parallel claw marks on Nemir's upper arm were exposed. Two were oozing blood, and they all throbbed painfully. "You need to go to the healers."

Nemir pulled away and winced. "No," he said through gritted teeth. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. "No," he repeated when he was sure he was in control of himself. "All that they would be able to do is wash the wound, salve it, then wrap it in fresh bandages. Those are all things that I can do for myself."

"With only one hand?" Judas said, clearly doubting him.

Nemir felt a brief flash of anger, but unfortunately Judas was correct. While he could certainly do it himself, it would be difficult and the bandage would not be as neat and as tight as it should be. "Then you will help me," he said confidently. He raised a single eyebrow. "You will, will you not?"

Judas looked reluctant, but he finally nodded. "Good," Nemir said. "Now, between your fevers and my hunting expedition, a bath would do us both well. It would also be an ideal time to clean and rebind my wound. Will you join me?" He stood and held out his hand to Judas.

After a moment's hesitation, Judas took it and allowed himself to be tugged up out of the bed. As the sheet fell away, Nemir was suddenly reminded that that neither of them was wearing anything. Since, for the first time he was not trying to hide his desire, Nemir allowed his gaze to linger on Judas's form in open admiration.

Unlike most men of Nemir's experience, Judas did not have the bulky muscles that were considered masculine. Instead, he was tall and slender. However, there was nothing about him that could be called feminine. Neither could he be called weak. Instead, he was like the reed that bent in the wind instead of breaking. His muscles were long and flat, hugging his frame and betraying nothing of the strength he had shown from time to time.

Unlike Nemir's thick and dark body hair, Judas had very little, limited to his chest, arms and legs, so pale in color that it was nearly invisible against his creamy skin. Even the hair surrounding his maleness was pale, although a few shades darker than the rest. And that maleness was as well-formed as the rest of him. Nemir often thought of him as 'boy,' but no boy sported such a rod. He would have to find some other word to describe him. No, despite his inexperience Judas was no boy.

All in all, Judas was kind to the eyes, with an exotic beauty unlike anything in Nemir's experience. Since the first day, it had fascinated him, as had his behavior. Judas had alternated between the innocence and shyness of a sheltered youth and the quick mind and quicker tongue when provoked of a chieftain's son.

But innocence was foremost at this time. Judas was staring back at him with equal fascination, blushing all the while. "The bath?" Nemir suggested when there was no sign of movement.

Judas blushed even hotter, but led the way. Nemir followed, appreciating the way that Judas's small, round buttocks flexed as he walked. The thought of those buttocks clenching his own rod tightly made Nemir's blood burn. He could not longer remember the reasons he had resisted this for so long.

The bath was clean and dry, but took little time to fill using the ingenious system of pipes that carried water from the palace cistern to all parts of the sprawling structure. The last of his bandages removed, Nemir slipped into the cool water with a sigh of pleasure. He ducked under the surface of the water to wet his hair, then settled back until the water came up to his neck.

A soft splash announced Judas's entry into the large bath. Nemir started to sit up a little straighter, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. Instead, Judas sat down behind him and urged him to lean back against the bent legs that made a perfect backrest.

Judas took up a handful of the soft, almost liquid soap that sat in a bowl next to the bath, then started to work it into Nemir's hair with firm fingers. Nemir groaned, leaning back into the scalp massage. It was not the first time that Judas had done this for him, but somehow it felt different. "Don't stop," he said hoarsely when Judas paused. When the massage resumed, he moaned softly and relaxed completely against Judas.

"Close your eyes," Judas said unnecessarily; his eyes were already shut with pleasure. There was a splashing sound, then handfuls of water poured over his head, carefully rinsing away the soap. Then Judas ran his fingers through Nemir's hair, ensuring that there were no tangles.

"Stand up," Judas ordered softly when he was done. Nemir did as he was told, eyes still shut.

When the new touch came, he opened his eyes and looked down at a sight that anyone would burn to see. Judas was kneeling at his feet, the water up to his chest, making his hair fan out around him, floating. Wet, it was almost pink in color, like the rose quartz quarried up-river. His eyes were fixed on Nemir's leg, which he was carefully cleaning with a square of soft cloth and more of the soap. He washed both of Nemir's legs thoroughly, then paused. Nemir watched, wondering what he would do now.

Judas blushed fiercely, but carefully washed Nemir's groin, refusing to look up as he did so. Nemir hardened as Judas touched him. He doubted that Judas meant to tease, but it took all his willpower not to thrust his hips forward. He could not remember the last time he'd been so eager. However, he had not been touched so intimately in several months, and he could already feel the tightening that preceded letting his seed loose. He bit his lip and tried to keep from trembling.

Finally, Judas released him and stood. He moved on to washing Nemir's arms, then his front, making Nemir gasp as his tightened nipples were brushed by the cloth. Then his back received the same treatment, including the valley between his buttocks. Nemir groaned as that most private of places was cleaned as carefully as the rest of him.

Judas stepped back when he finished, eyes downcast, but smiling. Nemir's entire body was trembling like a bowstring. He did not think he had ever been so thoroughly seduced before.

Unable to resist any longer, he plucked the square of cloth from Judas's hand and pulled him in close. He kissed Judas deeply, using every trick he'd learned from past lovers until Judas melted against him. He took Judas's hand in his own and guided it down to his groin and wrapped it around his straining flesh. Groaning into the kiss, he showed Judas the touch he preferred.

It did not take much. After a moment, he broke the kiss with a gasp and clutched Judas tightly as his seed spilled over their still joined hands, voiding his balls of months of self-imposed celibacy.

Breathing heavily, he buried his face in the crook of Judas's neck, trying not to force him to support his weight. He released Judas's hand and reached to give him the same release, but found Judas trembling but only half- hard. Nemir stroked him, and while he firmed slightly, he softened again almost at once.

"I'm sorry," Judas whispered, sounding mortified. Nemir cursed himself for a fool.

"Don't be," he reassured Judas, still stroking him, but no longer seeking to arouse. "You nearly died just a day ago," he said, his stomach clenching at the thought. "You still need time to recover."

"You did not."

Nemir snorted. "A minor clawing is nothing like being poisoned," he said. "You need time to rest and regain your strength. Now, stand still."

With that, he took up the cloth the same cloth Judas had used and proceeded to clean Judas just as carefully and as thoroughly as he had been. He noticed that while Judas was not able to harden at his touch, his responses showed that he was not indifferent.

But by the time he finished, Judas was trembling from more than just desire. Nemir helped him from the tub and dried him off tenderly. "Back to bed, I think," he said.

"Your arm..."

"Go," Nemir ordered firmly. "I will fetch the salve and bandages. You can bind it before sleeping," he added to make him happy.

"Will you tell me what happened?" Judas asked, reaching out but not quite touching the marks.

Nemir shrugged. "There is not much to tell. I surprised a lioness on her way home from the river at dawn. She clawed me as she sprang past, then was gone." He frowned at the shocked expression on Judas's face. "Are you all right?"

Judas blinked, then shook his head slightly. "Was your cousin hurt?" he asked.

The question surprised Nemir. "No. I told her to run for the camp while I distracted the lioness. It ignored her."

"Oh. Good." Judas turned as headed for the bedroom, the coarse drying sheet clutched to his chest.

Nemir was collecting the promised supplies for his arm when a thought occurred to him.

How had Judas known that Layla had been with him?

---------------------------------------- Chapter Nineteen ----------------------------------------

On closer examination, the wound was not nearly as bad as Judas had feared. There was no sign of heat or redness that would indicate infection, so obviously it had been well cleaned at the time it had been treated. The edges were held together with a few delicate stitches using silk thread. There would only be the faintest of scars once it had healed, and even they would likely fade with time.

Judas smoothed a thick layer of salve over the wound, then reached for the linen bandages.

The entire time, though, his mind was occupied by what Nemir had told him. The explanation had been short, and he knew that Nemir had left out a great deal of detail. He knew this the same way that he had known that Layla had been with Nemir at the time. However, he was not certain *how* he knew.

In his mind, he could still see the scene. The shadows were dark, but the sky in the east was bright with shades of pale peach and orange, covering over the night stars. Nemir was walking along a narrow path with Layla clinging to his arm, pressed tightly against his side. The image made his stomach clench, but he also felt a strange anger, one foreign to him. As Layla touched Nemir in ways that she had no right to, the anger had grown, then exploded.

There was a flurry of movement, images chaotic and disjointed. Then a flash of Nemir lying on the ground, his blade out but clean, and blood running down his arm.

Judas blinked the image away, a light sweat springing up on his face. Trying not to think about the incident, he checked the bandage to make sure that it was not too tight. Nemir flexed his arm, then nodded.

"Very nicely done," he said, putting the seal back on the jar and the jar on the low table next to the bed. "It will need to be left unbound tonight to allow the wound to breath, but this will hold through the day. Now, lie down. You look as though you are about to faint."

Dazed, Judas did as he was told, but the images refused to go away. He searched his memories, trying to find their origin, but all he could find was overwhelming anger and stomach-churning pain.

~~~

When he woke, his mind was clear and the last of the malaise was gone. He had thought that he felt fine earlier, but now he realized that that feeling of well-being had been an illusion.

He was alone in the large bed, but the space next to him still bore the imprint of Nemir's body. When he pressed his hand to the spot, it still held some of Nemir's warmth. Two volumes of military history left sitting on the bed told him that Nemir had not slept, but the fact that he had remained with Judas warmed him.

Judas stood up and was pleased to note that the room no longer moved around him as he did so. He found a pair of light breeches and a loose shirt laid out for him. He dressed quickly and went in search of Nemir, his...

He paused, considering possible terms he could use to end that sentence. Master was the expected word, but somehow it did not seem to fit anymore. Lover might be true in the days to come, but not yet, despite what had happened in the bath.

Judas mouth went dry at the memory, hazy as it was. He could still feel the heavy weight of Nemir's most private flesh in his hand, so hot that it seemed to brand him, inside and out. Lifting that hand to his face, he though that he could still smell the distinctive scent of Nemir's seed there.

He drew his fingers into a loose fist and pressed it against his chest. He could feel his heart racing and a stirring in his own loins. He reached down and touched himself through the thin fabric of his breeches. The response there was greater than it had been before, but it was still short-lived, much to his disappointment. Nemir had not seemed upset over the lack of reaction, but Judas very much wanted to give him the gift of his own pleasure, the proof of his own feelings. He worried that Nemir might think him unwilling or uninterested.

Putting aside such doubts for the moment, he left the bed chamber for the reception room. There he found Nemir uncovering a tray holding plates of roasted meats and sharp cheeses, as well as two drinking vessels, one plain and one decorated, and a basket of fresh bread that filled the room with a warm yeasty smell.

Nemir looked up and smiled warmly. "Excellent timing," he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. He waved Judas to the other seat. "I was about to wake you. You must be starving."

Judas sat down and took a slice of the bread, still warm from the oven. He drizzled it with honey and took a bite. Almost immediately, he realized that Nemir was right, and he quickly finished the slice before reaching for his cup.

He had lifted it halfway to his mouth when he froze, taking in the smell. He stared at the dark liquid, the same cheap ale that was always included with his meals, and could not bring himself to drink it. The memory of the burning stomach pains hovered on the edge of his consciousness. Finally, he set the cup down without having taken so much as a sip.

Nemir was frowning when he finally looked up. Judas opened his mouth to explain, but Nemir just shook his head. Silently, he picked up the cup and sniffed the contents, then made a face. He disappeared into the bath chamber, taking it with him.

When Nemir returned, the cup was empty and dry. He picked up his own and poured half the contents into Judas's cup, then handed it over. Judas took a cautious sip. His eyes went wide at the rich taste as it rolled over his tongue. He immediately took a second, more eager sip.

"From now on, I will tell them to bring a pitcher," Nemir said, chewing on a piece of venison, eyes fixed on Judas's face. "I hadn't realized... That was no better than *swill*. No wonder you did not notice the poison. Well, if we drink from the same source, the poisoner will think twice before trying again."

Judas cut a slice from the wedge of cheese and savored the sharp taste as he popped it into his mouth. "They will not like that," he said softly, still feeling a small pang of bitterness.

"Who won't?"

"The servants, of course."

Nemir frowned. "Why would they not like it?"

"It would not be considered appropriate for a slave to drink from the same vessel as a lord."

"What is it to them?" Nemir asked, obviously not understanding. "In fact, they should be grateful that I do not take them to task for what they serve you. River water would taste better."

Judas shrugged, amazed at how naïve Nemir could be. "It is what a slave is expected to drink."

"But you aren't..." Nemir's voice trailed off.

"I *am* a slave," Judas said heatedly. "One allowed to put on airs. One who needs to be put in his place."

"Who says this?" Nemir demanded. His face was flushed and his hands were clenched into fists.

Judas shook his head, his jaw held stiffly. "Too many to be named, and they are right."

Then he softened, seeing Nemir's upset. "It is quite simple," he said, resigned to the way he was seen. "They do not understand what my position is. If I were a concubine, they would know how to treat me. A scribe, a body servant, a groom, a guard. All of these, they would understand.

"But I am a slave who is not treated as a slave. A slave does not attend court functions unless they are serving. A slave does not receive lessons from a captain of the Guard. A slave does not read!"

Judas took a deep breath and let it go, releasing his rising tension with it. "They do not know how to treat me, so they treat me as they would the lowest of the Palace slaves."

Nemir's eyes were sad, but Judas met them squarely. In the months since his brother had sold him to the slaver, he had come to terms in his heart with his change in status. He doubted he could ever be what the servants would consider a 'proper' slave, but here, with Nemir, he thought that he could try, at least until the day of Nemir's wedding. After that... he was not sure what he would be. Still, he knew he had been lucky.

"Perhaps I could--" Judas cut him off.

"Nothing you say will change how they feel. They would simply come to resent me even more for having been taken to task." He shrugged. "Give it time. The way that they treat me know is better than when I first arrived and they were making wards against the evil eye in my direction. Things will ease in time."

"Very well reasoned," Konda said from the doorway. Both Judas and Nemir jumped, not having heard the man enter the room. Konda did not bother to hide his amusement. "Your understanding of Palace politics improves, much faster than Nemir's" he said, nodding to Judas.

Judas flushed. "It is not so different from the tribes. During Nemir's time in the guards, he probably saw treatment determined by merit." He glanced at Nemir, who nodded. "In the tribes, your perceived status determines how you are treated. Over time, your actions can change that status, but trying to force that change will only cause a backlash."

"Did you have to go through this as well?" Nemir demanded of Konda.

Konda shook his head, a wry grin twisting his mouth. "As Judas said, a visible role helps. I was a free man and a member of the Palace Guard before I became your father's companion and eventual lover. I was acting as his personal bodyguard, and was treated as such. Judas, on the other hand, is a foreigner and outside of their experience. And a young man with a talent for making enemies, it seems," he added.

"Enemies?" Judas asked, confused.

"There is a certain barber who speaks quite freely of a slave who attacked him and was not punished for it. The court tailor has assistants who are vocal in their resentment being ordered to make clothing for a slave. Servants complain of a slave who is not required to work for his food or bed. All the petty resentments and jealousies that fill people's lives."

"And did one of them act on those resentments?" Nemir asked, glancing at Judas.

"That, I cannot say. I found the cook who prepared the tray and the servant who delivered it, but both claim ignorance. Their shock at hearing of the attempt was too honest to be an act. However, the tray was left to sit unattended in the kitchen, and Judas cannot be sure if it was the sound of the servant who woke him or someone else."

"And so we may never learn who tried to murder Judas? Unacceptable!" Nemir slapped the top of the table for emphasis. "Murder has been attempted twice since my return home without consequences; once against me and now against Judas. We were able to cover up the first, but not this time."

Nemir's eyes were fixed on Konda now. "There are spies in the Palace from other cities, I am sure you will agree, and their masters will be quick to look to take advantage of a perceived weakness. This would-be assassin must be found and punished quickly."

"Agreed," Konda said. "However, we cannot force the proof to appear. And we certainly cannot execute someone without proof simply for the sake of appearances."

"Of course not," Nemir said, much to Judas's relief. Blaming an innocent was not an idea that had occurred to him, and made him feel ill.

"Then there is little we can do except continue to search. In the meantime, I recommend that the two of you make an appearance at Court tonight before the rumors can take hold. Prove to everyone that Judas is alive and that our assassin failed."

Nemir looked to Judas, and he easily read the question in those dark eyes. He nodded, and Nemir turned back to Konda.

"We will be there."

---------------------------------------- Chapter Twenty ----------------------------------------

Nemir had much to think about as he dressed for dinner. His wounds ached fiercely when he lifted his arms to let the tunic slide over his head and settle into place on his form, but he ignored that. He had been hurt worse in battles with bandits and desert tribesmen during his time in the Guard. The wounds would heal.

More difficult to ignore was the slight tremble he could see in Judas's hands as the young man brushed the sleep tangles from his hair. The poison that had been put in Judas's food would have killed him painfully if Konda had not been there when the first effects had made themselves known.

According to Healer Kale, Judas would be weak and easily fatigued for days -- perhaps weeks -- to come, his body strained by both the poison and the purging that had saved his life. Even now, Nemir could see other signs of fatigue in the slump of Judas's shoulders and the tight lines on his face.

But worse was the knowledge that it was his fault that the attempt on Judas's life had even been made.

And yet, despite all that Judas was preparing to accompany Nemir to Court to counter the already spreading rumors of his death. And Nemir found that he had no doubt that the moment that they left the safety of their apartment, Judas would not show any sign of weakness, no matter what the physical cost: His pride would not allow it.

Judas stood, carefully pushing his hair to hang in a loose wave down his back. Nemir moved to stand in front of him and adjusted the seams of his tunic so that it hung straight.

Presentable -- and to Nemir's eyes, beautiful -- Judas returned the favor, checking Nemir's appearance. Some of the strain left his face as he smiled in obvious approval.

On impulse, Nemir reached up and pulled Judas's face down to where he could kiss him and proceeded to do so with great relish. Judas had the sweetest mouth that he could remember ever tasting, and he found himself craving it more and more, even though it had only been a day since he'd tasted it for the first time.

When he reluctantly ended the kiss, Nemir was happy with the results. Judas's lips were puffy, his face was flushed and his eyes sparkled in the light of the lamps that illuminated the room. It gave him a healthy glow which while it had not been his reason for kissing Judas was a welcome side-effect.

"Ready?" he asked. Judas nodded firmly, and they left the rooms, Judas falling into step behind him.

As they passed through the Palace corridors, Nemir was not surprised to see more servants and slaves than would normally be expected along their route. Most were engaged in obvious tasks, either cleaning or transporting packages, but they all stopped and watched as Nemir and Judas passed. Their tasks had obviously been timed in order to see them. Excited whispers spread behind them.

Despite his concern, Nemir did not look back to check on Judas, conscious of the eyes on them as they walked the familiar route at a deliberate pace. He wanted to, but knew that it would add fuel to the rumors. Instead, he trusted Judas to known his own limitations and to speak if he were in difficulty.

Finally, they reached the archway that led into the large, high-ceilinged roomed that held all court functions. Conversation stopped as they entered the room, passing between the Palace guards flanking the entrance.

The sound of their footsteps echoed in the large room, bouncing off the painted ceiling and tiled floors. Ignoring the intense interest in the eyes focused on them, Nemir made his way through the crowd until he reached the dais where his father sat, Konda standing at attention behind him.

"My Prince," Nemir said formally, bowing his head in respect.

"My son," his father replied, just as solemn, then waved Nemir to the seat next to his. Nemir sat down on the low couch, then carefully reclined on it, noting that it had been oriented so that he would not have to lean on his injured arm. He was grateful for the consideration.

A cushion had also been set out for Judas, and he sank onto it gracefully at Nemir's gesture. His face was impassive, but Nemir could see a faint sheen of perspiration, betraying how exhausting the long walk had been for him.

Unlike his usual position, the cushion Judas was sitting on had been placed in front of Nemir's couch, putting him on display. Nemir knew how much Judas disliked being the focus of so many eyes, but he also understood the necessity of letting everyone gathered in the room see that they were both alive and well, although 'well' might be an exaggeration.

Conversation had restarted, but avid eyes were still fixed on the dais. Nemir's skin prickled in the face of that hunger, and he could see the tension in Judas as he fought to keep from fidgeting.

Thinking of Judas's other problem, Nemir came to a quick decision. Even though he knew that some would see it at a sign of weakness, Nemir reached over to touch Judas's shoulder. Almost immediately, the younger man relaxed, leaning into the touch. Nemir moved his hand slightly to run his fingers through the silky fine hair, then withdrew again. Although the act had been deliberately done for the audience, Nemir found himself strangely comforted by the touch as well.

When he looked up again, he found his father watching him with a faint but very satisfied smile. Konda's expression was a proper mask, but Nemir could see an amused twinkle in his eyes. While Nemir would not change what had happened between himself and Judas, it still galled him that he had ended up doing exactly what his father had wanted. It made him feel as if he had no control of his life, not even in private.

Still, his father was Prince, and as such, expected to be right, so it should not surprise him that he had been right about Judas.

Thankfully, the evening meal was being served, so he did not have to admit the obvious to his father. Instead, he took up one of the small meat-filled pastries and covered his irritation in the act of chewing.

Perhaps it was because of their conversation earlier, but Nemir was very sensitive to the looks that the servants gave Judas as they set out the platters and bowls. Nemir could not help being angry at himself for not noticing before, but at least he knew now and could do something about it.

He considered the dishes set on the low table between his couch and his father's and selected a bite-sized piece of pale green melon. Instead of handing it to Judas as he normally would, he held it to the boy's lips. With his eyes, he asked Judas to understand what he was trying to do.

Judas's eyes went wide for a moment, but he opened his mouth trustingly and allowed Nemir to place the morsel inside. He closed his mouth to chew and briefly caught Nemir's fingers between his lips.

Nemir's breath caught and his breeches suddenly became tighter. He allowed his thumb to linger on Judas's lower lip for a moment, then lifted his hand to lick the last of the melon juice from his fingers. His actions would be unmistakable to everyone watching. Judas dropped his head, his hair hanging down to shield his face, but Nemir could see both the blush and the small, embarrassed smile.

When Nemir looked around again, he could see speculation on the faces turned towards them, along with a few knowing smirks. He found it irritating but necessary. If Judas was being treated with hostility because no one knew what his place was, then they would have to establish one. Concubine was a role that would be most easily understood, and one which was treated with some respect. However, he was unsure how it was seen among the tribes. He hoped that Judas would not be offended.

Having made the impression he wanted to, Nemir relaxed slightly. His father looked curious, but said nothing. Konda, he noted, looked as if he approved.

As they ate, he answered his father's questions about the hunt. He knew that Konda's questions the next day would have a much different focus, but he found he was enjoying describing the events, even the strange encounter with the lioness. The hunt *had* been a pleasant diversion. Lord Ber might have been insulting to the point of being offensive, but he was glad to have had the chance to meet Markus and Dansen. Several other members of the hunt had also been pleasant company.

Judas was right, he had to reluctantly agree. He did need to socialize with others of his age-group.

He looked down the length of the hall, easily picking out his companions of the outing. Several of them were clustered around Ber. The man was holding court as if *he* were Prince. Nemir dismissed the group from thought. Markus and Dansen were seated at the far end of the hall, but even from that distance, he could see the people sitting around them laughing at some quip. He wished that he could join them.

And seated a little closer than she'd been at the first banquet after his return, he could see Layla, staring up at the dais with a wistful expression. He smiled at her, feeling a little awkward. While he still saw his childhood friend when he looked at her, he now also saw the seductive woman who had flirted with him on the path near the river. Much as he wished he could say that it had been his imagination, he knew it was not. He was beginning to realize that she had changed over the years while he was in the Guard, and he was no longer sure that he knew her.

Looking away, he covered his disquiet, he distracted himself by feeding Judas another morsel. This time, the younger man deliberately licked Nemir's fingers as he took the piece of meat from them. Meeting Judas's eyes, he saw understanding and acceptance of Nemir's plans, as well as a twinkle that said that on some level he was even enjoying the performance.

Then he shifted his weight on the cushion until he was able to lean over and rest his cheek on the couch next to Nemir's hand. Those still watching them might interpret it as a seductive move, but Nemir knew better. He could see the carefully hidden fatigue in Judas's expression. He wondered how soon they could safely leave, but knew that they would have to remain until well into the night.

His arm throbbing once more, Nemir sighed and tried to find a slightly more comfortable position. It was going to be a long evening.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Twenty-One ----------------------------------------

By the time that the dinner dishes were being cleared away, Judas was having difficulty keeping his eyes open. He could not remember his energy levels ever being at such a low ebb. He closed his eyes and took several deep, cleansing breaths, and felt a slight surge of vitality accompanied by a gentle touch to his cheek. His eyes flew open, but Nemir was involved in a conversation with his father, his hands moving in emphasis. No one else was close enough to have touched him. Judas shook his head slightly, and decided that the feeling had been his imagination, brought on by the fatigue.

He looked up at Nemir and was immediately concerned by the tight lines of strain around his eyes and mouth. Under his tan, his skin had a faintly grey tinge. The bandages on his arm were hidden beneath his tunic, but Judas could see him wince as he reached for the water bowl held out by a servant so that he could wash his hands.

Judas glanced at the Prince briefly and saw carefully concealed worry on the man's face. That also concerned Judas. He could not shake the feeling that it was not the wound that worried Nemir's father, but could think of nothing else that could possible worry a man as powerful at the Prince.

A damp cloth offered to him interrupted his musings. He accepted it, grateful that Nemir was allowing him to clean himself rather than doing it for him. He'd quickly understood Nemir's purpose, but he still felt uncomfortable being fed like a child in front of others. He could, however, see the possibilities of doing the same in the privacy of their rooms. The way Nemir's eyes had darkened from brown to nearly black when he'd nibbled on the fingers holding out bits of food to him promised many things that made his blood run hot.

The tables and couches were being removed, which meant that Nemir was expected to move among the nobles of the Court. Judas would have to be at his back. He took a deep breath, then stood as slowly and gracefully as he could, trying to cover the flash of dizziness that accompanied the movement after sitting for so long.

A gentle touch to his elbow studied him, and he smiled gratefully at Nemir. Then he fell in behind the man as he stepped off the dais.

It was something he'd done many times in the month since he'd been presented to Nemir, but he could not remember having been the focus of so much attention since the first night, if even then. Since then, he'd been dismissed, nearly invisible, but after Nemir's blatant behavior, the speculative looks had returned.

Judas ignored the looks. More difficult to ignore were the two nobles who tried to touch him, one with obviously lascivious intent. He did his best to step out of their reach without being obvious so that they would not be able to take offense.

Shortly after starting his progress down the long hall, Nemir was stopped by a man only a few years older than himself who asked about his wounds. Nemir rotated his arm freely, claiming no difficulty even though Judas had a good idea how much the movement cost him. From their conversation, he quickly realized that this was the Lord Ber on whose hunt Nemir had been attacked. As well, he could tell that Nemir disliked the man greatly.

Then Lord Ber's eyes turned towards him, and Judas decided that he disliked the man just as much. He felt as though he'd just been smeared with oil, greasy and foul.

"So this is the bed-slave I've heard so much about. He is as attractive as they say," Lord Ber said, ignoring the fact that unless he'd been avoiding Court for the last month, he would have seen Judas already. His tone was pleasant, but it did not match the expression in his eyes. Judas shivered and wondered what he had done to earn such dislike.

"This is my concubine, Judas," Nemir corrected him, surprising both Lord Ber *and* Judas.

"Indeed," was the reply, accompanied by narrowed eyes. Judas could hear whispers spreading as if Nemir had just dropped a stone in the center of a calm pool of water.

Judas did not flinch. Instead, his back was straight and his head was held high. While he knew that it was different in the city states of the Kingdom, among the tribes a concubine was a position of high respect. A concubine was a warrior, male or female, taken in battle and seduced into willing submission. Anything else was merely a captive, a slave, and treated with contempt for not choosing death in an attempt to escape.

By treat him as a beloved concubine, Nemir gave him reason to hold his head high. While others might say differently, he knew that he had worth. Great worth.

Thankfully, the ever so polite conversation was quickly concluded, Lord Ber having made the point that the Heir had been his guest on one of his outings, and they were able to move on.

After that, there were several more inquiries about Nemir's arm of varying degrees of sincerity. Judas was also surprised at how many of those who had ignored him to that point actually acknowledged his presence. Nemir's pronouncement obviously bestowed some status within the court on him. Judas almost preferred being invisible.

Watching Nemir, Judas could easily tell which nobles he favored, although he was unfailingly polite to all. Judas was a little puzzled when Nemir was as brief as possible with Layla. He seemed uncomfortable, almost embarrassed, while she looked confused and faintly hurt as he moved on.

Then he brightened as he approached two young men close to his own age at the end of the hall. One was obviously native to the Kingdom, a pleasant looking young man, but unremarkable. The other was anything but. He obviously did not come to Court very often, since Judas would surely have remembered seeing him before. He was larger and much heavier than Judas. His hair, both on his head and what could be seen of his body, gleamed in the lamplight like flames. His eyes were the dark blue of the evening sky just before the stars come out. He was easily the most exotic person in the room after Judas.

Nemir clasped forearms with each of them. "Judas," Nemir said, making Judas jump in surprise. He'd never been addressed directly during Court functions before and was not sure how to react. "I would have you know Markus and Dansen."

Judas nodded politely, but stayed silent. There were too many listeners who might object.

Both of the man smiled widely. "A pleasure," Markus said in a voice so deep that it sounded like distant thunder. He was surprised to realize that the muscular man was actually taller than himself, as well as much wider. Very few people were taller than him, but Markus made him feel as tiny as a child.

"My Lords," he finally said in a low voice, then glanced to Nemir, wondering if he were expected to say anything further. Instead, Nemir joked with the two men for a few moments, perhaps a little longer than Court etiquette would consider appropriate, then moved on to greet the last few low ranked nobles remaining.

Finally, they reached the entrance to the hall. Despite his best efforts, Judas was beginning to sway on his feet. Force of will alone kept him still.

Nemir glanced down the hall to his father for permission to leave. A small nod gave it, and Nemir bowed to the hall before indicating for the guards to open the doors.

As they left, Judas glanced back into the room one last time. Nearly every eye was on them, but there were two exceptions.

Layla and Lord Ber were standing together at the side of the room, dark heads pressed close together. Layla looked towards the door, and Judas flinched at the brief flash of pure hate that marred her beautiful face.

Then the expression vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving a polite mask in its place. The last thing Judas saw as the doors shut behind them was her leaving Ber's side and gliding across the room. While the angle made it difficult to tell, it seemed to him that she was walking towards Lord Morlan, the nobleman Nemir had warned him about on their first day together.

Lord Morlan had avoided them since that day, but Judas had noted him observing them from time to time during their duties. The man worried him, and not just because of what Nemir had told him.

But now it seemed that there were three to worry about. And while there was no reason to believe that they had any connection to the assassination attempts, Judas suddenly had the feeling that there was a relationship. However, he hesitated to voice these concerns to Nemir or Lord Konda, since he had nothing but a hunch.

Court life was so complicated. His lessons over the last month had taught him that. Some days, he missed the simplicity of life in the desert. Tribal life was often brutal, but at least it was honest. In Court, no one was what they seemed and there were plots within plots.

Only one thing made this new life bearable, and that was the young man he was following down the now-familiar hallways. Even in the first days when Nemir had resented his presence, he had still treated him with respect. As their friendship grew with time, it had countered the hurt of the treatment he received from the Palace staff when they thought Nemir could not see. And now...

The door at the entrance to their suite closed behind them and Judas slumped back against the fragrant carved wood, his limbs trembling with fatigue. For a moment he thought he was suffering a relapse. The room spun and he felt as though he was falling.

Then the sensation stopped and he found himself in Nemir's arms being carried into the bedroom. Nemir set him down on the bed and tenderly helped him to undress. His formal Court robes were carefully hung on their storage frame. Then Nemir also undressed.

Before returning to the bed, Nemir paused at the pallet Judas had been sleeping on up until that point. Moving quickly and efficiently, Nemir stripped the pallet and folded the thin mattress. The blankets were also folded and placed on top, along with the single pillow. Then he picked up Judas's small chest and set it on the floor next to Judas's side of the bed.

"The servants can remove that bedding tomorrow," he said, climbing into the bed next to Judas. "You will not be needing it any longer."

While the words might be considered arrogant assumption, Judas smiled and moved closer. Nemir's arms wrapped around him possessively, comforting in their strength.

Despite his fatigue, Judas stayed awake as Nemir's breathing evened out into sleep. A soft snore began, a sound that had become as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.

Content, he allowed those two sounds to combine, lulling him to sleep as well.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Twenty-Two ----------------------------------------

"Excellent!" Nemir crowed as his sparring partner hit the hard-packed sand-covered floor and smoothly rolled out of the way of retaliation without missing a beat. Already, he was back on his feet, his practice knife held ready, waiting for Nemir's next move.

"Enough," Nemir said, holding up a hand.

Judas straightened, lowering his knife and his guard. The moment he seemed fully relaxed, Nemir moved to sweep his legs out from under him.

There was a flurry of movement. When it was over, Nemir was flat on his back with Judas on top of him, pinning his upper body to the ground, with the blunt metal of his knife blade pressed against Nemir's throat.

"And even better," Nemir said softly. "Never let down your guard, for it is then that a devious enemy will attack."

Judas's face was flushed and he was breathing heavily. His hair hung around his face in tangles where it had come out of its braid as he leaned over Nemir, looking down at him. A quick smile flashed across his face at the compliment, but the blade never shifted.

After training Judas for more than a season, Nemir wondered why he'd been so determined not to. Judas had had little knowledge of blade-work, but had possessed an abundance of speed, flexibility and an eagerness to learn.

He'd chosen the dagger for Judas, since it was easier to conceal and less likely than a sword to inspire outrage.

The only difficulty they'd had was finding a space large enough to practice without exposing Judas to the sunlight that could cause him serious harm. They had finally settled on a large building attached to the stables that was used to exercise the Prince's steeds during the winter storms to protect them from being damaged by wind-driven sand. During the winter months, all stayed indoors except when absolutely necessary when the winds blew. A sudden dust squall could blind or scar a victim in minutes if caught unaware.

The only drawback to the arrangement, convenient as the location was, was the remnants of the building's primary use. This close to the sand-covered ground, his nose was reminding him of that use. The scent of generations of horses and their leavings was thick in his nostrils.

Judas had not yet moved, and Nemir's body was reacting to his nearness as it always did, and he decided to do something about it. While Judas had him pinned to the ground, he had neglected to also pin his arms and legs. In a quick move, Nemir flipped them over so that Judas was now pinned beneath *him*. Unlike Judas, he did not neglect to restrain his student's entire body. The practice knife, he knocked out of reach.

"I believe I have won this bout," he said softly, pressing down against Judas's body.

Judas blinked in surprise, then his lips quirked into a small, wry smile. "Indeed, it appears that you have. I will pay the forfeit."

Nemir growled softly at the words before claiming that tempting mouth. Judas responded sweetly, opening up to Nemir. Their tongues dueled slowly. Although neither was seeking to win, and so they both won. They were both familiar, now, with each others' responses, but that only made love-making that much sweeter.

It was with great reluctance that Nemir broke the kiss, but duty called and there was little time to clean and dress before the nightly Court. There was no requirement that the Prince or Heir had to attend every night, but at his father's request, he and Judas attended more often than not. He had not explained why he considered this necessary, but he was Prince of Ajantha: He did not need to explain himself to anyone except the God-King.

They returned to their rooms and bathed quickly before dressing for Court. Judas chose from his growing wardrobe an unadorned soft grey silk that made his eyes even more vivid that usual. The exercise had given his cheeks a healthy pink flush that made him look even younger than his years. Nemir wanted nothing more than to take him to bed, but there was no time.

Judas's deceptively delicate looks made an attractive compliment to Nemir's dark, tanned looks and deep red robes that were liberally decorated with gold thread and glittering gems.

As they moved through the corridors, Judas's stride was strong and confident. His demeanor had changed greatly since Nemir had started training him to fight, something else that the Heir found that very appealing. He was also bolder with others since Nemir had publicly claimed him as a concubine, not just a slave. Some might say that there was little difference, but Nemir had been pleased when Judas had explained what it meant to *him*.

Indeed, he found the Tribe concept of the word far more appealing. It implied a meeting of wills and a willing submission, not forced. And in the end, it mattered not what others thought. What meaning he and Judas gave the word was all that was important.

It still amazed him how quickly his life had changed. Only half a year ago, Nemir had still been with the Guard, traveling Ajantha's borders. Other than bandits or raiding desert tribes, his only worry had been the occasional scorpion making a nest in his boot overnight or the edibility of the evening meal. Now he had politics and plots and assassins to complicate his life.

And yet, while his companions in the guard had been there to watch his back and, from time to time, share his bed, he had never had the feeling that they would sacrifice their lives to protect him. Judas would. Perhaps in the beginning it was simply worry over the consequences should Judas survive his death, but Nemir truly believed that it was more than that now. It was something he'd never felt before, this feeling of trust, of... love. It made life in Court almost enjoyable. Having Judas at his back comforted him like nothing since the day he'd left the harem to begin learning what it was to be a man, not a child.

Although Nemir no longer lived his days according to the rising and setting of the sun, and, in fact, rarely saw those daily events, his internal sense of time was still enough to ensure that they arrived at the hall moments before his father.

Court was familiar to he and Judas both by this time. Neither of them enjoyed it, but they endured. However, he had not expected to see his father that evening. The Prince usually attended only at week end.

Nemir quickly saw why the Prince had chosen to appear that night. Instead of familiar faces, the seats closest to the Prince's dais were occupied by strangers with faces tanned and reddened by resent desert travel.

Three men and a woman shrouded in the heavy robes and veils of the far south, where it was believed that for a woman to show her face outside of the harem or home was an insult to her family and the gods, as well as an incitement to sin. Even common women working in the fields covered their hair and faces, or they risked being stoned by outraged neighbors. The hard looks on the men's faces as they avoided looking at the bare-faced women in the hall showed their feelings about the less strict mores of the north.

The question in his mind, though, was why they had traveled to Ajantha. Their kind rarely traveled further north than the God-King's city, and never with one of their women. He assumed that she must be wife to one of the men, but what little Nemir could tell of her form beneath the layers of yellow silk suggested that she was much younger than any of them.

Unfortunately, their proximity to the dais, as was appropriate for such unusual guests, meant that Nemir could not question his father about the reason for such a visit. The men watched the Prince's dais with the eyes of hawks. As for the woman, she watched them as well, although less openly. Nemir did not stare, but he was fascinated by her eyes. They were an strange shade of pale brown, almost the color of northern amber. Since they were the only part of her uncovered, it was impossible to guess what she was thinking.

The meal was served -- Nemir noted that someone had arranged for only males to serve the strangers -- and Nemir ate slowly as he considered the puzzle. While his lessons with Konda came less frequently, such an event would no doubt lead to a careful questioning the next day. Unfortunately, he could think of no reason that would bring them to Ajantha.

It was not until the dishes were being cleared away that he realized something he had not noticed before. While the men were watching himself and his father, the Prince, the woman's gaze was fixed instead on Judas.

That immediately put Nemir on edge. Judas was attractive -- he was ready to admit that since he found him so himself -- but her eyes did not seem to hold the usual lust or suspicion that Nemir had seen so often. Instead, there was a sort of sadness there. And recognition, he thought.

Traditionally, after breaking bread with the people, the Prince and Heir mingled with them. This was intended so that any with a grievance or request could present it in a less formal setting, rather than going to the judges.

However, while that might have been the original intent, it was rarely the case. Instead, the progress had become one more way for the courtiers to jockey for position, or simply to make an impression on those of greater power.

But this night, Nemir's Father gestured imperceptibly for him to remain seated.

The last of the dishes were carefully removed, along with the low tables they'd been resting on. There were murmurs, but none were willing to rise before the Prince. All eyes were turned towards the dais, waiting to see what had interrupted tradition.

Large cushions were brought out and set out in the open space at the center of the room. A strange stringed instrument, similar to a guitar and yet completely unfamiliar, was set out on one of them. The whispers became more anticipatory.

One of the strangers nodded, first to the dais, then to the veiled woman. She stood gracefully, despite the layers of cloth that she was swathed in, and glided over to the pile of cushions. There, she sat down once more, her clothing settling into a perfect arc around her. She took up the guitar with hands that were bare of rings or bracelets.

That surprised Nemir once again. He had never seen a woman completely unadorned by jewelry. Even the poorest seemed to manage to obtain at least bangles made of cheap brass if nothing else. But this woman's hands, long and slim, did not even show the sun lines where such should have been.

Then the first string was plucked and all thought vanished.

The sound of that strange instrument was like nothing he had ever heard before. It was the desert wind, the river flow. Joy, sorrow and fear. The wordless singing of her voice filled the room with the warmth of the sun and the chill of the night. All of these things were in her song.

And as she played, Nemir sat in awe, scarcely breathing.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Twenty-Three ----------------------------------------

As the woman played and continued her wordless song, Judas sat frozen in place, trembling. Each plucked string sent vibrations through his body, terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.

And through it all, her eyes -- strangely colored and far too wise -- were locked on his own. Their amber depths were speaking to him, but he could not understand what they said.

Finally, her song ended and her fingers left the strings. The last few notes echoed in the corners of the room. Silence reigned.

Then it was as if everyone in the room had sighed at the same moment, the sound was so loud. As for Judas, he had to fight to keep from gasping as the bands that had been so tight around his chest loosened. No one noticed, all eyes being focused on the woman shrouded in cloth the color of sunlit sands. From his position, kneeling beside Nemir's couch, Judas fought to control himself. The woman was still watching him, a fact he found unnerving.

Then, thankfully, she bowed low, pressing her forehead to the tiles of the floor, breaking eye-contact with him.

The oldest of the three men stood and moved over to the woman, towering over her. He ignored her position, forehead still pressed to the tiles. Instead, he bowed stiff-necked to the dais and spoke. His command of the language of the kingdom was stilted and heavily accented.

"Our lord bids us bring you this gift. We ask you to accept." He bowed again, ignoring the surprised murmurs running through the room.

"Gift?" the Prince said, sounding surprised for the first time in Judas's short experience with the man.

"She is virgin, trained in all arts of high-born women, former servant to the Goddess. She is for you."

"A most... impressive gift. And most unexpected."

The man made a gesture with his right hand that seemed the equivalent of a shrug. "The lord bids us bring her. We obey," he said simply. Obviously, no further explanation would be offered.

The Prince was silent for a moment, and Judas felt pity for the girl, even though there was not even the slightest sign of a tremble in the line of her back. She was the picture of grace.

"We are honored by the gift, and we accept it," the Prince finally said. At the words the young woman lifted from her position and sat back on her heels, her hands folded in her lap.

The man's expression did not change, but he bowed once more, then returned to his seat. The young woman, he left where she was, completely ignoring her. It was as if she had ceased to exist for him.

The Prince seemed somewhat nonplussed. To Judas, it seemed as if he were uncertain what to do with his 'gift.' Nemir leaned over and whispered, barely audible, "Judas and I could escort her to the Harem." The suggestion seemed to please the man.

Nemir glanced to Judas. He nodded towards the waiting woman. Conscious of all the eyes on him, Judas stood and stepped off the dais. He bowed to her, but was careful not to offer her his hand. He was not sure how it might be interpreted. "I will show you to the Prince's Harem," he said softly, wondering if she would even understand him.

She nodded and stood, waiting. Judas moved towards the main entrance to the hall, and she fell into step beside him. Behind, he could hear Nemir following. An escort of the Heir and his concubine would be above reproach, and an indication of how much the gift was valued.

He wondered what that felt like, being a gift. Of course, he had been a gift as well, in a manner of speaking, but it had been a different situation. He had been bought for a specific purpose. This woman, however, had been brought a great distance from her home to be presented to a stranger who had no idea what to do with her.

"Do you have a name?" he finally asked, finding the silent walk oppressive.

For a moment there was no response, and he wondered again if she even understood him. "Nahanna," she finally said in a soft, musical voice. Where the man's accent had been harsh, hers was pleasant to the ear.

"A beautiful name," Nemir said from behind them. "For a beautiful lady. But as my father said, a most unexpected one. Why did your lord send you?"

Glancing towards her, Judas saw that her eyes were carefully focused on her feet. And yet, even though he could not see her face, he had the impression that she was smiling. "It is not my place to question the Lord," she said.

Nemir snorted softly. "Maybe so, but it would greatly surprise me if you did not know the reason. Or are the women of the south that much different?"

Her laughter was light. Judas wondered how she could be so calm considering her situation.

They reached the entry to the royal harem before Nemir could attempt to question her further. Two Palace Guards stood at the entrance, but they did not challenge the Heir.

A thick, silk rope hung by the side of the door. Nemir pulled it, and they heard the muffled of a bell on the other side of the door. The door itself was locked, and other than the key that the Prince held, the only way to open it was from the inside.

As they waited for a response, the woman -- Nahanna -- turned to face them. "My presence here was deemed necessary," she said, again looking at Judas instead of Nemir. "But I promise, on my honor, that there is no menace to you or yours in it."

Judas opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the ornately wrought metal doors opened, revealing a small, marble-walled room. The other doorways leading from it were all masked with layers of sheer drapery in soft colors. A single woman, older than the Prince and holding herself with great dignity, stood waiting.

Nahanna raised her hands and crossed her forearms over her chest as she bowed gravely to them one last time. When she straightened, her eyes seemed to be amused when they met Judas's shocked expression. Then she stepped through the entrance and the large doors closed behind her.

Judas stood where he was, completely frozen by what he had seen. Nemir coughed quietly, then shook his shoulder when the sound was not enough to shake him out of his daze.

Suddenly wanting to be as far away as possible, Judas turned and nearly ran down the corridor, back to the main hallway that ran through the wing holding the Royal quarters. He stopped there and waited for Nemir. Nemir surprised him by turning not in the direction of the Court hall, but the opposite direction, back to their apartments.

Judas made a small sound, the most undignified sound he had ever made in his life, as the door of their sanctuary closed behind them. He hugged himself tightly, the earlier tremors having returned.

"Judas, are you all right?" Nemir asked, touching his shoulder gently. Judas started, then took a deep breath.

"Did you... Did you see her arms?" he asked, praying that his eyes had been playing tricks on him.

His hopes were quickly dashed. "She had dark markings on her forearms. They looked like.. feathers," Nemir replied, almost reluctantly.

Judas rubbed his own forearms under the cloth, and the markings there. Bat wings, not feathers, but the similarity was undeniable. He no longer wore the bandages, but he kept the markings covered when anyone but Nemir could see.

The markings on Nahanna's arms, combined with her eerie song, had left him more unsure than he'd been since the day his brother had tearfully handed him over to slaver.

Nemir's arms were now wrapped around him, and soft, comforting words were being whispered in his ear. The tremors faded as he was coaxed towards the sleeping chamber. Then they returned as Nemir helped him to undress, but for a completely different and far more pleasant cause this time.

The thrilling touch of skin against skin filled his senses, distracting him from his thoughts, as he was tumbled back onto the bed with Nemir pressing him into the mattress. Nemir's callused hand drew responses from him that left him feeling completely wanton as he surrendered himself body -- and perhaps soul -- to the man who owned him.

~~~

Judas woke from a sleep full of disturbing dreams to find himself alone in the bed. The linens where Nemir had lain were cool to the touch, telling him that he had been alone in the bed for some time. His innate sense of the sun's position confirmed this, informing him that it was well past the hour where he would normally wake.

Judas sat up and pushed the damp tangles of his hair back from his face. His lips were dry, and when he licked them, he could taste the salt of dried sweat. His entire body prickled with the same, but when he tried to remember the dreams that had caused the sweat, the images slipped away like a mirage.

He rose and slipped on a light robe, then headed for the bathing chamber. A small amount of cool water and a cloth served to remove the last of the dreams' effects and wake him fully. He emerged to find a bowl of fresh fruit on the table, but no Nemir yet. He picked up an orange, and peeled and quartered it while considering the pervious evening.

In the light of day, his reaction seemed... overwrought. The marks on Nahanna's arms could have any number of meanings. Perhaps they *were* birthmarks, much like his own, but they could also have been tattoos or paint, ceremonial markings related to her previous live in service of her people's Goddess, or even intended simply to confuse and unnerve them. They had certainly succeeded in that.

And yet there was something about the woman that seemed... familiar. They had never met before, and yet he felt a sense of kinship with her.

He finished the orange, then fiddled with the peel, his appetite gone. What was it about the woman that so confused him? He was happy with his life and did not want a stranger coming in and disturbing it.

"Oh, good. You're awake."

Judas turned and finally began to relax at the familiar face. Nemir's skin gleamed with fresh sweat and he was wearing his practice leathers. His damp hair was spiked up from a hand running through it. "I wondered where you were," Judas teased to cover his relief. He set aside his concerns for the time being. "I see I need not have worried."

Nemir grinned, then moved to pluck an unblemished peach from the bowl. "You did not wake when I did. You were sleeping so peacefully that I did not have the heart to wake you." He took a bite from the juicy fruit, then gave Judas a flavorful kiss.

Before Judas could puzzle out why he'd been sleeping peacefully when Nemir had left, yet had woken from nightmares, Nemir stepped back and started to strip out of his leathers. Judas bent to pick them up, but Nemir stopped him. "We have a little time before Konda arrives to question us about last night's impressions," he said. "Surely there are better things to occupy your time."

"Such as?" Judas asked boldly.

Nemir grinned, then turned and headed for the bathing chamber. As he passed through the doorway, he turned his head. His eyes held the heat of the sun, and Judas followed him willingly, all other thoughts banished from his mind.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Twenty-Four ----------------------------------------

Because they did more than just bathe, they were just barely dressed and Judas's hair was still wrapped in a drying sheet when Lord Konda arrived as Nemir had predicted. Nemir was using his boot dagger to cut a pear into wedges to go with the slices of sharp cheese. He handed a fruit and cheese combination to Judas, who bit into it with great appetite, then eagerly bit into his own. His morning exercise -- both kinds -- had left him ravenous.

Konda took up a fresh roll and buttered it with a smile, not commenting on the late hour of their breakfast or their barely dressed state.

"So, what did you think of our unexpected visitors?" he asked without preamble. Nemir sat down in one of the chairs, while Judas chose the large and comfortable cushion that was his favorite seat while reading.

"They were certainly unexpected," Nemir said slowly, even though he'd had all morning to consider his answers to the questions Konda was sure to ask. "I cannot remember ever hearing of the southern clans sending representatives this far north before. And to send them all this way simply to deliver the present of a woman? Why?"

"Perhaps the woman was simply an excuse?" Judas suggested from his cushion. It was a possibility that Nemir had also considered. It made sense, if they had traveled north as spies. And yet, why would Ajantha be of enough interest to them to prompt the sending of spies?

But Konda was shaking his head. "I might have thought so as well, but they have already left, traveling south again."

"They have?" Nemir said in surprise, setting down the goblet he'd just taken a swallow of ale from.

"Before first light and without ceremony," Konda confirmed. "They simply loaded their bags onto their pack horse, mounted up and left without a word of explanation. The Prince has already met with the lead nobles of the Court to discuss this unexpected turn of events."

Nemir leaned forward in his seat, all thoughts of his morning meal gone. "What do they say?"

Konda snorted. "They say that the woman must be a spy, or worse, an assassin. Their counsel to the Prince is to have the woman killed quickly and quietly as a danger."

"Quietly?" Judas said in disbelief. "After her introduction last night," Nemir didn't miss the shiver that ran through his companion's form as he spoke, "there is no way that she could be killed without notice."

Judas's reaction still concerned him. The marks on Nahanna's arms were puzzling, certainly, but to Judas they seemed to signify more, even if he didn't not seem sure of what.

"What does Mahlia say of the woman?" he asked. His father's sister, who had been there to meet them when they had delivered Nahanna into the Harem's care, had been his first teacher, even before the death of his mother. Her mind was as sharp and perceptive as his father's, unclouded by the sentimentality that most attributed to women.

"She is impressed by the young woman and her talents. She has done nothing to arouse suspicions, but Lady Mahlia believes that she is concealing something. However, she does not believe that it is something that would bring harm to the Prince or Ajantha."

Nemir exchanged glances with Judas before turning back to Konda. "I believe that to be true as well," he said. "She would not tell us why her Lord sent her, just that her presence was necessary, but that there was no menace in it. I... believe her."

The last was said reluctantly, as Nemir was not given to trusting those he had just met, not even Judas who had become the person he trusted most in his life. But there was something about the lady that encouraged trust. Perhaps it was her voice, which was so beguiling, or the soft light in her eyes that spoke of honest caring. He was not sure, and that was also disturbing to Nemir.

"Lord Konda," Judas said suddenly. "What do you know of the southern clans?"

The older man leaned back in his chair, considering the question. "They are part of the God-King's domain, but at the furthest reaches, so they have little contact with the rest of the realm. They were conquered by the God-King more than ten generations ago. When they travel, it is usually just to the capital to present tribute. Their territory is the grasslands that sit between the northern deserts and the southern jungles. As might be expected from the orderlands they live in, they are a study in contrasts.

"They worship a goddess, but consider their women to be barely more than chattel. They are the path by which luxury goods from the lands to the south of the Kingdom travel north, but they live austere lives. And they breed the finest horses known anywhere. Other than that, little is known, as they are a very private people."

"Do they believe in marking their bodies with tattoos or paint?" Judas asked, and Nemir knew why. Konda just looked puzzled.

"Not that I know of. Certainly, they do not use make-up or wear jewelry. Why?"

"The lady had markings on her arms, rather like feathers," Nemir said. "We wondered if it might be related to her time in service of their goddess."

Konda shook his head. "As I said, we know very little about the clans, but I have never heard of such a tradition."

"So, if she is not a threat," Nemir said, changing the subject, "why would three men travel so far to deliver one woman to a Prince they have no dealings with? Even if she were a danger, the question would remain. Why?"

"Indeed, that is the question," Konda agreed. "Unfortunately, the only person left who might be able to answer is a woman who might not be willing to."

"Then perhaps she might be convinced to," Nemir said, eyeing Judas. "She seemed very intrigued by Judas last night." Judas blushed most appealingly at that.

"Ah. I wondered if you had noticed that."

Nemir gestured with his free hand. "Others might assume she was looking at the Prince, or perhaps myself, but it was obvious to any with eyes who she was watching. Indeed, I am as interested in the reason for that as I am for the reason for her presence here."

Konda rested his chin on his palm, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Neither of you can enter the Prince's Harem, but if she leaves, perhaps she would answer questions from the two of you that she might not from the Lady Mahlia."

Nemir glanced at Judas, who nodded reluctantly. "We can certainly try," he said.

~~~

They may have intended to try to speak with the young woman, but for the next while she seemed content to immerse herself in the Harem, not leaving it that they heard. Nemir's father spoke with her on several occasions, although he did not inform his son of what they spoke of. Other than that, he chose not to impose his attentions on her as he might have.

~~~

Every seventh day, the Prince presided over an open court when any, regardless of birth, could bring forward a petition. Anyone who felt that they'd been wronged, be it by a neighbor or a lord, could come forward and expect justice.

Normally the cases were fairly minor issues, but in recent months there'd been disturbing changes. This day brought a woman, barely more than a girl, with a fresh cut, swollen and surrounded by bruising, to the side of her face. It would leave a scar, Nemir was sure, and came with a story that happened far too often for his liking.

The tale she had to tell was of a noble riding through the streets who decided that she had not been prompt enough in getting out of his way, so had encouraged her with a blow from his crop. The woman did not know the man's name, but the description was detailed enough that no one was in doubt who she meant. It was one of Ber's favorites, Nemir noted.

The Prince ordered the man to pay the woman a handsome sum. Enough to let her find a husband despite the disfigurement of her face. Nemir nodded, satisfied at the decision, although he saw more than one noble shift and frown.

The woman accepted the purse with tears in her eyes, then bowed low to the Prince before leaving.

As the petitions continued to be presented, Nemir watched the crowd that filled the room. They came from all walks of life, and included all the peoples that made up the realm. Many came, not to present a petition but out of curiosity, to see the Prince. As such, it was the perfect opportunity for an assassin. However, Nemir was not the first to think that. Konda stood at the Prince's shoulder, watching the room with sharp eyes, and members of the Palace Guard mingled among the folk, watching for signs of trouble.

After a period of time, one figure drew his eye. A young woman, slim and conservatively dressed, although in rich fabrics. Cream colored silk with dark brown embroidery covered her from neck to ankles, including her arms, which most women left bare. The only adornments she wore were a few simple gold bangles and a dark red gem affixed to her forehead between the eyes, glimmering against dark skin. Her black hair hung down her back in a simple braid.

Then she lifted her head and her eyes met his. Although he'd never seen her face, he recognized Nahanna by her eyes alone. A soft smile curved her lips, telling him that she knew he'd recognized her. Then she disappeared into one of the corridors that led into the room.

Nemir tugged at Judas's sleeve and moved to follow the elusive young woman. Judas appeared confused, but he followed obediently.

The corridor was deserted when they reached it, and the guard set there to prevent those without permission from penetrating deeper into the Palace could not tell them in which direction the young woman had gone, just that she carried the marker that allowed her to pass without being challenged.

Something in the way she'd smiled at him suggested to Nemir that she'd wanted them to follow, so he moved down the corridor in the direction of the Harem, not running, and as he'd expected, they found Nahanna waiting for them, only two turns away.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Twenty-Five ----------------------------------------

When Nemir had abruptly indicated that he wanted to leave the petition room, Judas had been surprised. While there was no requirement that Nemir be present during the petitions, the Heir never missed the chance to observe his father in the duties of a ruler. He said that his father was the ideal which he wished to emulate when the day came that he ascended the throne.

Despite curious glances, they made their way to the entryway they'd arrived through. A filigree gate, more decorative that substantial, bared the way, guarded by a man in uniform. Recognizing the Heir, he moved quickly to allow him entry to the more private areas of the Palace, but Nemir paused.

"A young woman passed this way. Did you see where she was going?" Nemir asked.

The guard, a young man with a handsome but impassive face, blinked once in surprise. "No, My Lord," he said, dipping his head. "She had the correct identification, so I let her through. I am supposed to watch those on this side of the doorway only."

Nemir seemed disappointed, but he nodded. A moment later, the gate was closing behind them. Nemir stood, scanning the corridor.

"Who was she?" Judas said softly, wondering why Nemir seemed so impatient to find the woman. He himself had not seen the woman in question, so was puzzled.

"Nahanna," Nemir said tersely. "She was dressed as a woman of Ajantha, but I recognized her eyes. Once I had noticed her, she passed through this way."

"You believe she wanted you to follow?" Judas asked.

"Yes. And if she wanted us to follow, she would not go far, or in an unexpected direction. Come."

Nemir turned into a side corridor that led to the wing of the Palace where the Prince's family had its quarters. A little further, he turned again into the corridor that led towards the women's quarters. There, a slender figure stood waiting.

She was a far cry from the woman covered from head to toe, face included, that he had met briefly a sevenday earlier, but like Nemir, he recognized her immediately. Her eyes were far too old for the youthfulness of her face. Indeed, she looked as though she was barely a year older than Nemir, her face completely unlined. And unlike the ladies of the court, she had no need of cosmetics to enlarge her eyes or make them appear darker, nor did she need artificial means of putting color in her cheeks.

"I wondered if you would come," she said with a smile. Once more, a thrill of recognition ran through Judas, although he did not know what it was recognition of.

Nemir frowned suspiciously. "If you wished to speak with me, a messenger could have been sent. I would have been happy to attend you."

"Ah, but then it would be known of by all in the Palace, if not the city. These places have very few secrets."

Nemir nodded. "Your point is well taken," he said. The rueful expression on his face said that he had seen proof of that in the past. Even in the short time that he'd been with Nemir, Judas had seen that. Thus far he had only kept two secrets, and he wondered almost daily how long that would continue.

"Your companions left quite abruptly," Nemir said suddenly, relaxing a fraction.

Nahanna's head tilted to the side as she considered the statement. "They had no reason to stay."

"So their only purpose was to deliver you to Ajantha? Why?"

"Because that was what the Lord told them to do," she said reasonably, her eyes glinting with amusement.

Nemir did not seem amused, however. "Why is it so important that you be here?" he asked, his spine straight and his eyes narrowed. For a moment, Judas saw the man that warriors in battle against him would see: Fire and steel and determination.

Nahanna did not seem impressed. Indeed, her gaze held as much steel as the Heir's. "You will understand in time. But I swear, on my honor and the Goddess, that I mean you no harm."

"Please," Judas said, trying to break the tension. "What are the markings on your arms?"

Nahanna ran her hand up the opposite arm, passing over the silk that concealed the feather-like images there. Her smile softened again. "I was born with them. They are why I was sent to the Priestesses. My people say that those who are marked are touched by the Goddess, and it is very rare."

For a moment, Judas's arms burned. Then the burn faded, leaving only an awareness of his own markings. Something in Nahanna's eyes said that she knew what he had just experienced.

Touched by the Goddess? He wondered what that meant to her, but knew, somehow, that she would not explain further. And if feathers meant she was touched by her people's Goddess, what did the markings like bat wings mean for him? He wanted to ask, but could not bring himself to say the words for fear of what she might tell him.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence, and Nemir reached out to take her elbow, tugging her into one of the alcoves that lined the sides of the corridor. There was nothing in the alcove to conceal them, but the shadows were deep enough that no casual onlooker would notice them without looking directly into the alcove.

The footsteps faded once more without passing by them, and they stepped out of the alcove. The corridor was empty in each direction. Satisfied that they were still alone, Nemir turned back to Nahanna. "You keep assuring me that you mean *me* no harm," he said, and Judas realized that there *had* been a subtle emphasis when Nahanna said that. "What of Ajantha?"

She shook her head, making her hair shimmer in the lamplight. "That does not concern me. It is the safety of the both of you that is important."

"Why? Safety from what? What is it you are not telling us?"

Again, she shook her head. "You will understand when the time comes. Until then, I am not permitted to say any more."

Her words filled Judas with a sense of foreboding, but Nemir just seemed annoyed. Unfortunately, a sound behind then distracted him long enough for Nahanna to turn and run off lightly in the direction of the Harem, where they would not be able to follow.

Nemir's breath hissed out from between his teeth. Then he composed himself and turned around.

Layla stood at the junction of the corridors, an expression on her face that Judas could not interpret. He rarely saw Nemir's cousin anymore, a fact that he was grateful for, since she made him uneasy, especially since he was still unsure of her motives towards Nemir or her connection to Lord Morlan.

Then she smiled, a warm, friendly smile that did not reach her eyes, and walked away. Judas slowly began to relax.

"Come," Nemir said brusquely, walking the direction opposite of what Nahanna had taken.

"Do we return to the Petition Chamber?" Judas asked, keeping pace easily with his longer legs.

"No. The woman speaks in riddles, and I dislike riddles. Perhaps the library has materials that can shed some light on this."

~~~

Unfortunately, the number of volumes in the Palace Library concerning the southern clans were as few in number as Lord Konda's bare description of the people suggested, and none described their religious beliefs or current politics. Nemir seemed frustrated, but Judas simply arranged with the librarian to take the volumes that did exist. Perhaps there would be nothing of practical use in them, but he found himself curious and wished to learn more of Nahanna's people.

One of the books he read over the following days was an account of the war that had brought the southern lands under the God King's dominion nearly three hundred years earlier. There was little to explain why the God King's eye had turned to the south after centuries of peaceful co-existence and profitable trade. The decision to conquer the clans was arbitrary and unexpected by his people, according to the history books.

But decide he did, and none would gainsay him when he ordered the warriors to their horses. He himself had led them into battle.

The war had gone on for more than ten years, with the sons of many a city-state bleeding their lives away on the field of battle. In the end, though, the north had prevailed. The clans were broken, and their royal family all killed, down to the last babe in its crib.

When he finished reading the last page, Judas set the book aside with a shiver. What it must have been like, seeing an army sweeping down on your cities, unable to stop them, knowing that your world would forever be changed, even if you were not there to see it.

For a moment he could picture it clearly in his mind. The women gathered on the walls wailed and rent their clothing as they watched husbands and sons and, in a few cases, daughters fall on the plains outside the city. Others still sought to escape the city through the underground passages that carried water to the city from a lake in the distance, carrying children and a few possessions, hoping to take refuge in the far south, beyond the jungles, or to the east among the desert tribes who were distant relations. For them, the fight was not over. It might take generations, but they would return to raise their people up again.

"Judas? Are you unwell?"

Nemir's voice drew him out of his trance, and for a moment he felt cold. Then, as the visions of the past conjured by his imagination faded from view, he warmed again. "I am fine," he said, climbing to his feet. The hour was late, he realized, and his eyes ached from reading for so long. The spell cast by the book had been strong.

He stretched, and immediately felt the protest of muscles that had not been used as he sat. He groaned softly, and Nemir chuckled.

"I know ways of dealing with those aches," he said, drawing Judas into his arms. "It is late. Come to bed."

He pulled Judas towards the sleeping chamber, and Judas followed eagerly, all thoughts of the distant past gone.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Twenty-Six ----------------------------------------

Nemir woke in the depths of the night to the feel of a body shifting restlessly beside him. Judas made soft, distressed noises, caught in the grips of his dream.

He'd been aware of Judas's nightmares from the start. When the boy had slept on a pallet in the corner, with Nemir doing his best to ignore him, he'd been able to pretend not to notice. Besides, they had never been loud enough to keep him from sleep for long. And once Judas had come to his bed, they'd become rarer, until they had finally disappeared.

But now they had returned, and Nemir did not think that it was coincidence that they had started within days of Nahanna's appearance in Ajantha. Though Judas preferred not speak of it, the markings she bore and their similarities to his own had disturbed him greatly.

Nemir wrapped his arms around his bedmate's slender torso, trying to restrain the fretting, and murmured reassuringly in the boy's ear. After a time, the movements stilled and Judas slipped back into a deeper sleep, clinging to Nemir's side.

Nemir ran his fingers through Judas's long, silky hair, something that soothed him when *he* was disturbed. Come morning, he knew that if he asked Judas, the boy would claim no memory of the dreams that so troubled his sleep, and Nemir believed him. But the dark circles that had appeared in recent days beneath Judas's eyes pained him. Without restful sleep, they would not go away, and the dreams ensured that he would not get a restful sleep.

Perhaps he should speak to Healer Kale. The wise man might know of a sleeping draught that would allow Judas to sleep without dreams.

With that hopeful thought, Nemir rubbed his cheek against Judas's soft hair and sought for sleep himself. Morning would arrive soon enough, and he needed the rest as well.

When dawn came, Judas was still having difficulty waking. When Nemir had finished dressing for the morning practice, Judas was still rubbing his eyes as if that would bring sharpness of mind as well as vision.

Realizing that he was still abed, Judas struggled to stand, but Nemir quickly moved to restrain him. "Go back to sleep," he said gruffly, pushing Judas back into a supine position. Judas struggled for a moment, then relaxed. "When I am done, I will wake you for the morning meal."

"I will be fine," Judas protested. "You need not coddle me."

Nemir smiled fondly and tweaked the end of his lover's nose. "If I wish to coddle you, I will," he said sternly. "You are exhausted. How can you watch over me through the day when you can barely keep your eyes open? No, do not argue," he said when Judas opened his mouth. "I will go spar with the Guard, then return for you. Perhaps Jorak will be there," he said idly, and was rewarded by a tiny flash of jealousy in Judas's eyes. It was a foolish emotion, but one that swelled his own pride.

But he would not be swayed. Judas did need more sleep to ease the lines of strain on his face. In the end, it was his own inability to keep his eyes open that finally convinced the younger man, and he was already half-way asleep by the time Nemir left the rooms.

The corridors were silent as he passed through them, other than the occasional servant or slave, as he headed for the open courtyard where the Guard still practiced. Soon, the winter storms would send them inside, but not until there was no other choice.

When he reached the practice area, he was surprised to find Layla there. He'd seen her rarely in the last few months. She moved to his side as soon as she saw him and laid a hand on his arm.

The gesture made him uncomfortable, even though there was nothing in it that could be called inappropriate. "You rarely come to the practices anymore, Layla," he said as pleasantly as he could.

She smiled hesitantly. "I have been working on a commission that has taken all my time. But I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I did not mean to intrude on your conversation with the young lady." The last was accompanied by a flash of reproach in her eyes.

Nemir's eyes narrowed at the implication. "It was the first time I had seen the lady Nahanna since her arrival. I was inquiring how she was adjusting to life in my father's Harem."

Layla seemed honestly surprised by that, and he realized that she had not recognized Nahanna. "That was the girl given to the Prince? Members of the court have taken to calling her the Southern Songbird, and wonder why she has not been called on to sing again. Does the Prince prefer to keep her hidden?"

Nemir shrugged. "I cannot speak for him, his reasons are his own."

"As it should be," she said reluctantly, pouting prettily. "And your shadow, where is he?"

"Abed," Nemir told her. "He has not been sleeping well, so I told him to sleep a little longer."

"How kind of you," she said. Although the tone was pleasant, something in it raised his hackles.

Thankfully, Jorak was already on the practice sands, waving to him. Nemir made his excuses, and headed for the racks of practice weapons. He selected his favorite, then moved out to the center of the practice space. Already, he could feel the sting of sand being blown, telling him that the winter storms would be on them very soon indeed.

When he looked back to where Layla had been standing, after he finished his stretches, she was gone.

A priest found solace in his meditations and Nemir found his in sparring. There were few things that concentrated his mind like the almost ritualistic movements of footwork and blade work, and the sun was well up in the sky by the time fatigue forced him to stop. Sweat dripped from his body and stung his eyes.

Jorak was equally fatigued. They both staggered over to the edge of the courtyard, only peripherally aware of the comments from the other guards. Nemir took up a handful of the sweet-sand and began scrubbing away the sweat.

After a moment, he realized that Jorak was watching him with a solemn expression. "Is something wrong?" he asked the guardsman.

Jorak scooped up a handful of sand and started cleaning himself. "I had intended to ask you the same."

Nemir paused, puzzled. "Why?" he asked simply.

"It seems to me that the only times that you are this intense during a practice session is when you are worried about something. You look to lose yourself in the familiar. Does something trouble you?"

The worst of the sweat removed from his skin, Nemir moved away from the barrel of sand so that another could take his place. Jorak finished quickly and followed him.

Once he was certain that no ears or eyes spied on them, Nemir said softly, "Judas has been having dreams. Dreams that disturb his sleep and leave him drained, but of which he has no memories on waking."

"That is why he is not here with you?"

Nemir nodded. "He seemed so drained this morning that I told him to stay in bed and try to sleep. It worries me. He is losing weight that he can ill afford to."

"Are these dreams a new thing?"

"Not entirely. When he first came to me, he had dreams that disturbed him, but they eventually faded. These dreams started more recently, and he suffers from them every night." He shook his head. "I do not know what to do. This is not a situation that I have been trained for."

Jorak slapped him on the shoulder. "No one is trained for these situations," he said cheerfully. "It is like an infant learning to walk: You must learn by doing."

"And by falling over and landing on my rear?" Nemir asked wryly.

"Exactly."

Nemir was searching for an appropriate response when a shiver ran through his frame, starting at the base of his skull and running down his spine. He shuddered, and pulled on his shirt to stave off the chill. When the feeling did not fade, he realized that it was not his environment that had caused the chill.

"Nemir, what is wrong?" Jorak asked. He looked worried.

"I'm not sure," Nemir said, turning in a slow circle looking for the cause of his sudden unease. He saw nothing but the members of the Guard, sparring, exercising, and simply talking to their fellows. There was no reason for him to feel unnerved, but suddenly he was certain that something was wrong, terribly wrong.

Then the feeling faded and he shook his head. "It is nothing," he said, feeling foolish. Events over the last few weeks were making him jump at shadows. Perhaps Judas's nightmares were affecting him more than he thought.

Then the feeling returned, stronger than ever, and he heard a sound that reminded him of wild things howling their defiance. For a moment, every hair on his body stood on end and he shuddered once more. The chorus of defiance rose in tone, merging until there was only a single voice, screaming in fury.

Jorak grabbed his arm as he swayed in place. Suddenly, a sense of urgency ran through him. He pulled away from the man and staggered towards the exit that would lead him back to his apartment the fastest. Jorak followed him, but he was too deafened by the scream to tell the man what was happening.

With every step, his disorientation faded, but the urgency increased. If he'd been able to speak, he would not have been able to explain why he was so certain that he needed to reach his rooms... No, not his rooms. It was Judas that he must reach, and quickly.

As he ran, he was only dimly aware of servants and others moving quickly to get out of his path. There were even a few screams that merged with the one in his mind, perhaps because he had a naked blade in his hand, a blade he could not remember taking up.

Then the door to his rooms was in front of him, and he hit it shoulder first, driving it open.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Twenty-Seven ----------------------------------------

After Nemir left, Judas lay down again, the cool silk that covered his pillow soothing against the heat of his cheek, intent on following the Heir's instructions. It seemed as though he was exhausted all the time now, his sleep never seeming to bring him rest. Nemir said that he had nightmares most nights, but he remembered nothing of them. Indeed, he rarely dreamed at all, and seldom remembered the dreams, so it did not surprise him.

However the constant fatigue was worrying. It took all his will and strength in order to make it through the day. How could he fulfill his duties to Nemir if he could not keep his eyes open to watch for danger? And danger was coming, he knew, although he was not sure why he was so certain.

And yet, now that Nemir was gone, sleep eluded him and he felt uneasy. The bed was cold and hard beneath him, as well as very lonely, and he found himself reaching for one that was not there. He might as well have gone with Nemir for all the rest that he was getting.

Finally abandoning the attempt, Judas rose and pulled on his robe. He would bathe and eat. Perhaps that small, familiar activity would be enough to soothe his unease and allow him to fall asleep once more.

When faced with food, however, his stomach threatened to rebel. He forced himself to eat some bread, not being able to bear the thought of anything else. He knew that he had not been eating properly for several days, and among other things, his ribs were quickly becoming more prominent. Food was fuel that he desperately needed, but he would need to wait for his stomach to settle.

That chore dealt with for the time being, Judas moved on to the bathing chamber. The soaking tub was still filled with water, and after discarding his robe, he sank into it with a sigh. He began to relax, his body buoyed by the blood-temperature liquid, and his thoughts drifted. He'd never bathed before coming to Ajantha, water being too valuable in the desert, even at an oasis, and he found that he enjoyed it greatly.

As he drifted, there was a sound that teased at the limit of his hearing, a distant whisper, like wind across sand, reminding him that the winter storms were fast approaching. Perhaps that was why he felt so on edge all of the time.

And yet, when he was a child, the storms had never affected him in that way. Indeed, they'd had the opposite effect. While others huddled together at the center of the tent, drinking and gaming to distract them from the wind that howled outside and the sand that seemed to creep into everything, he had sat at the edge, ignored by everyone but his brother and his grandfather, listening to the wind. It was exhilarating, and at times it seemed that he could hear voices in it. He wished that he could go out into the storm to find those voices that told him stories of far off lands and great men and women. He no longer remembered the stories -- he had told his grandfather of the voices once, and after that, he'd been kept close, far from the tent walls -- but he did remember the feelings they invoked. The unease he felt was nothing like that, but the sound brought the memories back.

He was floating in the tub now, more asleep than awake. He should leave the tub, dry himself, and return to the bed, but he did not have the energy to stand. He was too comfortable, and winds were louder now. Perhaps, if he listened hard enough, he would hear the voices again.

Then the sounds grow suddenly in volume, rising in a crescendo that suddenly reached a full screech that made him gasp, his eyes flying open. Before he could take in the reality of his situation, the water closed over his head. Two calloused hands had a strong grip on his houlders, pushing him down and holding him under the surface.

His throat closed up as he thrashed, trying to escape the hands holding him down. One chance blow actually weakened his attacker's grasp, and he was able to pull away, surfacing long enough to take several desperate breaths before he was seized and pushed under once more.

The violent movements of the water as he fought created a broken blur between him and the life-giving air, rendering his attacker unrecognizable. It also gave the whole thing an air of unreality. Only the burn in his chest as he struggled to reach air told him that this was terrifyingly real.

His struggles were weakening, and the wind's howl filled his ears, screaming rage and defiance, urging him to continue fighting. He scratched at the hands that held him, but it was in vain. The man was not release him. He was going to die.

With that realization, all defiance drained away, and he ceased to fight at all. It felt as though a fist was closing around his chest, forcing the last air from his lungs, making his heart work twice as hard to keep beating. His mouth opened, and the wash water filled his mouth and nostrils. There was nothing he could do. The wail became grief-stricken.

Then, as suddenly as the attack began, the pressure vanished, and he rose to the surface, nearly sobbing as he gasped for air. A hand grabbed his arm and pulled him so that he was lying over the edge of the tub, out of danger of sinking under again. He continued to cough, expelling the water that had tried to fill his lungs, weak as a newborn kitten.

"Judas, are you--" Nemir's voice cut off as if he expected the worst.

That concern gave him the impetus to raise his head and open his eyes. Nemir crouched next to the tub, holding his hand. There was blood splattered across his shirt and face, and the expression in his eyes could only be called terror. "I..." He coughed again, his throat raw. "I will be fine," he managed to say. He could not lie and say that he was well -- he certainly did not feel so -- but he had survived and he would feel well in time.

Then he looked past Nemir and took in the sight of the rest of the room.

Jorak was standing over a body dressed in a Palace Guard uniform lying in a puddle of blood. This was, he presumed, the man who had attempted to kill him. Jorak's sword was drawn, but the blade was clean, telling him that it had been Nemir who had killed the man. He shivered.

Immediately, Nemir lifted him from the tub. The floor was a mess of blood and water, but he did not set Judas down. Instead, he carried him to the main room and set him down on a chair, leaving him only long enough to fetch a drying sheet to wrap him in and a second for his hair.

Gradually, the shivers faded, but the weakness did not. Between the fatigue he had already been feeling and his brush with death, it took all his energy just to keep his eyes open and answer a few simple questions, first to Nemir, then to Lord Konda and the Captain of the Palace Guard when they arrived in response to Nemir's summons.

There was little that he could tell them, though. Because his eyes had been shut when his attacker had entered the room, he had not seen the man. How he had gained entry to the apartment, or even the private wing, was a matter for investigation, but in all likelihood the uniform he wore had acted as a pass, with few looking beyond it to his face. From what the men said, his would-be assassin had not been known to any of them. That meant that someone had stolen a uniform for him, since they were not removed from the Palace unless worn by a guard accompanying the Prince into the city or beyond. It was the question of the stolen crossbow bolt all over again.

As the last remaining amount of his strength drained away, he slumped in the chair, no longer able to keep his eyes open. Nemir was immediately at his side, helping him to stand. With Nemir's help, he made it to the bed chamber, where Nemir tenderly tucked him into their bed, something that felt disturbingly familiar from the poisoning attempt.

Nemir brushed a still damp lock of hair back from his face. His expression was concerned, but under it was a burn that worried Judas. He had seen the edges of Nemir's temper, but never the full heat of its fire. Now the fire was closer to the surface than he'd seen to that point, and it scared him. From what he had seen, it seemed that Nemir had not even attempted to capture the assassin, he had simply slain the man. What would happen if that fury ever burst into full flame?

But the fire was already fading, although the steel underneath it was still there. Judas just prayed that the fire was tempering the steel, not destroying it.

With the gentle touch on his forehead, then his neck, Judas slipped into the sleep that had so eluded him earlier.

The cave was deep within the earth: He could feel the pressure of great weight above him. He lay on the ground, staring up at the ceiling of the natural chamber. Rock formations covered it, glittering in the cool, unnatural light as though they were covered in precious stones. They reflected the light over and over again until the entire chamber seemed to glow with lights of every hue, but mostly cool blues and greens and pinks. Indeed, it was as if he was looking up through still water.

And surrounding him was a deep, pulsing sound, like the slow beating of a giant heart.

It was comforting. It was soothing. It was familiar, even though he was certain that he'd never been in this place before.

Judas.

The sound of his name echoed in his mind, even though he had not heard any voice. He tried to turn his head to see who it was who had spoken without speaking, but he could not move. He might have been concerned, if it was not for the knowledge, deep down, that this was but a dream.

Silent laughter rang like fine bells whose clappers had been removed, and he found it reassuring. He felt... loved.

Sleep, little one. I am watching. Storm winds are coming, but they will blow you in the direction you were meant to go.

Sleep and heal.

Sleep.

And he slept.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Twenty-Eight ----------------------------------------

Nemir sat on the edge of the bed and watched Judas sleep for a time, his face drawn into a frown as he considered the morning's events. The bruises on Judas's neck and shoulders were brutally dark against his pale skin, and when touched, he'd flinched in obvious pain. Nemir had used a numbing cream on them as Judas slipped into sleep.

Finally, it was the sound of new arrivals in the main room that drew him away from the boy's side, although he was reluctant to leave.

Outside the sleeping chamber, he found Konda and the captain of the Palace Guard. Two more guards were carrying the body of the assassin from the bathing room opposite. The captain stared at the dead man's face intently, then shook his head. "I do not know him" he said, and Nemir believed him. No man became captain without a perfect memory. If he did not recognize the man, the assassin was not a guard, and was not even likely to be an inhabitant of the palace in any other occupation.

"But it is a Guard uniform," Nemir said, and the two older men turned to him.

"It would appear so," the grizzled man said with a reluctant nod. "There are details to it that would not be obvious to someone making a copy of a uniform that they have merely seen from a distance."

"So, an assassin obtains a Guard uniform, unnoticed, and uses it to reach these rooms, planning on killing the Heir, then attacks his Companion when he finds the Heir not here?" Konda said, but Nemir shook his head, the burn flaring again.

"No. Any who knows enough to reach these rooms would be likely to know that I would not be here. Do you remember the crossbow bolt?"

For a moment, Konda looked as if he did not understand Nemir. Then he nodded. "Yes, but there was been no success in tracing how it was obtained. I presume that you believe that it was obtained the same way that the uniform was."

"It would be beyond belief that such items were obtained at two different times by two different persons," Nemir pointed out reasonably. The captain looked upset, as well he should. He was captain of the Guard, and now Guard equipment had been used in two separate assassination attempts.

"Exactly. But if he was not looking to kill you, then what was his purpose?"

Nemir glanced back at the bed chamber. This new attempt had made matters clear in his mind. "He was attempting what he nearly succeeded in doing. He was here to kill Judas."

The other two men frowned, but they considered the statement. "Why would he want to kill a mere slave?" the captain said dubiously, although he seemed willing to consider the concept. Jorak, still present, leaning against the wall silently, nodded slightly.

"I do not know," Nemir said. "What I do know is that this is the second... no, the third time, I think, that there has been attempt to kill Judas. Once from a distance, once by poison, and now by direct action. That cannot be coincidence."

Konda looked puzzled for a moment. Then he realized what Nemir was suggesting. "The attempt by crossbow, the night of your presentation. You believe that it was an attempt on Judas, not yourself?"

Nemir sighed. "Yesterday I would have told you that the attempt was on myself. I might even have said that the poisoning was intended to harm me. But this new attempt makes me doubt that belief. Much as it does not make sense, I must assume that there is someone who seeks Judas's death."

Neither man objected to the statement out of hand, which pleased him. Instead, Konda tapped his fingers lightly against the table top, something Nemir knew that he did often while thinking intently. "The question remains, why? If you are correct, then who would have wanted him dead the night of your return? None in the Palace knew him then. Why kill him?"

Nemir shook his head. "I do not know. All I know is that someone wishes him dead, and has the ability to obtain Guard equipment in order to do so. At first I thought it might have been related to his tribe, since he told me that there were those who tried to convince his brother to have him killed. But since a desert tribesman would not have the ability to arrange these attempts, that theory is discounted."

"It is a pity that you killed the assassin," Konda said, glancing back towards the bath chamber. "Perhaps he could have told us who it was who ordered his actions."

Jorak straightened, moving away from the wall and speaking for the first time. "The Heir tried to capture him, but when he saw that he could not fight his way past the both of us, he threw himself on Nemir's sword deliberately. He killed himself."

"That is an unusual level of loyalty for an assassin," the captain said, one eyebrow arching.

"Indeed," Nemir said sourly. The four men lapsed into silence, each considering the morning attack, Nemir's suggestions, and what that could mean for them all.

The silent speculation was ended by the arrival of a servant, visibly shaken at being greeted by four men with naked blades in their hands. The sheathing of those blades, accompanied by rueful chuckles, did little to reassure the poor boy. "M'Lord Konda," he said, still trembling. "The Prince is calling for you."

"Do you know why?" Konda asked, heading for the door.

"No, m'lord, but there are visitors, from the capital!" The serving boy's nervousness evaporated in the face of his excitement. "From the God-King himself, they say."

The Captain immediately stood again, cursing softly. As he left the room, Nemir heard a guardsman arrive at a run, no doubt to inform his Captain of the same news. A bellowed command had Jorak following quickly, after a rueful shrug to Nemir.

Nemir hesitated, torn. The arrival of a delegation from the capital was rare. So rare as to be unthinkable. A representative from the city carried tribute to the capital once a year, immediately after the winter storms, then returned carrying the God-King's orders, if any, for the year. A delegation had not been sent to Ajantha since the call for warriors to fight the southern clans had arrived several generations earlier.

But while the arrival was worrisome, and he knew he should go to his father immediately, Nemir did not want to leave Judas unguarded. Although there was no proof, he knew that he was correct that Judas was in grave danger. That the assassin failed did not mean that there might not be another, waiting for the chance to strike again. And Judas looked so frail and defenseless, laying on their bed.

No. If his father required his presence, he would send for him. Until then, he would remain where he was, on guard, until Judas woke.

The day passed quietly. The servant who brought the noon meal could tell him little, except that the delegation included several nobles, their servants, and an entire troop of soldiers to protect them on the journey. Why they had come, no one knew. Why they would travel this close to the winter storms also was unknown. How long they were staying... That would have to be at least until the end of the storm season, a season away.

Early afternoon did bring a visitor in the form of Healer Kale. "How is he?" Kale asked from the doorway of the sleeping chamber, waking Nemir from a light doze.

Nemir cursed softly for a moment, angry at himself for having so let down his guard. "He has not waken since I put him to bed after the attack," he said, managing to summon the proper respect for a man of Kale's age and knowledge despite his tension and fatigue. He stood from his seat next to the bed. "I would worry more, but his slumber seems natural, and is untroubled by the dreams that have been plaguing him."

Kale moved to the side of the bed and brushed the hair from Judas's eyes. Judas murmured something indistinct, but did not wake. "Such a sleep is normal when recovering from grievous injuries," Kale said, appearing undisturbed by the lack of response, and Nemir sighed, relieved. Although he already knew that a deep, healing sleep was to be expected, it was reassuring to hear the same from a respected healer. "But what of these dreams you mentioned?"

Nemir grimaced. "I can tell you little. He tosses in his sleep, calling out in a language I do now recognize, but when he wakes, he does not remember dreaming, let alone the content of those dreams."

Kale frowned. He held his hands over Judas's head, and it seemed to Nemir that a faint glow emitted from his hands. He slow ran his hands down the length of Judas's body, then back again, his hands just above the surface of the sheet covering his sleeping patient. Then he pulled back the sheet to expose Judas's arms.

Nemir gasped in spite of himself. The birthmarks on Judas's forearms, eerie in their resemblance to bat wings, were glowing a pale silver in the dim light of the room. After a moment, the glow faded, and Judas looked as he always did.

Judas's eyes opened, and he looked up at the two men staring down at him. "Is there something wrong?" he asked in a voice made husky by sleep.

"How do you feel, young Judas?" Healer Kale asked, humor in his voice.

Judas sat up and stretched, his spine twisting sinuously, like a cat, then froze. "Well rested?" he said, sounding surprised. "Nemir?"

Nemir reached out to touch Judas's neck, just lightly brushing the skin with his fingertips. Pale, unblemished skin. "The marks are gone."

"Marks?" Judas asked.

"There were bruises, from when the assassin held you. Dark and painful. They are gone." Nemir stroked the skin in wonder. He knew that Judas healed quickly, but this was beyond belief.

Judas lifted his hand to his throat, a confused expression on his face. "Sleep and heal," he whispered to himself. It sounded as though he was repeating something that he had heard.

"Who told you that?" Kale asked softly.

"I don't know."

---------------------------------------- Chapter Twenty-Nine ----------------------------------------

Judas felt like he was floating in a haze, even though he was completely awake. He felt well-rested and gloriously alive, but there was a barrier between himself and the rest of the world, leaving only Nemir in focus. The Heir nearly glowed to his eyes, as though he stood illuminated by midday sunlight. Judas sighed and leaned towards the man's touch. On occasion he'd thought of Nemir as his sun, but that light had never been so warm, so blessed.

"Who told you that?" Healer Kale said again. His words were light, but his eyes were sharp with interest.

"I'm not sure," Judas said, unwilling to reveal what he had dreamt for some reason. "A voice in my dreams, I suppose, but I do not remember."

Healer Kale looked disappointed, but Judas was relieved when he did not press. The dream seemed too personal to discuss with others. Even now, he could still feel the warm, protected, loved feeling of the dream, and the soft vibration of the female voice crooning to him. Was this what it felt to be held by a mother, he wondered? It was a feeling he'd never experienced before, since while his brother had had substitute mothers aplenty in the tribe, none had been interested in caring for a demon-born child.

The silence in the room was suddenly broken by the sound of a stomach too long denied. Judas pressed his hand to his stomach and felt it contract in hunger pangs. "How long have I slept?" he asked.

"A part of a day," Nemir said with a chuckle. "It is midway between noon and evening meal."

That surprised him. He felt as though he'd been asleep for days, and his stomach seemed to agree with that. However, he also felt in better health than he had for days.

He moved to stand, then realized that under his sheet, he was completely unclothed. While Kale was a healer, and he trusted the man as much as he trusted any person other than Nemir, but he was still reluctant to expose himself. Thankfully, Nemir seemed to understand this, and a robe was wrapped around him. Then Nemir helped him to his feet.

Nemir kept an arm around his waist as they walked out to the outer chamber, even though Judas needed no help. Indeed, he felt strong enough to cross a desert on foot with no help. But the touch was soothing, so he did not object.

Food was produced -- cold meats, cheese, fresh fruit, and bread -- and Judas fell on it with a will. His appetite had always been light, and even more so for the last while, but his stomach demanded food, and he supplied it as quickly as he could chew.

When he finally began to slow, he looked up to find both Nemir and Healer Kale watching him with amused expressions. Looking back down at the table, he found that he had eaten nearly everything there, more food that he normally ate in a single day, or maybe even two. Worse, he had left little for either of the other men.

"I--"

Nemir waved off the apology before it could be said. Indeed, he looked pleased by Judas's appetite. "Eat. More can always be sent from the kitchens."

Judas ducked his head, but found that his appetite had finally been satisfied. He set down the core of the apple he had been eating and pushed back with a satisfied sigh. "What of the man who tried to kill me?" he asked, curiosity reasserting itself.

"He is dead. He threw himself on my sword rather than risk being captured," Nemir said, his eyes darkening.

Judas nodded, strangely relieved. He had though that Nemir had deliberately killed the man out of anger. To hear that it had been suicide was reassuring, albeit worrying.

He glanced towards the bathing chamber, and shuddered slightly. While he could see through the archway that the room had been cleaned while he slept, as there was no sign of blood or body on the floor, the memory of the attack was too fresh on his mind to be comfortable. He wondered if he would ever be able to find the strength of will to willingly enter the room again. Then he turned back to Nemir. "Is there any indication of who he was?"

Nemir shook his head. "He wore a Guard uniform, but we have found no one who recognizes him. And because he is dead, we have little way of identifying him."

"A Guard uniform?" Judas said, sitting up a little straighter. "The other assassin..."

"The one from the night of my presentation who used a Guard crossbow bolt?" Nemir finished for him. "We have thought on that as well. That there is no connection seems unlikely."

Judas smiled. He should have realized that the Heir, with his training, would have thought of that already. "But why attack me? To attempt to kill the Heir is easy to understand, but why me? Was it intended to harm you, after a fashion?"

"Perhaps," Nemir said slowly. "But I think not. Twice, there have been attempts to kill you. Perhaps even three, for the crossbow bolt could have been intended for you, not myself. But why assassins would come to Ajantha to kill you, I do not know."

Judas shivered lightly, not liking what Nemir suggested. Why would someone wish him dead? There might be those here who thought him demon-born, as there was in his own tribe, but such a belief would not prompt such extreme lengths, as he'd been told just how difficult stealing Guard equipment such as the uniform and the crossbow bolt would be, let along making it through the Palace to the royal wing. After all, the Prince's suite was not far away, which meant that the Palace Guard were very careful in executing their duties.

He noted that Nemir glanced towards the doorway to the hall often, as if he expected a messenger any moment, or perhaps another assassin. "What is it?" he asked the Heir, concerned.

Nemir shook his head. "A delegation from the capital arrived this morning and met with the Prince. It is an unusual event, and I have heard nothing of what bring them here an such an unusual time of year." He glanced to Healer Kale. "Have any rumors reached your ears?"

Kale shook his head, his normally smiling face turning serious. "Nothing, which is also extremely unusual. Just that they have met with the Prince, and several of the nobles. Why they have come to Ajantha, no one seems to know."

Nemir bit into his lower lip for a moment, then stood. "Now that Judas is awake, I should attend my father," he said, glancing to Judas regretfully. "Healer Kale, would you remain with him? The guard in the royal wing has been doubled, and have instructions to let no one pass that they do not recognize, but I would prefer that he not be alone."

Kale bowed from the waist without rising from his seat. "I would be honored, My Lord," he said formally.

Nemir still looked reluctant, so Judas touched his elbow and said, "Go. I will be well." Privately, he would have preferred Nemir to stay, but he knew the demands of duty. He just wished he could shake the feeling that there were things in the Palace that were not right. He tried to tell himself that it was just anxiety from the attempt on his life, but he was not convinced.

Nemir quickly dressed in slightly more formal robes, his sword buckled at his side. He picked up the knife he normally kept in the top of his boot, then hesitated. "Here," he said, handing it to Judas. "Keep it hidden, but keep it close. If a stranger enters, be prepared to defend yourself."

If anything, Nemir's warning heightened Judas's fears even more, but he put on a brave face and smiled as the Heir left to attend to his duties. But when he turned back to Healer Kale, he found the man undeceived. "Trust him," the older man said softly. "And if you will not, then trust the Gods. They have a purpose for both you and your Master, though I know not what."

Judas frowned. "What do you mean?" he asked. The cryptic comment was somewhat reminiscent of Nahanna's circular assurances the other night. But the Healer's smile was as unreadable as his words.

Judas's attention kept drifting back to the door through which Nemir had departed, much as the Heir's attention had been drawn before he had had to leave. "What do you think that it means, that the God-King has sent a delegation to Ajantha?" he asked. Among the tribes, there had been no contact with the ruler of the land they lived in. Indeed, many tribes refused to acknowledge the God-King's dominion, although none were foolish enough to let the more settled lands know this. The God-King had been known to quash those who offended him and destroy those who opposed him.

Kale looked serene, but he seemed troubled to Judas. "We shall know when Nemir returns from his father. Now, you look as though you could use some more rest, so to bed with you."

Reluctantly, Judas went into the sleeping chamber, but he did not feel ready to return to sleep, having slept most of the day. He could feel sunset quickly approaching, and he worried that if he slept again, he would not wake until morning, and he wanted to be awake when Nemir returned.

Instead, needing some measure of comfort, he turned instead to the small, battered chest that sat next to his side of the bed. It was carved of a fragrant wood that still held its scent after many years in the desert. It had belonged to his grandmother, and her grandmother before her, and when he had reached manhood, his grandfather had given it to him. The chest was locked, and he kept the key on a leather thong around his neck. He removed it now and used it to unlock the chest. He lifted the lid, then removed, one by one, the items contained within.

First was a length of white silk, stained dark brown in places. This was the cloth with which he had been caught as he emerged from his mother's womb, shortly before she took her last breath. That cloth was always given to the child and kept for life, guarded carefully since there were those who believed that the birthing cloth could be used for casting spells.

Unable to explain why, Judas tucked it carefully inside his tunic, making sure that it would not show or be dislodged.

Second was a dagger, also stained on the hilt, although he'd been careful to ensure that the blade was clean and sharp. It was one of the blades his father had carried into his last battle. His sword had been given to his brother. He tied the sheath to his belt, next to the knife Nemir had handed him.

Finally, he pulled out the necklace. A piece of rose quartz, carved into a shape that made him think of a sleeping cat, hung on a chain that looked like silver, but had never required polish to fight tarnish. It still shone as bright as the night his mother had looked down at her second born, and told her father that the quartz would go to him. Where it had come from, no one knew. All that was known was that it was passed down through the line of chiefs.

He hung the necklace around his neck, then closed the chest and locked it once more. He did not know what impulse had driven him to these actions, but he felt more relaxed now. Ready.

He settled down to wait.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Thirty ----------------------------------------

Leaving Judas behind when he knew that there were those who wanted his Companion dead and had the power to steal Guard uniforms and weapons was one of the most difficult things that Nemir could remember having done in his life. But his duty was a bond he could not break, so he left Judas to go to his father to find out what was happening in Ajantha.

The mood of those he passed in the halls was of disquiet verging on panic. Servants hurried in every direction with drawn expressions, and Guards stood straighter, with a greater wariness that before. From time to time he glimpsed strangers walking the halls, wearing armor and determined expressions. These would be part of the delegation from the Capital, since an envoy would not travel so far without an escort. But why they were allowed to move so freely through the Palace, he did not know, and that also worried him.

"Nemir!"

At the sound of his name being called, Nemir turned. Dansen quickly moved to his side, walking with him, although at a slower pace, towards the Prince's receiving room. "What have you heard?" Nemir asked, noting the lines of strain on the other man's face.

"Very little, which is disturbing, since the servants gossip as you and I breathe."

"And Markus?" Nemir asked, surprised not to see the foreign fosterling away from his friend's side. Dansen and Markus had been inseparable from the day Markus arrived in the court of Ajantha, from what Nemir had heard. They were a strange pairing, and yet they were a perfect compliment to each other.

"In my room," Dansen said with a faint frown. "He says that he believes that the God-King's representatives would not take kindly to seeing one from outside the realm wandering freely about the Palace. He says that they might take offense, and that it would reflect badly on your father."

The words sent a chill along Nemir's spine. For the envoy to take offense would imply that he would already be looking for signs of... disloyalty, perhaps, in the court of Ajantha. If that were so, then the unlooked for visit took on darker meanings.

Indeed, in Nemir's mind, he was already apprehensive. Assassins prowled the Palace's corridors, and a delegation from the southern clans appear suddenly, but stay only long enough to present a woman to his father as a gift, and now the God-King sends an unprecedented delegation. Nemir could not shake the conviction that all three events were in some way connected.

"Dansen, would you do me a favor?" he asked, the thoughts in his head starting to coalesce.

"Of course, Nemir," was the instant reply.

"Take Markus and go to my rooms. Judas and Healer Kale are there. Arm yourselves, and take with you anything you cannot bear to part with. And move quickly."

"Nemir?"

"Please, do as I say, and ask no questions." For he had no answers to give, Nemir thought to himself. He did not fully understand why he was asking what he was, but he knew that his actions were correct.

"As you say," Dansen said, bowing low as he had not since the hunt: why would bows be needed between friends? Then he turned and left, walking quickly towards the wings where the lesser nobles lived.

Nemir turned the corner into a corridor that was wider than the one he had been following. The door to his father's smaller receiving room, which also served as workspace for the Prince, was within sight, and he could see several Guards standing outside. One of them was Jorak, freshly dressed in the ceremonial armor he had complained bitterly about to Nemir in the past. It was more gilt than armor, and would not stop a training blade, let alone one with an edge, the man had said more than once with a snort. He did not so much as blink as Nemir passed him.

Inside, he found his father and Konda pouring over a formal scroll. They were alone in the room. A low table stretched the length of the room, along one wall. Practical books were set on it in decorative piles, along with scrolls, writing materials, small statuary, and bowls of incense and blossoms floating in water. The wall above it was painted with a fresco showing the God-King leading his army into battle against the cities of the south. It was an image he had seen many times growing up -- he'd found it grand and exciting as a child -- but since Nahanna's arrival, he'd begun to question the events it portrayed.

"How is Judas?" Konda asked, straightening with a smile that seemed reluctant to come to his face.

"Remarkably unhurt, considering the attempt on his life. Healer Kale is with him, but more for company than as a healer." Nemir could not hold back the small sigh of relief at being able to say that.

His father smiled. "I am glad to hear that. I would hate to have to find you another Companion. I doubt I would be as fortunate in the choosing a second time."

Nemir knew that his father was teasing him, but he was unable to respond in kind. "What of the delegation?" he asked, taking a seat in the same chair he used when watching his father deal with his duties. "What brings them to Ajantha?"

The Prince frowned slightly, and Konda's expression was now studiously blank. "They have not said much, other than that I should be honored by their presence. In a few hours there will be a feast in their honor."

"No explanation, and yet their soldiers make free of the Palace? They are searching for something, it seems to me."

His father's expression turned tired. "The leader of the men spoke of possible rebellion in the far south. When I asked if the God-King was going to call up the army again, he refused to answer yay or nay."

Nemir suddenly realized how tense he had become. "There are those suggesting that the envoy is here to assess your loyalty," he said, and his father's eyes flashed a warning.

"If that is so, there is nothing for them to find. I have always been loyal to the God-King."

Nothing, Nemir thought to himself, suddenly more than simply worried, unless they went into the Harem and found a woman of the south. If there was the chance of war, the presence of Nahanna could be misinterpreted. Indeed, he was beginning to wonder again about her purpose in Ajantha. If the south were considering rebellion, then was she a spy? But if she were a spy, why would she be in Ajantha? They were so far north that the southern clans were closer to the Capital.

It was obvious to him that the same thoughts had occurred to his father, but the Prince was warning him with his eyes to say nothing. Nemir did not know why that would be important, since they were alone in the room.

And yet, there were ways of listening to the conversations of others. Could the God-King's people have suspicions that would lead them to spy on one of the God-King's Princes? Perhaps, if they felt that they had reason.

"If the feast is not for a while, what duties need tending in the meantime?" he asked lightly, although he felt anything but light. He was torn between wanting to stay by his father's side and returning to Judas. If these suspicions were true, both were in equal danger.

"The reports have arrived from the desert borders. There are reports of disturbances. Since your experience with those regions is more recent, perhaps you could read through the reports and summarize them for me."

"Agreed," Nemir said, and reached out to take the scrolls his father was holding out.

Some time later, Nemir's eyes were dry and his back ached from being bent over the reports, even though it had been a relatively short length of time. "There is little definite here," he said, straightening up. His father had also spent the time productively, going over the reports on the city's preparations for the winter storms. Food needed to be stored, along with fuel for lamps and stoves, and guards needed to be set to prevent stealing. The only deaths during the winter storms in Ajantha were those of the few foolish enough to leave their homes at the wrong time.

"What do they say?" his father asked, sitting back in his chair and folding his hands together as he waited.

Nemir glanced down briefly at the last report before speaking. "There are rumors of foreigners in the desert. Two of the oases that the tribes depend on have been deliberately fouled, and one tribe that trades regularly with the outlying villages of Ajantha and its neighbors failed to arrive for the fall fair for the first time in generations. No member of the tribe has been seen in more than a season. Then there are the tales of demons seen riding the winds, and strange colors in the sunrises, but those are likely to simply be imaginations allowed too free a rein."

"Perhaps," the Prince said with a frown. "However, deliberately fouled oases is a different matter. While caravans normally follow the River to the lake country and the Capital, the oases are essential to the survival of the desert tribes, and are often used by the Guard. If someone is fouling them, we need to learn who it is and stop them, quickly."

Nemir nodded, agreeing whole-heartedly. "And the disappearance of an entire tribe is equally worrying. Perhaps they arrived at an oasis at the same time as the poisoners?"

"As you say," his father said. "Tomorrow we will set the Guard to watch more closely for signs of such acts. However, for now, you should go dress for the celebration." The slight hesitation before the last word told Nemir that his father was still greatly worried.

"Indeed," Nemir said, realizing how late it was. He had been fooled by the lack of windows in the lamp-lit room and his concentration on the task at hand. "Judas should also be recovered enough to attend."

"No." His father paused, then said, a little less forcefully, "Do not bring him."

Nemir frowned, puzzled. "Why?"

"I have a feeling," the Prince said, exchanging glances with his own Companion, "that he might be safer out of sight."

"I... see," Nemir said slowly. In part, he was not surprised after all that had happened since that morning, but for his father, the Prince, to express such reservations... "I will do as you ask."

"Good. I will see you shortly, then."

Recognizing the dismissal, Nemir stood and bowed briefly before leaving.

Outside his father's receiving room, the tension in the hallways was even higher that before, and Nemir found himself agreeing with the Palace mood. His pace was quick and deliberate as he headed for his rooms to bathe and change before the evening's entertainment.

"Nemir?"

Nemir paused in his path, interrupted by the soft voice. Layla emerged from an alcove, a worried expression darkening her face. He had seen her seldom in recent times, and had been embarrassed at his relief at her distance. "What is it?" he said, trying to keep the impatience from his voice, but from her expression he was not completely successful.

"Do you go to the feast tonight?" she asked.

"Of course. For me not to sit beside my father this night would be an insult to our visitors."

"Perhaps. And yet, you might be wiser not to."

One quick stride and he had her arm tightly clenched. Tight enough to bruise. "What do you mean, Layla? Speak plainly."

"Change is coming and you would be wise not to interfere," she said haughtily, meeting his eyes directly. Then she smiled. It was not the warm smile he remembered. "And perhaps you should reconsider past decisions."

Nemir shook her harshly, but she just laughed. Then she was gone and he stood alone in the corridor, uncertain of how she had escaped his grip.

Then he glanced down the hallway, and for a moment he saw another figure, male this time, but it was as quickly gone.

Moving a little slower, distracted by his thoughts, he continued on his way.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Thirty-One ----------------------------------------

When Judas, still unable to sleep, emerged from the sleeping chamber, dressed in a tunic and breeches that would be more appropriate to visitors, he was surprised to find Healer Kale no longer alone. Two men sat with him, both of them looking equally wary. He remembered them as Dansen and the foreigner, Markus, to whom Nemir had introduced him after the nearly disastrous hunt. As unexpected as their presence were the travel bags set against a wall and the weapons they wore openly.

"What has happened?" he asked, chilled. Silently, he cursed himself for having let Nemir convince him to stay behind.

"Nothing," Dansen quickly said, rising to his feet. "Just idle concerns on Nemir's part and ours. Nemir asked us to come here and be with you, since with the King's men wandering the halls, foreigners may be suspect."

"Myself most of all?" Judas suggested, exchanging glances with the tall, red-haired Markus. The man's expression reflected his own frustration and carefully concealed fear, for like Judas, he would be easily recognized, and even with Dansen by his side, his size and strength would not be able to save him if the city turned on him.

Judas glanced down towards the floor, rubbing his forearms. The skin around the marks was burning, but he did not dare pull up his sleeves to examine them, mostly for fear of what he might see.

He briefly touched at his waist, then his chest, where the fabric of his tunic concealed the knives and quartz pendant. When he had dressed, he had transferred those items, not willing to let them out of reach. The anxiety that had been building since he had woken was growing, and either it would break soon or he would.

He did not reveal any of this to the other men, though. Instead, erecting a façade of unconcern, he plucked a peach from the basket of fruit that had been delivered since Nemir's departure, then settled down on his usual cushion with a book and pretended to read, even though he found it impossible to focus on the words. Markus and Dansen conversed softly, while Markus sharpened a dagger of a design Judas did not recognize, and Healer Kale wrote on a small scroll of paper. It seemed to Judas that they were all waiting, but for what, he did not know.

The sound of the door opening slowly brought the two warriors to their feet, and Judas dropped his book, his hand reaching under his tunic to grip the handle of Nemir's blade. Somehow, he was unsurprised when Nahanna slipped into the room.

"Where is the Heir?" she asked, urgency filling her voice.

"With his father, the Prince," Judas said before either Markus or Dansen could speak. The two young men were watching her with suspicion plain on their faces, but Judas found it difficult to mistrust her. Perhaps it was the eerie sense of familiarity he felt in her presence.

She looked concerned at that. "Best that he return soon, then," she said. Ignoring the armed men, she crossed the room and sat down on a cushion next to Judas. "Are you well?" she asked softly, and Judas wondered how far the tale of his morning adventure had traveled. Slowly, Dansen and Markus retook their seats, but they seemed even more on edge than before.

"I will be fine," he assured her.

"Good," she said, and he wondered what she meant by that.

It was not long after that that the door opened once more, announcing Nemir's return. He looked pleased to see the two men and surprised to see Nahanna.

"So, what news?" Dansen asked, standing. Markus set the blade he'd been sharpening on the table, along with his whetstone.

"Not much," Nemir said with a shake of the head. He seemed unsettled to Judas's eyes. "Whatever the envoy's business in Ajantha is, he has not seen fit to share it with anyone, not even the Prince."

"Ominous," Markus said gruffly, and Judas nodded in agreement, his eyes fixed on Nemir's face.

"To say the least," Nemir said. "There is going to be a banquet shortly." His eyes turned to Judas. "The Prince is worried. He suggested that Judas stay away, for his own safety." Judas shivered at that.

Dansen reached over and squeezed Markus's shoulder. "Perhaps you should do the same," he said softly to his friend.

Markus did not look any more pleased at the suggestion than Judas felt, but if the Prince did not think he should not accompany Nemir, Judas would obey. Markus had no such limitation, but he nodded reluctantly, persuaded, no doubt, by his friend's obvious worry.

"None of you should go," Nahanna said, speaking for the first time since her arrival. She had sat quietly next to Judas, her eyes shut, as though she were asleep or meditating, while they waited for Nemir's return, but now her amber colored eyes were open and alert.

Nemir's eyes flashed, and the fire Judas had seen earlier was back. "I am tired of cryptic warnings," he said, clenching his fists. "My father does not speak of what worries him, my cousin tells me not to go to the banquet, and that I should not have spurned her attentions, and now you add to the list. If you have something to say, speak plainly or not at all!"

"I cannot speak plainly of things I do not know," she rebutted, standing up. "All I know is that the priestess of Annala said that a storm was coming, and that I should be sent here to protect." That surprised Judas, since it was more than she'd told them before.

"Protect who?" Nemir demanded.

The question puzzled Judas, as he would have thought the answer obvious, but then Nahanna looked at him, and he realized that it was not Nemir. "But why?" he asked, shaking his head. "What would I need protection from? I am just the son of a small tribe, and not even that now. I'm a slave in the house of the Prince of Ajantha. I am supposed to protect Nemir, not require protection."

But Nahanna shook her head. "That is not for me to say. I follow the dictates of the Lord and the Lady. I thought I would have more time, though," she added softly, speaking more to herself than any of the others in the room.

For a moment, Judas fully understood Nemir's frustration. There was more, he was sure of that, and he fought the urge to shake it from her. But he was equally sure that Nahanna would say nothing until *she* felt it was time.

But after more than a year of slavery, most of that time spent in the House of Kamal where he had no freedom, and his days were spent in either lessons or waiting for lessons, he had learned patience. Still, he found it difficult at times.

"Be that as is, I cannot simply stay here. I will be expected to be present for the envoy's banquet, and if I am not, it will raise questions. And suspicions"

Judas set the book he was still holding aside, and stood to follow Nemir into the sleeping chamber. There he found the older man opening the door to the small room that held their formal robes on racks designed to keep them free of wrinkles. Nemir was considering the choices with an intent look, but the set of his jaw told Judas that it was not clothing that held the man's attention.

"Nemir?" Judas said, touching the Heir's shoulder.

For a moment, Nemir remained stiff, face turned from Judas. Then he sagged and sighed heavily. Judas stepped closer and wrapped his arms around the shorter man. Nemir melted against him, and Judas buried his face in Nemir's dark hair. "It will be alright," he murmured, and Nemir snorted.

"We both know that that may not be true," Nemir said, and Judas was relieved that the Heir's voice was so steady. "If assassins can reach you here, then there is no telling what could happen. All the mysterious warnings simply underscore that."

"What did Layla say?" Judas asked, tightening his arms around the man. He mistrusted Nemir's beautiful cousin, and not just because of her obvious intentions towards Nemir.

"Only that I would be wiser not to go to the banquet, and that I should reconsider past decisions."

Judas hissed. He could imagine just what sort of decision she had referred to, and his dislike for the woman grew. And yet, he found himself agreeing with the first part of Layla's warning. He wanted to ask Nemir not to go, beg if need be, but he knew that it would do no good. To Nemir, duty was everything, and duty would send him to his father's side, no matter what the warnings. "Let me go with you," he said instead.

But Nemir shook his head, stepping away. The moment in which he had leaned on Judas's strength -- and Judas felt guilty for enjoying it so -- was over. "My father has his reasons for suggesting you stay here, even though he did not share them. And I..." He paused. "While I am selfish enough to want you with me, I am also selfish enough to want you safe, and at the moment, you are safer here, with Markus to guard you, than you would be with me."

He reached up and used Judas's hair to pull him down for a soft, sweet kiss. "I am uneasy today. Promise me you will keep my dagger close by, and be ready to defend yourself if need be."

Judas drew up the edge of his tunic to show the blade sheathed at his waist rather than say anything. His father's blade was tucked into the back of his breeches, also hidden from casual view. Nemir smiled, and stroked his cheek briefly before stepping back and turning to the choice of clothing.

Judas took a deep, silent breath, then helped Judas choose something appropriate to the occasion. To press further would have no benefit, and would simply make Nemir unhappy.

Nemir emerged from the sleeping chamber wearing a blue tunic with silver embroidery, and black breeches, tucked into the tops of his boots. He also wore a silver chain studded with sapphires around his neck and rings on his fingers. Nemir seldom wore jewelry, but for this occasion it was all part of the image that he needed to project.

Not part of the image was the plain sword hanging from his belt. The blade was the one he had carried during his time in the Guard. It had none of the ornamentation that was popular with young nobles. No one would be foolish enough to think it was anything but a utilitarian blade, designed to be used.

While Nemir had changed, Dansen had slipped away and was now back, dressed in his own finery. The bags sitting near the doorway were larger than they had been before.

Dansen noted Nemir's look. "I thought that if the envoy's men are looking for foreigners, that perhaps Markus should be ready to leave the city, at least for now. If he headed north at speed, he should outrun the winter storms."

"And you?"

"I..." Dansen actually hesitated, and Judas could see the conflict in the man's eyes. "My duty is to the Prince and his Heir."

"And to your friend. If it comes it, you will go with him." Dansen seemed equal parts relieved and upset at that. "And if possible, Judas will go with you."

Judas's blood ran cold at the words. "No, I will not," he said steadily. Nemir opened his mouth to speak, but Judas did not give him the chance. "I will not leave you, " he said, trying with his eyes to convey his resolve.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Thirty-Two ----------------------------------------

Nemir sighed, but knew that he would not find the words to change Judas's mind. His Companion's eyes were hard as stone, hard as steel, and he knew that there were no words to convince him. If Nemir wanted to send him away, he would have to knock him unconscious, bind him, and strap him to the back of a horse, and he was reluctant to do so.

Indeed, he was almost relieved by the refusal. Despite a desire to ensure his lover's safety, he did not want to send him away. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he nodded his acceptance. "And Nahanna?" he asked, looking to the young woman who was a source of such trouble and frustration.

"I will stay as well," she said, her eyes flickering to Judas in a way that made him want to growl.

"Very well. But it may be that all this worry if for naught," he said, although none of them believed it. "For now, it is time."

Dansen squeezed his friend's arm, and Nemir wondered to himself again how the two men had become such close friends. He also wondered if they were more than just friends, but he would never ask. Privacy would be difficult for a foreigner, so he would grant them what privacy he could.

Then the other man was at his side and it was time for them to go.

The hallways were strangely quiet. The servants and slaves who serviced the Palace were as abundant as ever, but they did not speak to each other, did not laugh. They did not meet anyone's eyes. Nemir was disturbed that such a change could be wrought in the space of a single day.

The banquet hall was a different matter. It was filled with every high-born in the city. Even those who rarely came to Court were there. Nemir wondered if they were there simply to see the Envoy, or if they thought that to not appear would give the impression of disloyalty.

After they entered the room, Dansen bowed to Nemir, then moved away, heading for the area of the room furthest from the dais, where he usually sat. Nemir briefly wished that he could go with him, then squared his shoulders and headed for the dais and his proper seat. His father had not arrived yet, nor had the envoy and his entourage.

Nemir took his seat, and glanced towards the door that led to his father's office. He'd left the man there only a while ago, but perhaps the Prince had returned to his private apartments to dress for the evening.

Nothing could begin, though, until the Prince arrived, and the assembled nobility was already becoming restless. As the minutes passed, Nemir found himself becoming equally restless. Finally his patience came to an end. He rose, and with every eye in the room on him, he went to the door that the Prince used to enter the banquet hall.

He ignored the guard that stood at the door. Instead, with every eye in the room on him, he passed through the wrought iron gate that guarded the passage, then moved down the short hallway to the solid door that led to the office. His nose prickled, and as he hesitated at the door, he recognized the scent. Blood.

Nemir drew his sword, then was distracted by the sound of footsteps behind him. He turned quickly, only to find Dansen behind him, likewise armed. Dansen was prudently out of reach, knowing the danger of coming up behind an armed and trained warrior.

Dansen tilted his head in a manner that asked a question, and Nemir nodded. He took the handle of the door and slowly eased it open. The hinges were well oiled, and the door opened silently. Partially concealed by the doorframe, Nemir looked into the room.

Darkness. A single lamp hung from the ceiling in the corner, but the oil was low and the flame flickered, creating shadows that danced wildly. Shadows that could conceal anything. And the blood scent was even stronger, heightening his disquiet.

But there were no sounds of movement, so Nemir moved into the room, Dansen close on his heels. In the banquet hall, world away, he could barely hear the rising murmur of conversation. Needing light, Nemir moved to the lamp, took it down, and trimmed the wick, creating a more even light, though it would not last long. Then he turned, lamp in hand, to survey the room, and drew in a sharp breath at the same time as Dansen made a horrified sound.

The Prince was prone on the floor next to his desk, a pool of blood spreading from under him. The blood shone slickly in the lamplight, telling them that the death had been recent and violent. The short sword in his hand was likewise stained with blood, telling Nemir that his father had died fighting. Konda was also dead, closer to the room's other door, which led out to the corridor leading to the royal family's residential wing. He had been wounded many times, and again, the sword clenched in one hand and the dagger held in the other were both thick with blood. As would be expected, his body, where it had fallen, was between where the invaders would have come in and his Prince. Nemir bent down long enough close the man's eyes. His father's face was turned away, and he could not bring himself to shift the man.

"How was this possible?" Dansen asked, his voice thick with emotion. "Who could have breached the security of the Palace so soon after an assassin reached your rooms? Where was the Guard?"

"Questions that will have to be answered," Nemir replied softly. So many question and thoughts whirled through his mind like the debris in a dust devil, but one became clear.

The Prince was dead. He was now Prince. And his father's assassins were probably still in the palace.

Screams broke the silence of the room, and both men turned towards the corridor they had come through. More shocked screams followed, although none were of pain. Not yet. Dansen immediately moved to stand between him and the doors as best as he could. "Nemir..." he said, his tone pleading with the Heir to tell him what they should do.

But Nemir was frozen with indecision. For this to have happened was unthinkable, and he could not form a plan.

But then there were footsteps in the hallway, and a decision needed to be made immediately. "Move!" he said hoarsely, heading for the other exit. Dansen was right behind him, and they went through the door at a run, not knowing what they might find outside.

In the hallway were three guards. Two were members of the Palace Guard, and they were as dead as the men they were supposed to protect. One of them was Jorak, still dressed in the ceremonial uniform he so hated, he noted with a strange calm.

The third man, very much alive, wore an unfamiliar uniform, and in a flash Nemir understood. The envoy from the God- King had come accompanied by a contingent of guards, and it was they that had killed his father.

The stranger had his sword drawn, as though he had expected them, and likely he had. However, he had not expected two armed and well-trained fighters. The calm vanished, and his vision went red with fury. Nemir bellowed a challenge, and attacked before the other man was ready to defend himself. In short order, the man had joined the other two on the bloody floor, dead or nearly so.

"Run!" Dansen hissed, pulling at Nemir's arm when the Heir stopped to glare at the would-be assassin.

Run they did. Operating on instinct, Nemir led the way along the corridors, following the familiar path through the corridors. As they ran, they heard shouting behind them, which only added speed to their feet.

It was only as they came to the corridor to his rooms that Nemir began to wonder what would be waiting there for them. Would Judas and the others be waiting there with no idea of what had passed? Or were they dead or prisoners, and it was armed men that they would find waiting?

Then the door was in front of him, and he pushed through, bloody sword held before him.

And everything was as he had left it. Healer Kale and Judas sat at the carved chess set that had been a gift from his father, playing a game. Markus was reading one of the many books that had accumulated in the rooms, more for Judas than for Nemir. Nahanna was sitting in a corner on a cushion, her eyes shut and deep lines on her forehead, between her eyes. On their entrance, all eyes were fixed on them.

Nemir brushed past them all, ignoring their questions. In the bed chamber, he grabbed the saddlebags that he kept his Guard equipment in. During the race through the hallways, he had come to realize that there was little choice.

They needed to leave. Leave the Palace. Perhaps leave the city, leave Ajantha, altogether. But they needed to leave *this* place quickly.

"We go, now," he said, emerging from the room a moment later.

"What happened?" Judas asked, already on his feet.

"The Prince is dead. Murdered," Dansen said for him. The other man sounded like a boy after his first battle, dazed and confused.

"And they will be coming," Nemir finished for him. "So move!"

Dansen and Markus had their bags, left there due to Nemir's misgivings. For the others, there was no time for anything to be collected. Quickly, they emerged into the hallway, straining to hear the sounds of armed men coming. There was nothing yet, but Nemir knew that they would be there before much time had passed.

But which direction to take? Which direction would they be able to escape by?

The answer came from an unexpected source. "Follow me," Kale said, walking briskly, which was as fast as a man of his advanced years could move, and as Nemir and the rest followed, he wondered how they would possibly be able to bring the man with them.

Healer Kale led them to one of the smaller apartments, one that would have been taken by Nemir's younger brother if he had one, or perhaps a brother of his father, if his father were not also the only son of *his* father. As it was, the rooms had not been used for many years, although the Palace servants kept it clean.

Nemir wondered where the healer was leading them, but the sound of booted feet coming made him hold his tongue as the man leading them went into the bed chamber, and then even into the tiny dressing area.

And there he pressed on a piece of carving and they watched in amazement as a piece of wall shifted, revealing a dark space behind. The mechanism was as well-maintained as the rooms, moving almost silently. "Quickly," Kale whispered, and they all passed him, moving into the dark, and the door shut behind them.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Thirty-Three ----------------------------------------

It seemed to Judas that the sound of their breathing in the narrow space was so loud that it was unthinkable that their pursuers would not hear it, revealing their dark hiding space. But they did not remain where they were for long. The space was revealed to be a passageway, although it was too dark for them to see the details, and Healer Kale urged them on with whispers so soft that he could barely be heard.

They moved slowly and cautiously, since in the dark it would be far too easy to stumble. Eventually, though, Judas's eyes adjusted to the dark, and he was able to make out the faint outlines of his companions' shadows. They did not cluster too tightly as that would make defense impossible if they were discovered, but were not so separated that they could not reach a companion in less than a single stride. The Healer led the way, with Markus right behind him. Next was Nemir, and Judas stayed close by him, not wanting to let the Heir out of his reach. If he had known that assassins were going to kill the Prince, he never would have let Nemir leave their rooms without him. And finally, Dansen followed at the rear.

The Healer paused several times at junctions to make a choice of turns. Judas was amazed at how extensive the hidden corridors were. He did not think that Nemir had been aware either, despite the short passageway that they had used once going from the Healer's office to one of the main corridors. It was beginning to seem that any part of the Palace could be reached by secret mean: not a comfortable thought.

Finally they reached what appeared to be a dead end. Healer Kale moved to Nemir's side. "This is one of the entries to the Healers' area. I will go through, collect what supplies I can, then return. Stay here and be silent." Nemir nodded, and they all moved back while Kale triggered the latch for the hidden door.

Minutes stretched to hours, it seemed to Judas, even though he knew that it really had been only minutes. Sweat dripped down his spine, and he moved closer to Nemir, leaning against the other man and trying to convey what little comfort he could. If they were discovered, there would be little he could do to protect Nemir, and the thought of failing him was unthinkable.

Finally, the door cracked open and Healer Kale slipped through holding a large bundle. "Take these," he whispered, holding out his burden to Nemir. The bundle proved to contain several cloaks and a bag containing food and coins, as well as several jars. "Word has already spread. The God-King's representative has declared the Prince a traitor, and you with him. His soldiers are searching the Palace, but have not moved past its confines yet. If you move quickly, you may be able to escape the city."

"Run?" Nemir said, his distaste for the idea evident, as they wrapped themselves in the cloaks that managed to disguise everything other than Markus' great height.

"There is little you will be able to do if you stay. Already many nobles are flocking to the envoy in the hopes of improving their position under whoever is chosen to replace your father. If you stay, you will die. Your best chance is to run now. Perhaps some solution can be found later, but not now. Now come, I will show you how to leave the Palace unseen."

Nemir seemed determined to protest, but Dansen waved him quiet. "Our duty is clear, My Prince," he said, and Judas felt Nemir flinch at the title. "Your safety is paramount, and if you protest, I will knock you senseless myself and we will carry you to safety." Even though he spoke in the faintest of whispers, his resolve was clear, and Nemir had no choice but submit, although not very gracefully.

"Now, let us go," Healer Kale said anxiously, "before the soldiers stumble onto one of the entrances to these passages."

A sense of urgency seemed to grip them, and this time silence was sacrificed in favor of speed, although they tried to make as little sound as possible. There was little hesitation this time in the Healer's path, until they reached another door that seemed more like a blank wall. "This is the outside wall of the Palace, on the east side, far from any of the guard posts. Move quickly. Go to the desert gate. Only the Guard use it, and there is a small garrison there. You should be able to take horses there. Once the envoy's soldiers move their search beyond the Palace walls, they will expect you to head to the river, so go to the desert instead. They will expect you to seek refuge in the north, as far from the God-King as you can go, perhaps even among Markus's people, so travel south," he said, looking to Nahanna with an unreadable expression. "Whatever they would expect you to do, do the opposite."

"What of you?" Nemir asked, frowning. "Surely they will quickly learn that you were in my rooms at the time of my escape, but you speak as though you were not coming with us."

Kale shook his head. "I am an old man, and I would only slow you down. I will find a story that they will accept. If not, there is little that they can do to me, and I doubt that they would dare harm a master healer. Besides, this is my place and I will not abandon the people whose care I have been entrusted with. Now go, before it is too late."

There was fire in the man's voice, and it ended all arguments. He worked the hidden latch and a portion of the wall swung open, just wide enough to allow the members of the group to squeeze through. They made the journey from the wall's shadow to the shadows of buildings across from the palace one at a time, watching for guards who might be watching for them. No cry was sounded, though, and they made their way through the city, hidden by the darkness.

All of this was completely unfamiliar to Judas. He and Nemir had ridden through the city at night together from time to time, and once even beyond the city gates, but they had stayed on the wide boulevards, well lit by lanterns. Now they crept through the gardens of the mansions of the nobles, then the alleyways behind buildings once they were further from the Palace and the residences grew smaller and less opulent.

By the time they began to near the city walls, the buildings had become ramshackle affairs that housed the poorest of the city that could actually afford to pay for a roof over their heads, and those that could not lurked in the dark. They all kept their hands on the hilts of their weapons, for those who would likely slip a blade between their ribs for whatever they carried.

They were nearly to the city walls, past the last of the buildings that provided residences, and into the realm of the storehouses, built inside the walls where they were protected from any raiders foolhardy enough to come this close to the city, when a portion of the shadows detached from doorways, moving towards them.

Their little party came to a stop, and it did not escape Judas's notice that Nemir, Dansen, and Markus shifted to surround himself and Nahanna. Despite the fact that his training at the hands of Nemir meant that he was not helpless to defend himself, Judas appreciated the thought, especially since it had been just that morning that an assassin had attempted to kill him. Indeed, it made his head reel to realize how much had happened in that time. One day earlier, life had been without worry, other than small ones. Now they were on the run from forces who had slain the Prince and were no doubt searching for them at that very moment.

Nemir stood between them and the bandits. He was steady as a rock, his feet firmly planted on the rough stone cobbles of the street, one hand on his sword hilt and the other hanging by his side. "You would be wise to turn around and leave," he said softly, his voice filled with a menace that any wise man would have recognized. A pity that the five men advancing were not wise. Indeed, the lead man laughed. He was tall and heavy, with a scar causing the skin on the side of his face to pucker and twist. His clothing was of fine materials, but filthy and ragged; no doubt the product of past robberies.

"A toll is required to pass through this part of town, little boy," the man said with a sneer that would have been easy to hear in his voice even if the moon had not provided enough light to see his face. "I can smell the gold on you. Hand it over and we might let you live."

The other men were moving to surround them, and one of them stopped in surprise. "A woman!" he said, feinting towards Nahanna. The ability to read minds was not necessary to know his intentions. Dansen, who was closest to him, moved to intercept him with the edge of his blade. The man cried out and clutched his now bleeding arm to his chest. The other men drew long knives that were more suited to tight quarters than the sword that Nemir carried and advanced, growling curses.

"Do no hurt the woman," their leader ordered, drawing a dagger with each hand. "She could be worth money from the slave houses."

"And if she is not, she can certainly provide an hour or two of amusement," the injured man snarled, falling back, letting his fellows take the fight without him.

The remaining four men attacked as a pack, two of them going for Markus, the largest of the group, while the other two focused on Dansen and Nemir. Blades were quickly drawn, and metal met metal in a clash that echoed off the stone walls of the buildings around them.

Judas drew his own blade, the knife that Nemir had given him earlier, and shifted until Nahanna was pressed between him and a wall where he could protect her.

What followed was a deadly dance that would take your breath away. Their attackers might not have the training, but they had a raw talent for violence that made them very dangerous. But the three men they faced were equally dangerous, and all three had the training to raise them to the level of lethal.

Dansen ducked the swing of his opponent's dagger, and swung his own blade in a graceful arc that slit the would-be robber's throat, spraying the area with blood. Before the man's body hit the ground, Dansen had already turned to go to Markus's aid. Between the two of them, Markus's attackers were dispatched almost as quickly as Dansen's had been.

That just left the man already injured -- that one, Judas noted, was already heading away from them at a run, leaving a trail of blood splatters behind - - and the leader. Markus and Dansen moved to help Nemir, but the Heir growled for them to stay back.

The bandit and Nemir were actually closely matched. Nemir's sword was the a longer blade, but the other man's two daggers were better suited to the tight confines, and he knew how to swing to good effect. However, Nemir was well trained and practiced regularly, and bit by bit, he forced the other man back. First blood was drawn, and it was not Nemir's blood, then second. Judas could tell from the man's expression that he saw his own death in Nemir's face, and a desperation took hold.

And yet it was a surprise to all when the man broke away from Nemir and lunged towards Judas and Nahanna.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Thirty-Four ----------------------------------------

The men who had looked at their party and thought them easy pickings were fools, Nemir thought to himself. Only five men against a party of five? For cut-throats, those were poor odds. The fact that three of their targets were trained and armed men made those odds even worst.

Nemir was almost glad that they had been such fools, though. There had not been enough time yet for him to absorb the realization that his father was dead, slain on the God-King's orders. He wanted to rage, to howl his grief to the skies, but there was no time. No matter what his own wishes were, there were lives that depended on him.

Indeed, the lives of everyone in the city depended on him, but there was little he could do for them. While the Guard would no doubt follow him against the envoy and his personal soldiers, and they would be able to easily kill them, it would only bring greater danger to the city. The God-King would not hesitate to send an army to destroy the city and everyone in it. Much as he hated to admit it, Kale had been right. All he could do for his city was leave. The only lives he could directly protect were the four who had chosen to come with him.

But still, the rage simmered within him, and the cut- throats were a perfect target for it. When the leader drew the two long and wicked-looking daggers, he nearly laughed. They did not have time for this, but he would kill this man and his followers and rejoice in their pain. Their blood would cool the raging in his.

With one part of his thoughts he tracked the other members of the gang. Three moved against Markus and Dansen, but he knew that the two men were well able to defend themselves. He had sparred once against Markus, and the foreigner had strength and reach and a strange fighting style that made him impossible to predict. And Dansen, although smaller, was quick on his feet. He knew that he had no need to worry about them. The man Dansen had already cut was staying well out of reach, his injured arm clutched to his chest. By the amount of blood splashed on the stones, he would be a danger to no one.

But the leader was good, surprisingly so. With a blade in each hand, he weaved a dance that was crude and brutal, and probably effective against most foolish enough to wander into his reach. But Nemir was not like most. He was hampered by the closeness of the walls in this passage between warehouses, but that was of no concern to him.

He ignored a feint from one blade, and ducked a swing from the other. Taking advantage of the other man's mistake, he struck out, deliberately only going for a shallow cut. A small, cruel part of him wanted to make the man suffer, the way he could not make his father's killers suffer. A second attempt at a feint and strike by the man -- it seemed to be the sum of his fighting style, and was doubtlessly very effective against someone who had not trained to counter it -- led to a second cut, a little deeper this time.

The man knew that he could not win; Nemir could see it in his eyes. They darted to each side, looking for an escape that he was not going to find. The blood-lust was rising in Nemir, and he grinned at the thought of sliding his blade between the other man's ribs, the man's lifeblood running down the steel to his fist.

That was when the cut-throat did the unexpected, the unthinkable. With Nemir in front of him, Markus and Dansen behind, and no hope of running, he lunged towards Judas and Nahanna.

The two non-fighters were pressed against the outside wall of a warehouse, with Judas between Nahanna and the cut- throat. Nemir moved quickly, but not quick enough. The bandit did not kill Judas, though. Instead, he dropped one of his daggers so that he could seize Judas, with the sharp edge of his other dagger held to the throat of Nemir's Companion. Nahanna froze, then at a gesture from Dansen, moved away until she was out of reach.

Nemir went cold, and he cursed himself for a fool. In his desire to make someone, anyone suffer for what had happened to his father, he had not gone for the quick kill, and now Judas was going to pay for it.

"There's no place you can go," he told the man. "Release him and we *might* let you run."

"I could kill him," the man blustered.

"Then we will kill you," Nemir responded with steel in his voice and fear in his heart.

"If I take him with me, you will not follow."

"If you take him with you, you will kill him," Nemir replied, praying that the man would not follow through on his threat. "So, if you try to take him with you, we *will* follow, and eventually, you will die. This night. Your only hope is to let him go and run."

The sweat was rolling down the man's face, and Nemir could see the blade tremble as the man's hand shook. He prayed that it was far enough from Judas's throat that he was not at risk of having his throat cut by mistake, but he did not let any of the fear show on his face. If he did, then Judas was as good as dead. As well, the injured man had run, and might return with more of his kind. They were too far from the Guard gate and the station there for help to come for them. Their only hope was for this to be resolved quickly, then make for the gate as fast as they could.

"If I let him go, what stops you from killing me then?"

Nemir took a careful step forward, and the man stepped back, his blade pressing a little closer to Judas's throat. Nemir stopped again. "Nothing. But if you run, we might let you go."

Markus and Dansen moved aside, presenting the man with a clear path towards one of the wider streets. His eyes darted towards the escape route, back to Nemir, then to the escape route again.

Time slowed, and Nemir could almost see the man considering all of the options. Then the man tensed. Nemir dropped into a ready stance, but before he could move, the cut-throat shoved Judas directly at him. Then he spun and ran, passing between Markus and Dansen.

"Do we...?" Dansen started to ask, but Nemir shook his head.

"Let him go. If the other one went for help, we do not have time. We need to get out of the city quickly."

He hugged Judas quickly, then set him on his feet. Their few possessions, which had been dropped in the fight, were reclaimed, and they set out again, but at a quicker pace, and this time with their swords drawn and still red with blood.

No one was foolish enough to try to interfere with them.

The night was quickly coming to an end by the time they reached the small gate the was used solely by the Guard. There was a small stable, with horses used when urgent messages needed to be sent to either the Palace or to other cities. Messengers could remount, leaving exhausted horses behind as they rode on to their destination. The small station itself was lightly manned. A handful of guards who patrolled the section of wall and cared for the horses.

This was the highest risk that they would have to face in their escape. If the envoy had thought to send his men to each of the city gates, then they would be stopped here, unable to leave the city, and eventually they would be captured.

"Stay here," Nemir said in a low voice. Using a rag from his saddlebag, he cleaned, then sheathed, his sword. "I will go in and arrange for horses."

"Nemir--"

"No," he said, cutting Judas off. "There will be no argument. Stay here until I signal for you."

Judas's expression was rebellious, but he finally nodded his agreement. Relieved, Nemir turned and strode towards the lit door of the Guard station. As he emerged from shadows to cross the open area in front of the station, a challenge was called, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he recognized the voice.

"Ho, Ferath! Have your fellows not yet strangled you? Or have you stopped winning at dice quite so often?"

"Nemir! What brings you down from your lofty hill?" The words might be resentful, but the tone was pure jollity. Ferath was the always the one with a ready joke to lighten the mood, and if his words could be considered hurtful, no one took them that way, since there was never any spite behind them.

But fortune was definitely with them, since Ferath was definitely one he would trust with his life, having served in the same Guard company with him for a year before his father summoned him back to Ajantha. "Dark deeds," he said, stepping through the door into the Guard station. Ferath was not alone, but the other two men -- and the dice and pile of coins told him how the three men had been spending their time, even though it was against the rules -- were both men he'd served with in the past.

Ferath's expression immediately turned serious. "What has happened? We have heard that foreign soldiers have entered the city, but nothing since then."

Nemir's throat clenched. "The God-King's envoy declared the Prince a traitor and executed him only hours ago. His men are seizing control as we speak. What they intend next, no one knows." For a moment hot tears scalded his eyes, but he held them back through force of will.

Identical expressions of shock spread on all three faces. "The Prince is dead? Murdered?" Murdered, not executed, was the word used by one of the other men. Nemir could not remember his name, but he was pleased with the reaction.

"Dead. And now they hunt for me. While I hate the thought, there is little I can do here for now except die, along with those who follow me."

Ferath exchanged glances with the other two men, then nodded. "How many horses will you need?"

Nemir sighed in relief. "There are five of us, with little baggage. There was no time to do more than grab what was close at hand before leaving."

Ferath turned to his fellows. "Saddle five of the horses. And collect any food or water bags that are on hand. Move quickly, before word can come from the Palace." The other two men moved quickly, one headed for the stable, the other to the back room.

Nemir was grateful, but he also felt guilty. These actions would endanger the three men. But Ferath grinned, obviously seeing Nemir's concern. "When they come to ask why we gave you horses, we can honestly say that we had no word telling us not to. What direction should we say you went?"

Nemir smiled in spite of himself. All Ferath would need to do was tell the truth, and he would be absolved of blame. The envoy would not be able to punish these three without antagonizing the entire Guard; something he would not dare do with so few men of his own. "Well, since Markus is with us, we should head north. Once we reach the sea, we could take ship to his father's land, well away from the God- King's reach."

Ferath nodded. "Perfectly sensible," he said, but his eyes acknowledged the truth: Nemir had no intention of fleeing the Realm. He needed to avenge his father, as well as Konda, Jorak, and any others who died as a result of this night. He needed to clear his father's name and regain the city. The only problem was, he had no idea of how he would do so.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Thirty-Five ----------------------------------------

Watching Nemir enter into the Guard station alone was difficult, but Judas bit into his lower lip and waited silently for the long minutes that Nemir was gone.

He was so focused on the door of the station that the hand on his shoulder came as a surprise. He turned to find Markus standing behind him, a sympathetic expression on his face. "Be at ease," he said in a soft, gruff voice that reminded Judas of his grandfather. "Nemir knew the man and went in with him. He would not have done so if he thought there was any danger."

"Unless he felt there was no other choice," Judas said softly, but he felt calmer, more relaxed, at the other man's words. His head had known it was true, but his heart needed to hear the words from another before it began to believe.

Markus squeezed his arm reassuringly, and he leaned briefly against the other man, letting the man's strength comfort him. Then he pulled away again guiltily; He should not be leaning on someone other than Nemir. And yet, Markus drew him in ways that Nemir never would. They were both strangers to this place, set apart from everyone else by their appearance. From just their conversations that evening while they all waited for Nemir, he had discovered so much that they had in common.

Judas shuddered slightly, angry with himself. Markus murmured one last reassurance, then moved back to speak with his friend, Dansen, in tones so low that Judas could not understand what they were saying. He wrapped his arms around himself, squeezing hard. How could he be having such thoughts? Nemir was the one he loved. Nemir was the one whose service he was pledged by the man who had bought him. A man who was now dead. To look at another man, to think of him, however briefly, in such a way was a betrayal of the purpose he'd been given, the feelings he had for Nemir. And he did love Nemir, with all his heart. And yet, Markus...

He shut his eyes and forced those unwelcome thoughts away. He did not want them, and more, now was not the time.

Finally, the door of the station opened again. One figure came out and headed for the stable at a run. There was a soft sound as Dansen drew his blade.

"What are you doing?" Judas hissed.

"If he is planning to carry a message to the Palace, he will have to be stopped," Dansen said flatly. Judas's stomach clenched, but he knew that the man was right. While he did not want to see any more deaths, it could be a choice between their deaths and the death of a single man.

But before any decision could be made, for good or ill, the door opened again. This time it was Nemir, and he waved for them to come. Dansen hesitated, then sheathed his sword again. Their small group of four moved towards the light.

Five men and one woman crowded the small room almost unbearably. Judas pressed against Nemir's side in an attempt to conserve space, or so he told himself. Truth was, he needed to contact to reassure himself, and to remind himself of who and what he was. The smell of sweat, both old and new, made the air difficult to breathe.

"This is Ferath. We were in the Guard together. He and the other two here will supply us with horses, and tell any who ask that we left the city and immediately headed north," Nemir said tiredly, breaking the thick silence.

"I will help ready the horses, then," Markus said, then slipped from the room when Nemir nodded.

Shortly thereafter, a stranger emerged from the back room carrying sacks. "We don't have much, but whatever travel supplies are in here, along with lanterns and a sealed jar of oil for them. You will have to travel fast to outrace the storms. The winds have been increasing, and I would say that you only have a three, maybe four days at most before travel becomes too dangerous."

"Well, with any luck we will have reached the coast by then," Nemir said with a nod, and the other man grinned.

"Right. Heading north is probably the best choice you could make," the man said in a tone that said that he knew they weren't going north. And yet he was right; heading north towards Markus's homeland *would* be the sensible choice to make. And yet, at Kale's urging, they would be heading south, directly into face of the storms and towards the heart of the God-King's domain, and Judas wasn't sure why.

The door to the station opened, and immediately weapons were drawn, but it was Markus and a stranger, not the envoy's men. "The horses are ready," Markus said.

Nemir nodded. "Ferath--" he said, turning to his old friend.

The man raised a hand. "Don't say it, sir. Just keep your hide in one piece, that is all I ask."

Nemir smiled. "I will do my best, and if I cannot, I am sure that my companions will."

Indeed he would, Judas promised himself.

They mounted quickly, Markus taking the largest horse, and Nahanna seated behind Dansen. Their meager baggage went on the fifth horse, which was tethered to Markus's mount. Then Ferath and one of his fellow guardsmen pushed the gate open, letting them into the short passage that lead through the thick walls that surrounded the city of Ajantha. Nemir clasped forearms with Ferath and the other two guards.

"The gods be with you, my Prince," Ferath said formally, bowing from the waist.

"Be careful, Ferath. All of you," Nemir said. "Say nothing that would make the envoy or his men suspect you. I expect you to be waiting when I return to Ajantha."

Ferath grinned fiercely. "We will be here," he promised.

With one last wave, the tiny party set out. It took only a minute to pass through to the other side of the wall, where they paused. This was a point of great danger, as guards patrolled the walls of the city, watching for bandits foolish enough to try for the city.

After a hushed conversation from the shadow of the wall, it was decided that Dansen, who had the sharpest eyes of the group would go first. He and his mount moved forward, slowly, with Dansen twisted in the saddle to look up to the top of the walls, watching for movement that might be a guard.

Once he was to the edge of the dunes that marked the start of the desert to the east of the city, he stopped, scanned the walls, then gestured for the next rider.

One by one, Judas, then Nemir, and finally Markus made the ride, each no doubt wondering if this was the moment when a cry would go up, telling them that they had been seen. But the dark of the night, the moon being low on the horizon and sinking lower, cloaked them, allowing them to move away from the city, heading deep into the desert. The wind was already erasing the evidence of their passage behind them, and the wind stung of sand. Judas thought that the guard had been optimistic in his estimate of how long they had until the storms hit, full strength.

Despite the rising winds, the sky was crystal clear, and the stars sparkled brighter than Judas had seen in nearly two years, yet he found his anxiety rising. Within the city there was always enough lights, on those occasions where he had found himself out of doors at night, to dim the stars, and he had missed them. As well, he had not been beyond the city gates since he had arrived as part of the slave caravan, well over a year earlier. The last time he had been free in the desert, his brother had betrayed him by selling him to the slavers. While he knew that it was the only way that Jamal could stop the others in the tribe from killing him, it still hurt that his twin brother had sent him away.

They rode on through what remained of the night, ever alert for the signs of pursuit that never came. Unthinkable though it was, it seemed that they had successfully escaped the city, despite all the obstacles.

But now the horizon in front of them was beginning to pale, reminding Judas of one of the dangers of travel that he alone would have to face. As well, Judas still had no idea whether or not Nemir had a destination in mind, or if they were just striking out blindly into the desert, an act which would kill them as quickly as their enemies.

But for Judas, the sun was the greater danger. He pulled the cowl of his cloak over his head and low over his face until he was nearly blind, and the sleeves -- thankfully overlong for him -- down over his hands. It was little protection, but under the circumstances, the best that he could do. But he knew from experience that even with what protection to cloak could provide, once the sun was in the sky, he would be in pain.

Nemir dropped back briefly, bringing his mount alongside of Judas. "Give me your reins, and I will tie them to my saddle" he said. "There is an oasis I have visited, but it will take until nearly midday to reach it. Once we are there, there is a tent in the supplies that Ferath was able to give us, and you can get out of the sun. I am sorry, but we dare not stop until then."

Judas handed the reins over and lifted his hood long enough to smile at Nemir. "I understand," he said reassuringly, then dropped it again when the light made his eyes water. "I will be fine."

Nemir kissed his hand briefly as he took the reins from Judas. Then, with the need to hold the reins gone, Judas tucked his hands deep inside his sleeves and dropped his head and prepared for the long day of travel, wondering if one day would be such a challenge, how was he going to be able stay with the rest for the long journey ahead of them with no end in sight.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Thirty-Six ----------------------------------------

The winds had died down with the dawn, and as the sun rose higher in the sky, so did the temperature, until sweat rolled down Nemir's forehead and into his eyes, making them sting. From time to time he swayed in his saddle, fatigued from lack of sleep and the emotional wear and tear of the last day. All of them were at the limits of their strength, and they would need to stop soon to rest, Judas and Markus most especially.

Markus was from the far north, and despite years in Ajantha, he still had difficulty with high heat, preferring to stay within the cooler confines of the Palace during the sun's height. And Judas...

Nemir glance back to his Companion. Judas was covered completely by his cloak, other than the lower parts of his legs, which were covered by breeches and boots. No portion of his skin was exposed to direct sunlight, but Nemir could vividly remember their first day together when Judas had demonstrated his vulnerability to the sun by holding his hand in a patch of light for the space of only a few breaths. In that short exposure, Judas's skin had been burnt so badly that it had blistered. For his sake, they would need to do as much of their travel as possible at night.

Of course, that led to the larger question: where were they traveling to? He knew what his goals was -- avenging his father's death and reclaiming his city -- but ideas of how he was to do so eluded him. The God-King himself had ordered his father's death. To meet his goals was to set himself in direct conflict with the God-King. No one who had ever done so had survived.

The God-King had ruled the empire for generations beyond memory. Legend said that he had come out of the desert and united warring tribes, teaching them to build cities and grow crops, and demanded absolute obedience in payment. Who and what he was, no one knew. He ruled, undying, ever expanding his empire outwards. How could you defy a man who could not be killed, as assassins had found to their dismay in the past.

Only slightly distracted by dark thoughts, Nemir lead them over one last dune to the sight of an oasis spread out before them. From a distance, it looked unoccupied, but he let his right hand drop to his sword hilt. He did not expect to find anyone there, since it was too close to the city and to small for a tribe to use it for shelter for the length of the storm season, but there was always the chance that a small raiding party or Guard scout might be using it. But it looked like luck was with them.

"There are two tents in the equipment that Ferath supplied us with," he told Dansen, twisting in the saddle. "We'll set them up and sleep until sunset. Once the sun is down, we'll continue on."

"Do we have any idea where we're going?" Dansen asked, putting to words what they were probably all thinking.

"There's a valley, two days travel south and east from here. The walls of the valley are riddled with caves deep enough to hide an army in. The Guard use several of them to store travel supplies for patrols to re-supply. If we can reach the valley before the storms make travel impossible, we can stay there until the storm season passes."

"And after that?"

Part of Nemir shied away from thinking that far ahead, but he had to be honest with those who had chosen to follow him into the unknown. "I don't know. But we will have more than a month to discuss and decide."

Nemir helped Judas, while the others all dismounted, and his two friends went through the baggage, looking for the tents. They would have several hours to sleep, as well as prepare for the rest of the trip. The frantic pace of their escape, first from the Palace, then from the city itself, meant that they had taken what they could grab, as well as what was given to them by Kale and Ferath, but they had not had time to actually see what those items were. They could not afford to carry useless items, so they needed to know what they had.

He tucked Judas in the shade of one of the oasis trees for what little protection from the sun it could give him. Nahanna, showing no signs of discomfort from the day's travel, joined him there, while Nemir went to help Markus and Dansen in setting up the tents and settling the horses.

The winds would not pick up again until after dark, which meant that the horses would be fine for the day once they were hobbled near the spring at the center of the oasis where they could crop and drink easily. However, traveling at night meant that they would be traveling during the worst of the winds, which would take its toll now that they were nearly into the storm season.

"Is Judas well?" Dansen asked in a soft voice as they struggled to unfold the bundle of canvas and rope that made up one of the large guard tents. Of the three of them, Nemir was the only one who had any experience with the shelters, making the process a confused one.

"He will be once he is under cover," Nemir said, starting to pound the long stakes into the ground. Thankfully, Ferath's man had thought to include a hammer for just that purpose.

Dansen frowned. "I thought he was desert born. Surely the heat should not affect him this strongly."

This was something he had not discussed with Judas yet: Telling the others of his affliction. However, there was little reason to conceal it from allies with whom they would be traveling. "Because he was born with skin so pale, it burns quickly in sunlight. I once saw it burn to blistering in a few heartbeats when exposed to direct sunlight."

Comprehension spread across Dansen's face quickly. "That is why he did not accompany you on Ber's hunt," he said.

Nemir nodded in confirmation as they raised the center pole of the tent and tied the ropes tightly to the stakes. It would not hold up to storm winds, but it would protect them during the day when the winds were at their weakest.

Before moving on to the second tent, he waved to Nahanna. She stood, then helped Judas to his feet. While her recent journey from the south meant that the day's travel had been little hardship for her, Judas walked slowly and painfully. Indeed, all of them, other than Nahanna, were showing the effects of hours in the saddle with little sleep. Unfortunately, they had little choice but to press on as quickly as possible or the storms would be on them before they reached the valley and the more permanent shelter there.

Judas seemed to breath a sigh of relief as he entered the tent and was finally able to remove his cloak. His face was reddened, but not blistering, Nemir was relieved to note. He quickly passed in the bags. "I seem to recall there being several jars in the bundles Kale gave us. I am sure that some of it, at least, is the cream he supplied before for your burns."

"Thank you," Judas said softly. He looked exhausted beyond belief.

Nemir caressed the side of Judas's face gently. "Try to get some rest. We need to continue on as soon as the sun sets." Judas nodded tiredly, and was already settling down with his cloak as a pillow before Nemir left the tent.

Markus and Dansen already had the second tent laid out, and it took little time to set it up, close to the first with the entrances facing each other. In truth, they probably could have all fit into one, but it would have been almost unbearably crowded.

Nemir nodded to the two men. "We will need to take watches. The two of you, get some sleep. I will keep watch for a while, then wake Dansen. Markus can take the last watch before sunset. As soon as the sun is down, we need to pack and continue on. There is an oasis, nearly halfway between here and the valley. If we travel through the night, we should reach it early tomorrow morning, soon after the sun rises."

"Is it likely to be occupied?"

Nemir shrugged. "It is possible. It would be large enough to support one of the smaller tribes, but they generally prefer to avoid it, since the Guard also use it frequently. However, most of the Desert Guard have already returned to the city in preparation for the winter storms. We will have to wait and see."

"And be prepared," Markus said grimly.

"Exactly. When it comes to your watch, wake us before sunset. We need to go through all that we are carrying so that we know what we have and can discard what we cannot use."

Markus nodded, then disappeared into the tent. Dansen hesitated. "Are you sure that you do not want company?" he asked, concern plain on his face, but Nemir shook his head.

"No. I doubt I could sleep yet. But both of you look tired. Get some sleep. The next few days will be hard, and you will need all of the rest you can steal. Go. I will be fine."

Dansen looked dubious, but he finally nodded. "Wake me if there is trouble."

"Go. You will need to be awake soon enough for your watch."

Dansen disappeared into the tent after his friend. Nemir looked into the other tent, and smiled fondly at the sight of Judas curled up with one hand in a fist under his cheek. Nahanna had also succumbed, although she was more elegantly laid out, with her cloak wrapped around her. Then he let the tent flap fall shut, and went to check the rest of their small camp.

The horses were cropping the grass, contented to stay in one place. Nemir knelt next to the small spring that had created the oasis and splashed cool water on his face, then used his cupped hands to drink.

Somewhat refreshed, he started to walk a slow circle around the edge of the oasis, his eyes on the horizon, watching for any signs of discovery. Their escape had been successful, but he was still waiting for something else. He could not shake the feeling that the worst was yet to come.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Thirty-Seven ----------------------------------------

Judas's sleep was deep and undisturbed by any dreams, and he felt refreshed when Nemir shook him awake again. He sat up, brushing sand from his hair and clothing. There was travel bread, made with pieces of dried fruit and meat, and cool water. Plain fare, but it filled the hollow space in his belly.

They were all together now, other than Markus, who was dismantling the second tent and preparing the horses. The sun had started its slow descent, and they needed to be under way before it set. Travel would be difficult after that, at least until the moon made its appearance. Traveling by day would have been easier, but it would have been nearly impossible for Judas.

His skin was red and sensitive to the touch, and Judas took the jar Nemir handed him gratefully. The cream inside was the same fragrant mix that the master Healer had supplied him with before, and silently, he thanked the man for his foresight. He spread the cream on his face, neck, and hands, where the burning was worst, and sighed as the heat and itch started to fade.

Nemir and Dansen had their packs open and the contents spread across them. Judas moved to Nemir's side. "What are you doing?" he asked softly.

"Going through what we have so that we know what we have to sustain us while we travel, and so that we can discard anything we do not need that might slow us down."

Judas thought that a sensible plan. Among the tribes, nothing was carried that was not needed. That did not mean that there were no personal items, or that they were without art, but their art was practical, and the personal items small and light. Much like his mother's carved box which he'd had to leave behind in Ajantha. At least he'd been able to bring its contents, Judas thought to himself, lifting a hand to check the small lump of the quartz piece under his clothing. It, his father's dagger, and his own birthing cloth were the only things he had left of his life in the tribe, and he was grateful to still have them. Grateful, and yet feeling guilty that Nemir had not been able to bring away the same. He could see the grief still hanging heavy on his beloved.

Their meager possessions were quickly divided into three piles -- food, healing supplies, and others, such as clothing. The most perishable of the food they partitioned out to be eaten before they set out. Other than that, there was little that was not worth taking with them, which was good, since they had so little to begin with.

Then everything was repacked, carefully balanced out this time so that it would sit easier on the back of the horses, and water bags were filled from the spring. When they were ready, Judas pulled his cloak on so that all his skin was shielded and went to stand next to one of the palm trees, the trunk between him and the setting sun, and waited while the second tent was struck and packed. Then they were back on the horses, riding away from the sun, back into the desert.

The next two nights were much like the first. They rode through the desert, starting before the sun set and continuing well into morning. Judas's skin continued to burn, and even started to peel and crack, although thankfully there were no blisters. But even without that, he was in pain. His clothing, crusted with sand as they had become, grated against his tender skin until he could not bear to have anyone touch him. By the second morning, he was also becoming fevered.

Judas worried about him, he could tell, but there was no choice. They needed to reach Nemir's safe haven before the storms began to blow in earnest. They had little time to spare for his weaknesses. He felt badly enough already that he was unable to help with setting and striking their camps.

The second night, they rode on well into the morning until the sun was high in the sky. The sand gradually thinned out until they could hear the ring of hoof on rock, and the walls of a valley rose up around them. If it had been earlier in the day, they would have even been in shadow, but the sun was reaching its full height, and even at the lowest part of the valley, the sun still reached them. However, they were mostly shielded from the winds that continued to grow in intensity.

From under his hood, Judas could see Nemir scanning the sides of valley, although to Judas's eyes it was more of a ravine or canyon. There was even evidence that a water had flowed down it at some point in the distant past. The walls hid pools of shadow, some of which would conceal the mouths of caves. Finally, Nemir pulled to a stop.

"There," he said, pointing to a dark spot, halfway up the rock face. "That is one of the caves that the Guard uses to store supplies. There is even a water source, deep inside."

"Is it safe for us?" Dansen asked, shielding his eyes as he watched the cave entrance.

"To stay in? Probably not. A patrol could possibly come by. However, the valley is filled with caves, and we can easily find one untouched that we can use. And the supplies will still be within easy reach, and if a patrol *does* come by, they will assume that another patrol has been there before them. It is why such caches are maintained, after all. But it will be fine for today, I think, while we search for a better home for the storm season."

The cave in question seemed small as they entered, but quickly widened into a space large enough to hold all of them, as well as the horses. There were side passages, and looking into them, they found jars, all carefully sealed with wax to protect their contents, and labeled with marks that described the contents. Dried meat and fruit. Grain. Oil for lamps. One extended passage contained enough wood and dried dung to build cooking fires for a year. There were even uniforms, for those whose clothing was in tatters, for which they were all grateful. After only three days, their clothing was full of sand and desert fleas, and the thought of clean clothing and wash water was welcome beyond belief.

The water came from the back of the cavern, where a passage led downward to a sight that made Judas gasp. A river, small, but fast moving, that ran beneath the desert. He had never heard of such a thing. But there it was, clear and cold, running through a cavern that dripped with moisture, so that the rock walls glittered in the light of their lamps like diamonds. The water was too fast moving to bathe in, but they filled buckets and carried them up to the main cavern to wash and cook with.

Nemir disappeared with Dansen to hunt for the cave or caves that would be their permanent home while they waited out the storms, leaving Markus behind to protect Judas and Nahanna. It was not likely that they would need that protection, but Judas did not argue. The last few days had been so stressful that Nemir could be forgiven for being overly cautious. Instead of worrying, he took a flint and steel set from one the storage passages and used it to light a small fire to cook a hot meal.

It was simple, just a grain porridge with some of the dried meat and fruit added to it for flavor, but it was hot and filling and a welcome change from the travel bread they'd been subsisting on for the last few days. And perhaps during lulls in the storms, they would be able to hunt, bringing in fresh meat to supplement their diet.

The sun was getting low on the horizon, and the winds were picking up again when Nemir and Dansen reappeared. "We've found our campsite," Nemir said, sitting down and accepting a bowl from Judas. "It is almost at the end of the valley, where it narrows. The entrance is narrow, but passable, and there is plenty of space inside. There is also no sign that it has been used in the recent past, so it should be safe. It does not have access to the river directly, but the next cave, which is too small to live in, does."

"And the horses?" Markus asked.

"There is another cave, directly across from the one we have chosen, that is large enough to house the horses, close enough to care for them, but not so close that everything will stink of horse," Dansen said around a mouthful of food.

"Sounds good," Markus said.

"And none too soon," Nemir added as the howl of the winds outside increased even more. The winter storms were upon them, and to continue traveling would be too dangerous. In a few more days, the night winds would be strong enough to strip the skin off man or beast with the sands it carried. Until the storms died down once more, more than a month away, they were trapped.

"The question remains, though," Dansen said slowly, as though reluctant to put into words his thoughts. "What will we do after the storm season?"

Nemir set down his bowl, still nearly half full. "I am not sure. We still do not know why it is that the God-King would target my father. What possible benefit would there be to him to kill the Prince of Ajantha? We have no idea." Then his eyes turned to Nahanna. "But I think you do."

Nahanna met his eyes unflinchingly, losing none of the grace and dignity that had carried her through the desert without complaint. "Your father was not the God-King's intended target," she said in a soft voice that seemed to ring with authority. The demeanor of a simple woman of the harem, a musician, and gift to a prince, slipped away, leaving her seeming... other.

"Then who was?" Nemir demanded. Judas set down his own bowl, a chill running down his spine. He did not know what the answer would be, just that he did not want to hear it.

"It was Judas's death he sought. Judas is the only male descendent of the kings of the south, and the only person who can break the God-King's rule."

---------------------------------------- Chapter Thirty-Eight ----------------------------------------

Nemir scanned the horizon and found it as empty as it had been the day before and the day before that, but riding patrol was better than returning to the cave that had been their home for more than a month now. The strain of living in close quarters had frayed tempers until the smallest thing could set anyone off. And in the solitude of the desert around the valley he could admit that he was one of the worst.

His jaw tightened until he could hear his teeth grinding together, and forced himself to relax. His horse danced under him, feeling the tension in her rider. The storm season was coming to a close, and travel would be possible soon. They would need to leave their refuge before the first Guard riders arrived to check the supplies for the year, but he still had made no decision on what to do.

Nahanna had made it clear what *she* wanted. She wanted them to travel south to her homeland. Or more to the point, she wanted *Judas* to go south. Her only reason for wanting the rest of them to come, it seemed, was to protect Judas along the way.

Nemir's hand tightened into a fist around the reins. He still found it hard to believe her claims that Judas was the heir to the royal family of the southern clans. The God-King had killed them all, or so the histories said. But she claimed that a few survived, mostly babes, cousins to their king, smuggled out of the southern capital before it fell and hidden among the other clans and the desert tribes. She, herself, was also a descendant of those escapees, but Judas, it seemed, was the first male child born to that line in more than a century, and heir to its powers.

If her tale was the truth, then it followed that everything that had happened, from the assassination attempt on the night of his presentation to the death of his father had all been for the purpose of slaying Judas before he could become a danger to the God-King. The concept that the God- King could be afraid of a slave was unbelievable, but it would explain much.

But he did not want to believe, because if he did, then he would have to accept that his father was dead because of his Companion. Not just his father, either, but Jorak, and Konda, and who knew how many since then. Even now, he could not face that thought. And it was all because of Judas.

He had lost so much, and he faced the loss of even more if he accepted her tales. He may have lost it already. Judas had tried to help him, but how could he take comfort from the person who might be the cause of his woes? Judas was not to blame for existing, but...

Oh, how he wished that his father had chosen someone else for him. Anyone else. And yet, he could not imagine having another.

The muffled sound of hoof beats against sand brought him out of his haze of recrimination. Blame was of no help, whether he blamed Judas for being born, his father for choosing to buy him, or himself for.. He shook his head. There was nothing he could have done differently, but he still blamed himself for not finding a better way. None of the others blamed him, he knew, but they did not understand.

"Anything?" Dansen asked, coming to a stop next to him. His gelding tossed its head, trying to escape its rider's control. Like all of them, the horses were suffering from their long confinement. They were not meant to spend their days lodged in caves. They needed to run, to stretch their legs. Soon, Nemir promised them silently.

"Nothing. But it will not be long. We are too close to the city." Again, the flash of pain that they needed to worry about Ajantha as though it were a rival princedom, not the city of his birth.

"So, do we head south?" The question was delivered bluntly, but Dansen kept his eyes focused on the horizon, not meeting Nemir's glare.

After a long moment, Nemir sighed, and slumped in the saddle. "Do we have a choice?" he asked bitterly.

Dansen laughed briefly. "There are many choices," he said. "The only question is which choices can you live with. We could turn north instead, go to Markus's homeland as you told the Guardsman. Or we could travel east, crossing the desert and heading for lands where the God-King has no control. Or go to the city of the Prince of Mathan. He might be inclined to aide his daughters betrothed. Or--" He stopped, his expression turning grim. "Or we can return to the city and you can give Judas to the envoy. If Judas was what they were looking for, that should satisfy them. You would be Prince, and everything would be as it was."

For a moment, Nemir felt a dark urge to do just that, but then he shook his head. "That is not an option," he said firmly, more to himself than to Dansen. "No matter what has happened, it was not Judas's fault, and he should not suffer for it."

"Do you truly believe that?" Dansen said.

"Of course. Why would I not?"

Dansen frowned. "Then you might tell him that, for even if you do not blame him, he blames himself."

"He has not said anything," Nemir said, surprised by the other man's words.

"He has, but not to you. You spend little time with him, if you can avoid it, and the only words you speak to him are orders. You do not touch him. You act like a stranger. What can he think, but that you blame him for all that has happened?"

Nemir felt guilty at the words, for he could not deny them, for in truth, Nahanna's words *had* turned Judas into a stranger. The young man he'd known, who'd shared his life, his bed, and his heart had been revealed as not a simple desert tribesman made slave, but as the heir to a throne, and a bearer of divine blood. True or not, everything had changed, and he still had not yet decided how he felt about it. Even after being forced into cramped quarters by the storms and explanations by Nahanna -- although few and vague -- he still had not decided what to do.

Dansen shifted his mount a little closer, and reached over to lay his hand on Nemir's shoulder. "Talk to him, or you risk losing him. He is devoted to you -- anyone can see that -- but it will not make any difference if you drive him away. Or is that what you want?"

Nemir refused to look at Dansen. In his mind he could hear the hurtful responses he could make to drive the man away. He thought of the man as a friend -- indeed, only a friend would have followed him into exile this way -- but part of him raged at Dansen for prying into his relationship with Judas. And worse, part of him wanted to answer 'yes.' That part looked at Judas every day and saw the cause of all their woes. He hated that part.

After a minute, Dansen tugged at his reins, turned and rode back towards the valley, not having received any answer.

The sun was dipping towards the horizon, and while the winds were picking up again, they were no longer strong enough to blow the sands hard enough to do more than sting. It was time for them to leave this place, and Dansen was correct; he needed to decide where they would be going. *They* needed to decide.

Nemir sighed, then turned his horse and headed back towards the valley where the others were waiting for him.

Descending into the valley, the last of the light disappeared, leaving him in shadow. Above, the stars were coming out, one by one. After stabling his horse in the other cavern, he crossed the narrow valley to enter the cavern that they'd made their home, long familiarity letting him make the passage without a lantern to light his way.

Nahanna was seated next to the fire, tending the pot that held their dinner. A fresh kill the previous day had provided them with more fresh meat to supplement their diet. Despite their best efforts, they had not been able to supply much of their own food, and they were growing tired of grain porridge with dried fruit and meat in it. Markus was seated against one of the cavern walls, mending the leather of one of their saddles, with a bridle lying next to him, waiting for its turn. Dansen was sitting close by, sharpening a dagger. They had all been working at preparing their equipment for their eventual departure, and they were nearly ready. It was also time for them to start cleaning both their own detritus and that of their horses so that when they left, nothing would remain to give away the fact that they'd been there.

But of Judas there was no sign, and for a moment, Nemir was relieved. Then he felt guilty for that, yet again. It was not Judas's fault, he reminded himself yet again.

Nahanna ignored him, but Dansen and Markus both nodded silently, although Dansen was still frowning at him, and he had to resist the urge to apologize to the man, even though he did not feel he had done anything to apologize for. But Dansen was right; he needed to speak to Judas. Perhaps even apologize to the younger man. And before the night was over, they all needed to discuss their next move.

He walked over to the two men and crouched down. "Where is Judas?" he asked, and Dansen's frown eased slightly.

"He left once the shadows were deep enough for him to be safe," Markus said softly, putting aside the saddle. "He has been using one of the other caves when he wants some solitude. It is halfway down the valley, and the opening is marked by a piece of white quartz embedded in the rock above it."

Nemir nodded, and stood again. He took up one of the lanterns and checked to make sure that it had plenty of oil. Lit, it cast a soft glow that would let him find his way without injury.

He took a deep breath and set out to find his Companion.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Thirty-Nine ----------------------------------------

Judas maneuvered through the narrow passage carefully. There was no light to see his way by, but it wasn't necessary. After almost daily visits for more than a month, he was familiar with every stone, every dip in the floor. He knew where he was going and how to get there without injury.

 As well, although the darkness was complete, he was still strangely aware of his surroundings on a level other than sight. It was part of what had drawn him to this place the first time, hurt and confused. Something had drawn him there, something comforting.

He wondered if Nemir had returned from his patrol yet, then pushed those thoughts away. Better not to think of the man now. Ever since Nahanna had made her claim about Judas, Nemir had barely looked at him, never speaking to him unless it was a command. For the first time in many months, he huddled alone under his blanket, cold and lonely.

He was being torn in two directions. He wanted to be with Nemir, to follow him wherever the his love led, but Nemir pushed him away. Nahanna pulled at him, urging him to listen to her, to come with her, but deep down, he doubted her. She claimed that he was the only male heir to her people's rulers. He had a brother, a twin, he told her, but she shrugged that off. If he did not have the markings -- the markings that had helped to alienate him from his people -- then he wasn't a true heir. He would not have the powers of the true royals. He did not have any powers, Judas had protested. He did, but he needed to learn how to use them, she told him. She would teach him everything he needed to know.

He didn't want to learn anything. He didn't want to be a ruler. He didn't want to be the focus of the God-King's ire. He did not want to be to blame for all the woes that had befallen them.

He wanted to go back to what he had been before: Nemir's Companion. He wanted Nemir to look at him, to touch him, to... to love him again.

Suddenly the passage widened again, and he found himself in a cavern that rose up high above him. The river ran through the middle, cold and clear and fast, and the light from a small hole in the roof, letting in moon and star light, made everything sparkle like gems. Almost immediately, his anxieties fell away, leaving a sense of peace and calm. He spread out the blanket he had brought with him, and lay down on his back, with arms and legs spread out. He closed his eyes and let his breathing slow, listening only to the sound of water moving and dripping, and the sound of his own breath.

As he breathed, it seemed to him that he became more aware of his surroundings. He could feel the moisture on the walls of the cavern as if it were sweat on his brow. He could feel the strange, blind fish in the river as if they were swimming through him, as if he was swimming himself. He was both fish and river at the same time. And deep below him, he could feel the pulse of the earth, and the answering pulse of the piece of quartz hanging around his neck. Everything was connected, and he was everything.

He had been drifting for a while, happily immersing himself in the earth where there were no problems, when he felt Nemir approaching the cave. He wondered briefly at how he could know that Nemir was coming, carrying a lantern, and cursing softly when he stepped on a loose stone that skittered away. Perhaps it was just his imagination.

But when he opened his eyes, he saw the glow of a distant flame flickering over the stone and knew that it had not been. A moment later, he heard the sound of footsteps, accompanied by rock rubbing against rock, and pushed himself up to a seated position. He had no idea why Nemir would seek him out on this night when he had not any other.

When Nemir finally arrived, the light from his lantern hit the walls and reflected back a thousand times, making the cavern suddenly as a bright as day. He stopped at the entrance, his mouth slack and his eyes wide. Judas watched his amazement wistfully. It was the first open emotion he'd seen from the man in too long. Markus kept reassuring him that Nemir would come to his senses, but he was no longer sure he believed.

Indeed, between Nemir and Nahanna, the only thing that had kept him going was the open friendship offered to him by both Markus and Dansen. He knew now that they were not lovers, although they were devoted to each other. And while he could not deny the draw Markus held for him, he had quickly figured out that the foreigner had no interest in any male that way. In a way, it was a relief to learn, and they had become good friends instead, now that he was spared the temptations.

"I had no idea that this was here," Nemir said softly, almost reverentially.

"It is beautiful," Judas said in agreement.

That drew Nemir's attention to him. Nemir set the lantern down on a large chunk of stone and came over to sit down next to him. Judas held his tongue, wondering what had brought the man in search of him after all this time. He hoped that perhaps it indicated a softening in Nemir's attitude. And yet, a part of him was angry at Nemir, though he hid it carefully. To lose his temper would do no good except to create strife when they could ill afford it.

Nemir was staring up at the ceiling of the cave, glittering with water and quartz. "The storms are nearly past," he said, and Judas nodded. "We need to decide what to do next."

"We will do what you decide," Judas said, his hand clenching into a fist, gripping the blanket. He did not let any of the bitterness that he felt bleed through into his voice, for it was true. It was Nemir's father who was dead, his city that was taken from him.

"It cannot be my decision alone." Nemir paused, then reached over to lightly touch Judas's hand. "Is that what you felt? Uprooted from everything you knew, sent into foreign lands. Angry and hurt and... lost?"

Judas stiffened for a moment, then softened, his hands relaxing. With a few simple words, Nemir had managed to destroy his anger, if not his hurt. He could remember his own pain at his exile, and even though it had faded with time, it was still there. "All that and more," he said, turning his hand over so that he could clasp Nemir's. "But at least I knew my brother was alive, even if I would never see him again."

"Nahanna wants you to go south," Nemir said, his hand tightening around Judas's. "Her people would welcome you with open arms."

"But would I want them to? When she first arrived, I read those books on the southern clans. I do not know that I could live there." He shook his head. If he had thought Ajantha foreign to him, the southern clans were even more so. Their royal family had lived locked in a palace, never leaving unless surrounded by as many as a hundred guards, and only for ceremonial purposes. They worshiped their royal family, but they also held them almost as prisoners. He would have more freedom as a slave, especially considering what she'd told him about being the only male heir. They would never let him go.

"Then what would you prefer? North to Markus's lands? East? Back to your tribe?"

Judas wrapped his free arm around his knees, warding off the flash of pain that he'd thought was long gone. "They would not have me back, and my presence would only bring danger to them, as it did to you." He closed his eyes. "You could just kill me. Surely that would appease the God-King," he said, hiding the fear he felt that Nemir might do just that. It made sense, he had to admit, and the way Nemir had been around him, perhaps it was something that the Heir had been thinking of.

The hand holding his clutched so tightly that he could feel bone grinding against bone. "Dansen pointed that out to me earlier," Nemir said coldly. "But we all know that I would no more do that than I would cut off my sword arm."

"Do we?" Judas asked softly, his own doubts bleeding into his voice.

"I will not willingly sacrifice anyone to the monster on the throne," Nemir said harshly. "He has taken enough lives."

"Then what do *you* want?" Judas asked.

"I... want..." Nemir paused, then sighed. "I want this to have all been a bad dream. I want to wake up tomorrow in my bed, you at my side, my father waiting for me in his office."

"Only one of those things is possible," Judas whispered.

"I know." He was silent for a moment. Then, when he spoke again, his voice was hard. "I want the God-King dead."

"Are you sure?" Judas thought hard, trying to organize his thoughts into words that would not offend. "The histories say that clans were constantly at war before he came. If he were gone, would the cities not start warring again over territory and trade routes? Would the result be chaos?"

Nemir shook his head. "I believe that we are more civilized now. We can control our baser instincts. And while the God-King has stopped that sort of warring, he has brought other forms of fear to the land. If he ordered the death of a loyal Prince, what else will he do? The Southern Clans had no interest in the north, except as a trading partner, but he raised an army, no matter how unwilling his vassals might be, and descended in force on the south to conquer them. Why?"

"If what Nahanna says is true, it was to kill their royals, my... ancestors. To kill the only people who supposedly had the power to destroy him."

Nemir snorted. "If they had that power, then why was he able to kill them so easily? If their kings had the ability to destroy him, then why were they conquered? No, that part of her story makes no sense."

Judas blinked in surprise. He had not thought of that, but it made sense. "Then why would she want me to travel south?"

"To be a figurehead," Nemir said bluntly. "Father said that there were rumors that the south was planning to rise up again. On their own, the rebels might meet resistance from their own people. But if they have a king to present to the people, that would become a rallying cry."

Judas winced. "All the more reason not to travel south," he said, suddenly tired and depressed. "So what do we do?"

---------------------------------------- Chapter Forty ----------------------------------------

What should they do: That was indeed a good question, and one that Nemir did not feel he should decide on his own. Instead, he stood and held out his hand to Judas. After a momentary hesitation, Judas took it, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

That small hesitation cut deeply, as did the way Judas kept his eyes lowered so that he did not look directly at Nemir. His behavior was much like it had been in the early days after Nemir's father had thrown them together. Had his treatment of Judas truly been that bad? Small wonder Dansen had been so short with him. He owed a great many apologies, it seemed, starting here.

Judas had turned back to fold the blanket he'd been lying on, but Nemir refused to release his hand. For a moment they stood there, unmoving. Then, finally, Judas met his eyes, and Nemir flinched from the coolness there.

Trying to bring a thaw to those silver eyes, Nemir brushed the back of his free hand across Judas's cheek. "I have been so caught up in my grief and anger that I have been unforgivably cold to you, have I not?" he said, looking for some sign of warming, of forgiveness. "And not just to you, although you have suffered the worst from my ill-temper."

"As it should be," Judas said, and the pain in his voice was barely hidden. "It is my fault that attention was drawn to Ajantha, after all." He began to pull away, but instead, Nemir tugged him closer. They struggled silently for a moment, but Nemir was the stronger, and Judas finally yielded.

Nemir reached up and drew Judas down so that their foreheads rested together. "You cannot be blamed for being born. And as for drawing the God-King's attention to Ajantha, it was my father's decision to purchase you, so in a way, he is to blame. Or Kemel for bringing you to the city. Or your brother for selling you to him in the first place. Besides, this all supposes that we can believe Nahanna, which I am still not sure of."

Judas sighed heavily. "You say that, and perhaps you believe it in your thoughts, but do you believe it in your heart?"

"I'm not sure," Nemir said, needing to be honest. "But the wounds on my heart are starting to heal, and as they do, it is beginning to believe it. Will you give me time?"

Judas closed his eyes, and the way he bit into his bottom lip made Nemir want to kiss it to sooth the small hurt away. Giving in to impulse, he did just that. When he pulled back, Judas's eye shone like the walls of the cave, and he managed a small smile. "No matter what has happened, I am still yours," he said.

Nearly limp with relief, Nemir kissed him again, wrapping his arms around the younger man and holding him tightly.

It was a good thing Judas's blanket was still spread, for they made good use of it.

When they finally returned to the cave that was their home, Nemir felt more at ease than he had since the fateful day when his father had died and Judas had nearly been killed as well. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, despite the trials that were surely yet to come. As they entered the cave, all eyes went to them. Dansen, especially, scrutinized Judas carefully, then gave a small nod of approval at what he saw.

The others had already eaten, so Nemir served himself, then Judas. For the first time in a while, Nemir realized with a start, Judas immediately took a place next to him instead of on the other side of the fire. How could he have been so blind? He closed his eyes briefly and promised that he would do better. How could he be prince to a city if he couldn't see what was happening with his own lover? How could he hope to rule if he drove away those closest to him?

The stew was the same as they'd been eating for weeks, and he would be glad when they left and had the chance for more variety, if only because they would be forced to hunt for their own food. They could not carry too much of the Guard supplies with them. What they had eaten could be hidden, since they'd deliberately taken from the oldest of the supplies, but to take even more would bring the risk of revealing their presence. Their hopes were that the God- King's men would believe that they *had* traveled north, ahead of the storms. If that were the case, they would be able to travel in any other direction safely.

Which brought them to the current dilemma. "The storms have subsided enough for travel, which means that it is only a matter of time until the first Guard patrol arrives. It is time to decide what we will be doing."

Nahanna frowned. "We travel south, away from the direction in which our enemies will be seeking us," she said firmly, as though she expected none to argue with her. She spoke as one raised to expect unquestioning obedience, despite the fact that women had no obvious power among the southern clans.

"Healer Kale may have suggested that, but it has not been decided on," Nemir said with a hard look for the woman. "Indeed, it might be wiser for us to travel east. There, we would be out of the lands that the God-King controls. The trade routes are too important for him to risk angering the kings of the east, no matter how powerful he is. The south, however, is firmly under his fist."

"Not completely," Nahanna protested, her eyes flashing with anger. "And not for long. And as a descendant of the true kings, Judas needs to be there."

"Whether he wishes it or not?" Nemir asked mildly.

"It is his duty. It is his *destiny*. The God-King will not stop hunting for him. It is only in the south that he will have the chance to strike back first."

"So you claim," Nemir countered. "But you have offered no proof for your words. And even if you *do* speak the truth, it is still Judas's choice to make, and I will not allow you to pressure him into a choice made unwillingly."

"Enough," Judas said, breaking into the battle of wills. "We should discuss the options, then decide what is best for *all* of us." He spoke with a quiet dignity that left Nemir believing that he *could* be descended from royalty.

"There are four basic directions we can go in," Dansen said, tracing an outline of a map of the land in the layer of sand that covered the ground. "If we travel west, we will first reach the river, and more densely populated lands. Beyond that is more desert, then lands that border the salt sea. We could take ship from the ports there. But the nearest of those lands pay tribute to the God-King, and word may have already reached them to stop us." They all listened intently as he listed the benefits and dangers.

"Then there is the north lands, which could be reached by traveling overland to the north, or over water from the western ports." He glanced briefly to Markus before continuing. "The north lands have long worried about the God-King's ambitions, going so far as to send people to learn all that they could of our people and lands. If we can reach him, Markus's father would give us refuge." Markus nodded in agreement. Nemir frowned, however. There had been rumors for years that Markus was a spy, and now it seemed that those tales were true. The knowledge was to fresh to decide how he felt about it, though.

"However," Dansen continued, "north is the direction we claimed to be heading as we left the city, and with Markus traveling with us, it is an obvious choice, and so the God- King's men will be seeking us along those roads, and he has his own spies in the northern courts."

"East is the next choice. As Nemir said, the kingdoms to the east have long resisted the God-King's incursions, with greater success than any other land, but the trade is so valuable that the routes through the wilderness remain open, and caravans travel them unmolested by either side. The routes are few in number, but if we can buy passage in one of the caravans, we would be able to escape. But the eastern lands are far distant, and we would have little likelihood of returning, at least not for many years." His eyes went to Nemir, who nodded. To travel east meant that his revenge would be delayed, perhaps forever.

"And then there is the south," Dansen finally said, glancing to Nahanna. "Clearly we would be welcome there. Or more to the point, Judas would be. But the south is firmly controlled by the God-King and his soldiers, and to reach the south, we would have to travel through the lands closest to his capital. However, it may be that they will not look for us to travel in that direction, if only because the danger *is* so great."

He sat up straight, wiping away the map with a sweep of his hand. "Danger in every direction, but possibilities as well. All things to be considered."

"And there is one other thing to consider," Nemir said. "There is no rule that says that we must travel together. If the two of you so chose, you could travel north to Markus's home, with or without us. Indeed, you would be safer to strike out on your own." But Markus was already shaking his head.

"We stay together," he said gravely. In the time they'd been in the caves, he'd grown a thick red beard, since a razor was not a part of the supplies they'd brought with them. He was the only one, though, since none of the other men tended towards facial hair. "We have come this far, we will see it through." The rest, other than Nahanna, all nodded.

"So, then, does anyone have a preference?" he asked.

Nahanna's expression spoke volumes, but they already knew her choice. He looked to the others.

Markus and Dansen leaned close and held a whispered conversation. Then they turned, and Dansen spoke for them. "Let us head for refuge in lands not under the God-King's rule. North or East."

Nemir looked to Judas, but before the younger man could speak, Nahanna broke in. "I would speak with Judas first, privately."

---------------------------------------- Chapter Forty-One ----------------------------------------

After a glance to Nemir for permission, Judas reluctantly let Nahanna draw him to the back of the cavern, no doubt in order to convince him to him to urge Nemir to go south. Back at the fire, Nemir was talking softly with the other two men, and Judas watched them, longing to be there instead.

"You *must* go south," Nahanna hissed, her hand on his arm. "Lives count on it."

"How can lives count on my presence, when it has never been there?" he asked. "It has not been required up until now."

"But with you there, there will finally be a chance to free our lands from the God-King's tyranny. Perhaps even all lands, including Ajantha," she added as an additional incentive to follow her lead. Her expression turned cajoling, and she stroked his forearm gently. He stepped away, trying not to make it insulting. While he found Nahanna very likeable, it disturbed him how she seemed to assume that they should follow her lead all the time. It was reminiscent of Layla's attempts to influence Nemir, although they were otherwise completely dissimilar.

"How?" Judas said bluntly. She frowned in puzzlement, so he clarified. "How would my presence be a deciding factor in rebelling successfully? How can *I* help defeat a man who has ruled for centuries?" The bitterness he felt leaked into his voice. All his life, the God-King had been more a concept than a man, controlling most of the known world from his throne in Maphis. He had never seemed real to the tribes who lived on the fringes of the empire, considering themselves independent of his rule. Now that distant ruler had reached out and destroyed his life.

She shook her head. "I cannot explain it now. Once we reach my home, all will be explained."

It was Judas's turn to shake his head now. "You ask me -- *all* of us -- to take your words as truth, but you do not offer any proof. You ask us to travel through the heart of the enemy's lands, all on faith. I cannot ask them to expose themselves to such danger without good reason," he said stubbornly.

"Then we can travel on alone. They will be safe once you are gone."

For a moment, Judas was tempted to say yes. Perhaps they *would* be safer far from him. And yet, he was selfish. He did not want to be separated from Nemir. Perhaps a few days earlier, when Nemir was still shutting him out, he might have thought differently, albeit briefly, but in his heart, he could not bear the thought of being apart from him. "I cannot," he said firmly. "Where Nemir goes, so will I."

Nahanna sighed, and seemed to shrink in on herself. "As you say," she finally said. "If you cannot be convinced, then so be it. But at least think on it."

The sadness in her voice hurt Judas. From what little she *had* told them, she had been brought to Ajantha to find him and bring him south. His refusal meant that she had failed in that mission. But who had given it to her and why? And if he did as she asked, what would he find waiting for him? There were too many questions left unanswered for him to fully trust her.

He returned quickly to Nemir's side, and the man asked silently with his eyes if Judas had any information to change their plans, and he shook his head briefly. Nemir sighed. "We have been discussing, and we feel that east is our best choice. While the north is out of the God-King's direct control, he still has spies and agents in those lands, and he will expect us to go in that direction. The east, however, has successfully blocked him. In the east, we will be safe to live and plan.

"We will travel south and east to one of the trade towns. There, we should be able to find a place in one of the caravans heading east. We will leave after the sun sets tomorrow. The journey will not be easy, especially for Judas, but it should only take a month, and there will be the chance to buy supplies from the desert tribes as we travel further from the river."

Then he turned to Nahanna. "If you prefer to return to the south, I am sure that we can find you an escort in the trade towns."

Nahanna met his eyes directly, with pride. "I would prefer to stay with you. I was charged with protecting Judas, and I will not abandon that duty." Judas also understood what she did not say; that she had not abandoned hope of convincing them to change their minds.

Nemir stiffened, and Judas wondered if the implied insult was deliberate or not. Nemir's duty, after all, was to his city and ultimately to the God-King as his ruler. By his actions it could be said that he had abandoned one and betrayed the other. But he did not respond in kind. "It is decided, then," he said instead. "We best sleep now. Tomorrow afternoon we will pack, and once the sun goes down, we will set out. I know of a series of oases between here and the trade towns, and we will likely run into the desert tribes at several of them. We might even find a group to travel with."

With that, they moved to clean up the remains of their meal. The remaining stew would feed them the next day. After that, they would be eating travel bread that they'd baked in makeshift ovens over the last week, as well as whatever they could buy or hunt for themselves. Thankfully, they had plenty of money for their journey, thanks to Dansen, Kale, and Ferath. The only potential danger, other than bandits, was that something might happen to one of the horses. Without mounts, travel would be next to impossible, and while they would be able to buy food, the tribes would not sell horses, at least not at a price that they could afford.

Well after midnight, Judas took to his bedroll, while Nemir continued to discuss their plans with Dansen and Markus. Nahanna had gone to fetch more water for the morning and would be gone for a while. Judas sighed deeply, and closed his eyes.

Some time later, he woke briefly to feel of another body slipping under his blanket. He stiffened, then recognized Nemir's scent. He turned so that he could wrap his arms around the man, enjoying just the simple closeness, a closeness that had been missing for too long, and sighed.

Nemir stroked his hair and murmured something reassuring, and Judas slipped back into sleep.

The next day was spent in a flurry of activity. Although they'd been careful to confine their activities to caverns that had shown no sign of previous tenancy, they cleaned carefully, making sure that there was no sign of their presence. A small pit was used to dispose of their waste, as well as their horses, then was filled in and smoothed over so that the casual observer would not notice it. The supply caves were slightly reorganized so that the missing rations would not be so obvious. A count of the sealed jars would show how many were missing, but some of that number might be put down to miscounts in previous years, or an under-stocking.

Nahanna was still visibly unhappy with their choice of plans, but she did not try again to convince them to change their minds. Instead, she had helped with the packing of their supplies, filling all of the water bags that they had and parceling them out between their mounts and the single pack horse.

By the time that the sun set, they were ready. The tail end of the storm season meant that the winds would quickly cover up their tracks; the last sign that they had been there. With that last thought taken care of, they set out.

They traveled quickly by night, but without the same sense of urgency that they'd felt before. After more than a month, the sense of immediate danger had faded. Surely, they all thought, by now attention had been turned north. None of them knew what the soldiers sent north from the capital would do in their efforts to find the small group, but they would be looking in the wrong direction. They just prayed that no one was hurt for supposedly hiding them or helping them flee. Judas knew that Nemir was particularly worried about Ferath and the guards at the way station where they'd obtained their horses. While they had taken great pains to make sure that the three guards could not be blamed for letting them leave the city, nor could they tell the soldiers what direction they had truly gone, there was no telling how petty the envoy might be. He might punish them simply as an example to anyone else who might consider aiding the fleeing party.

But whatever he might do, he would have already done it, so there was little point in worrying. For them, the only thing they could do was to continue on their way, south and east.

They traveled by night, stopping in the morning to find shelter. Often, that shelter was just tent canvas spread over them, since there were no safe oases, and the ground was not solid enough to pitch the tent properly. Judas used the cream Healer Kale gave him sparingly, only on the worst burns. He had survived many years without it -- although not under such stressful circumstances -- and since they were not likely to be able to replace it, he tried to use it as little as possible.

From time to time, they saw evidence of other travelers -- desert tribes, most likely -- but strangely, they did not see any other human, which was troubling. They'd thought to trade for or buy food, but the tribes that should be on the move at the end of the storm season were nowhere to be seen. The strange absence of the tribes was becoming more and more worrisome as time went by.

But it was not until the end of the second week of travel, when they were halfway to the mountains, that they finally found out why.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Forty-Two ----------------------------------------

The night was half over when they rode over the peak of a dune and saw the oasis below. Tents were pitched on the edges, and they could see horses grazing on the grass around the spring that was at the center of the patch of green in a sea of sand, although the green was faded to more of a silver grey by the moonlight.

The sight cheered them for a moment until they looked closer. "There are no fires," Dansen said.

"And the tents look damaged from the storms," Nemir said. Not just damaged, in fact. Several had been blown to the ground, and there was no sign that anyone had tried to raise them again.

"And no one moving, other than the horses. Even if all the tribe were asleep, there would be guards. We should have seen them long ago," Judas said firmly. As son of a tribe, he would know. Something was very wrong in the camp below, but they could not simply ride on, Nemir knew. They needed to know what had happened. As well, their water supply was running too low to make it to the next oasis.

But they would not ride in blindly. Nemir sent Dansen to circle right, while Markus circled left. They would enter the camp from different directions, swords drawn and ready for any sign of ambush. Then he turned to Nahanna and Judas.

"No," Judas said before Nemir could speak, shaking his head firmly. "If there is anyone there, you will need me. I know the language better than you do, and I may know them. And I will not let you go into danger alone. Not again."

The pain in Judas's eyes brought to mind the last time Nemir had left him behind. On that day, his father had died, and they had been forced to flee the city of his birth. The city that was his birthright, now stolen from him. Nemir sighed. "Nahanna will stay here with the horses," he finally said, giving in gracefully. As well, Judas was correct. If anyone below was living, he might have better chance of learning what had happened.

Scanning the tops of the dunes, Nemir saw the signal, first from Markus, then from Dansen, that the other two men had reached their planned positions. Then, cautiously, all four men slipped over the top of the dunes surrounding the oasis, staying low so that they would not be silhouetted against the night sky.

The air was silent, other than the buzz of insects and the whisper of wind across the sands, barely stirring the grains. It was a far cry from the howl of the storms only a few weeks earlier. The silence was growing even more disturbing. There was no sound of voices -- and they would have carried this close to water.

A sudden gust of wind made a piece of canvas suddenly start flapping with a sound much like a whip cracking, and both Nemir and Judas jumped at the unexpected sound.

Finally, they reached a tent at the edge of the camp. There were still no sounds of human habitation. But the buzz of flies was stronger than it should have been.

Nemir used the flat of his sword blade to push the tent flap to the side, then nearly gagged as the stench of death reached him. One glance told him that none were left alive inside. Three bodies, two of them heartbreakingly small. All were long dead, only recognizable because the dry air of the desert had desiccated the bodied instead of letting them rot.

"Oh, bright son," Judas moaned next to him, his complexion even paler than normal in the moonlight. Nemir closed his eyes and thought a brief prayer for the dead. The wounds on the three bodies told a story, and he knew already that they would find no one alive in the camp. They had all been murdered.

The day of his father's death, he'd been reading reports speaking of strangers in the desert, as well as the strange absence of some of the desert tribes. It appeared that they had the answer to at least one of those mysteries.

"They are all dead," Markus said, coming up behind them. "Cut down where they stood. Animals have taken some of the bodies, but other than that, nothing has been disturbed."

"Could it be raiders?" Nemir asked, even though he knew that it was unlikely. Bandits would have taken the most valuable possessions of the tribe: their horses. Already they had attracted the attention of the beasts, and several of them were clustered nearby, watching them with velvet- dark eyes. Some still bore marks from the sandstorms, as well as animal attack, and Nemir wondered how many of their number were also dead.

Dansen arrived as he spoke. "I saw no sign of search or theft," he said. "This was butchery, not a raid."

Nemir signed, and shut his eyes. "We should learn what we can. Then we will pack what we can take, and prepare those horses that can travel and continue on." He did not like what seemed like theft to him, but the horses would allow them to travel faster, by switching mounts through to night to fresher beasts, and would give them something to sell when they reached the trade towns so that they could buy passage on one of the caravans. Honor did not want to take the horses, but practicality demanded it.

"Karsa?"

The question asked in a strangled tone brought their attention back to the horses. One of them, almost completely unmarked, tossed its head in response to Judas's voice. Judas moved to the horse -- a stallion, and one of exceptionally fine lines, Nemir noted -- and lifted a hand to stroke the beast's cheek. Normally, as desert mount would resist a stranger's touch, but this one not only allowed it, he pressed up against the slender young man, nearly knocking him off his feet.

"Judas?" Nemir said, stepping closer. Judas turned, and his cheeks glistened in the dim silver light.

"This is Karsa. He is... my brother's horse." Judas started to shake, and Nemir quickly wrapped his arms around his Companion, holding tight as the younger man tried to regain self-control.

Then, as suddenly as they started, the tremors stopped, and Judas pulled away violently. Twisting in place, he started walking, then running, through the camp. Every body, he stopped to examine the face, sometimes muttering a name. They followed, chilled by more than just the night air. Nemir had never thought to consider that they might encounter Judas's tribe, but never could he have imagined something this horrific.

It was at the edge of camp where Markus had entered that the only true signs of resistance were found. The bodies of men were scattered, some showing the marks of animal depredation. Their blades were still in their hands, and many of them were stained with the dried remains of blood, although there was no sign of any bodies that did not belong to tribe members. Either they'd failed to kill even a single one of their enemies, or their attackers had taken away their own dead, leaving their victims to lie in the sun. Either thought made Nemir feel ill.

Judas was sinking to his knees next to one body. "Jamal," he whispered, and Nemir recognized the name. This was the brother who had become chief after their grandfather's death. Then one who had sold his own brother to slavers to save him from members of their tribe who wanted to kill him.

Jamal had not died easily. While the others had obviously died cleanly from sword-wounds, Jamal had survived the battle. Wounds covered his body, but none of them would have been fatal if properly treated. If there had been anyone left to treat him.

Instead, he'd been staked out, surrounded by the bodies of his warriors. Small cuts covered him, leaving him crusted with dried blood. Insects still crawled all over him. His skin said that he had been left like that, probably alive, for days. He had been tortured.

Judas's entire body was shaking with silent sobs as he bowed his head over his brother's body. Nemir knelt next to him, drawing him close so that Judas could cry on his shoulder. Unbidden, his own tears came now. Tears for his own dead -- tears that had refused to come until now -- flowed down his own cheeks. All the pain that he'd kept locked away since the moment he'd seen his father's body on the floor of his office, lying in a pool of his own blood, was unleashed, and deep inside, he knew that the same hands were responsible for both their pains.

"This is my fault," he heard Judas mumble against his cloak. "I should never have been born."

Markus and Dansen had moved a respectful distance away, so Nemir felt no shame at clutching Judas a little closer, kissing his tear-stained cheeks. "Do not say that," he pleaded, and was shocked when his voice cracked. "I do not want to think of that. My world would be poorer without you in it."

"But your father would be alive, and you would not be running for your life." The sobs were slowing, but Judas was clutching his cloak so tightly that Nemir wondered if he would ever let go, or if he wanted the other man to.

"But it did happen, and I cannot deal with this alone. I need you, Judas. Don't abandon me." For a moment a kaleidoscope of images flashed before his eyes, and in every one of them, Judas lay dead in front of him, often by his own hands. Nemir's arms tightened until Judas gasped in actual pain.

"I won't," the other man promised breathlessly, and Nemir loosened his grip, but only slightly. Was this how his father had felt about Konda? If so, deep down he was glad that they had been able to die together. Neither one had been left with the pain of separation, the guilt of surviving of the other.

He rocked Judas back and forth, stroking his pale hair, offering the comfort that he'd refused in return for so long. Comfort for his brother's death. Comfort for the destruction of his past, more thorough than his own.

And over the other man's shoulder, he could see Jamal's sightless eyes staring skyward, his face strangely peaceful, despite the horror of his death.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Forty-Three ----------------------------------------

When Judas finally came to notice his surroundings again, it was daylight, and he was inside a very familiar tent. Thankfully, it was one of the tents that they had carried with them, not one from his childhood. He did not remember anything after finding his brother's... body...

Judas shuddered, but he had no more tears left to cry. His eyes felt as though they were filled with sand, and his throat was parched. He sat up and scrubbed his face with the back of a hand that was probably even more filthy than his face. His head ached and his chest hurt.

"Here. Drink."

He had not realized that Nahanna was also in the tent. Grateful, he took the water skin from her and took a mouthful, allowing it to sit in his mouth, soaking into the dry tissues, before swallowing. When his throat was no longer so painful, he attempted a question. "Where are we?"

She shrugged. "Not far from the oasis. Nemir felt that it would not be right to leave your tribe to lie in the sun," she said, although it was clear in the way she said it that she did not understand why. It was not malice or callousness or even disapproval, just simple incomprehension. "He and the others are burying the bodies, as well as collecting the horses."

"Thank you," Judas said, closing his eyes. Even though he'd been insensible for some hours, he was still exhausted.

But even more, he was thankful to Nemir for taking the time out of their journey to give the proper rites to a people not his own. While Judas knew that they should press on as quickly as possible, he could not bear the thought of his brother, with whom he'd shared a womb and the first eighteen years of his life, being left to elements and the animals any longer than he already had.

Jamal's face rose up in his vision, eyes turned skyward, and he curled up into a miserable ball. No matter what Nemir had said, he knew that this was his fault. His brother had been tortured, then left to die a slow and painful death, and he was sure that it had been done by those looking for him. By the God-King's soldiers. The same ones who had killed the Prince and Lord Konda.

Only his death would stop this madness, and part of him longed for death. But he had promised Nemir that he would not leave him, and as long as he was able, he would keep that promise.

As he slipped into a true sleep this time, his brother's face filled his mind's eye once more, but this time it was his brother as he remembered him, laughing, with a sun- kissed tan, coaxing Judas to sneak out of the camp with him for a midnight ride. The moon and the stars bathed everything in a silver glow as they rode through the desert, just the two of them.

Judas woke once more, this time to the sound of voices talking in low tones. The tent flaps were closed, but he could feel the sun sinking towards the horizon. They would need to ride on soon, but Judas found himself reluctant. Once they were gone, the last signs of his tribe would eventually be erased, by the weather and time, as if they'd never existed, and he did not want to let that happen. Once it did, his past would be gone, and he would have nothing to anchor himself to the world. Nothing except for Nemir.

Having delayed as long as he could, Judas sat up, acknowledging that he was truly awake. He felt light- headed, but more alive than he had been earlier.

Immediately, Nemir was at his side, pressing a piece of fruit into his hand. The vines of the oasis were probably overloaded with no one to pick their produce but the horses. To Judas's horror, his stomach growled. The last part of his past -- the part that he'd comforted himself with memories whenever he'd been homesick -- was gone, and it seemed wrong for him to feel hungry.

Nemir looked so worried that he took the fruit and ate a bite. For a moment, his stomach almost rebelled, but then the hunger truly hit, and he quickly ate the rest.

When the piece of fruit, and then two more after it, were gone, he sighed. "My brother?" he asked softly, and Nemir closed his eyes briefly, his face reflecting Judas's pain.

Then Nemir opened his eyes and stroked the back of Judas's hand. "We buried him," he said, and his voice was as hoarse as Judas's, almost as if he'd been crying. "We buried all that we could find."

For a moment, Judas resisted the urge. Then he gave in and nearly crawled into Nemir's waiting embrace. "Thank you," he whispered. He did not ask how many they had found, since that would force him to acknowledge those the animals had taken. If any had survived the attack, the tribe's horses would not have been left to fend for themselves, since the horses were almost as dear to his people as their own children.

Nemir's grip was almost painfully tight, but Judas welcomed it. The pain made him feel real, a part of the world. But there were no more tears left in him. Like Nemir before him, he had grieved, and now was the time to continue on. He pushed away, breathing deeply. "Did their attackers take anything?" he asked, his voice steady.

"Not that we saw," Dansen answered from the other side of the tent. Of Markus, there was no sign.

Judas nodded, and closed his eyes briefly. "Any gems or coins should be collected. They are portable, and can be used for trade. There will be little left unspoiled in the way of food, but the trees should be cleaned of their fruit to carry us through the next few days. And any grain..." He paused. "We need to take as many of the horses with us as we can. They are too valuable to leave behind." The thought pained him, but selling the horses would give them money not only for their journey east, but also enough to let them live comfortably for perhaps several years to come.

Nemir's eyes went wide, and Judas wondered if he'd expected Judas to protest what must be. But the last year -- and even more so, the last months -- had taught Judas that he must be practical. While he did not relish the idea of selling the tribe's horses to outsiders, the alternative would be to leave them to the elements. Many would die without the tribe to care for them. Some would die anyway before they reached the trade towns, from the injuries he'd seen.

"Markus is collecting the last of the valuables," Nemir finally admitted, his gaze sliding to the side. "The unspoiled bags of grain and feed have already been set aside. The only problem is that the horses will not come to us." He looked as though he felt guilty for doing what must be done.

Judas nodded. "As soon as the sun is down, I will introduce you to the herd properly," he said. Once a recognized tribe member presented another as tribe, the horses would obey them.

That brought a small smile to his lips. What he was going to do in effect made the others members of his tribe. A new tribe. His brother was dead -- and he still flinched from the thought -- but he had a new family.

Markus returned before the sun set, and they gorged themselves on fresh fruit, since the fruit would not travel well in the desert heat. New fruit was already forming on the vines, so when one of the other tribes inevitably came -- a tribe had to fight to keep its territory, and other tribes would be quick to take advantage of this one's disappearance -- there would be more waiting for them. Fruit and the remains of tents, and the two large graves that held the bodies of the tribe. The warriors, including Jamal, had been buried apart from the rest.

Judas emerged from the tent as Dansen began to strike it. The western horizon still glowed red, but the starts were already emerging. None of the herd was in sight, but they would not have gone far. Followed by Nemir and Markus, Judas headed for the spring, where the herd was probably settling.

The majority of the herd were mares, as was to be expected. Most males were gelded to prevent fighting, although several must be kept intact for breeding. Those horses, as well as several of the geldings, showed signs of fighting. With no humans to prevent their natural behavior, the stallions had begun to fight for dominance. In time, the herd would have broken apart, with groups of mares following the various stallions away to form new herds small enough to survive on their own. Eventually, another tribe would have captured them, adding them to their own herds. By Judas's count, nearly a third of the tribe's horses had either already done just that, or had died during the storm season.

As Judas came into sight, Karsa broke away from the others, coming towards him. The mares that had already made their choice in him followed behind, whickering softly.

Judas smiled sadly. Jamal had chosen Karsa for his own on the very day of the stallion's birth. From that day, Jamal's had been the only hand to train the stallion. More than one tribe member had learned to leaving Karsa alone, as the stallion was fiercely loyal, and Jamal seldom granted others permission to approach. Judas was one of the few that Karsa would trust as he would his master. For that reason, getting him to accept a new master might be more difficult than for the other horses.

"Brave Karsa, beautiful Karsa," Judas said softly in his birth tongue, almost singing the words. So long since those words had left his lips. He set his hands on either side of Karsa's face, gently stroking the signal for trust. "Greatest of stallions. Fleet of foot. I know you miss Jamal." His eyes stung briefly, but he blinked the tears away. "I pray that you will accept a new master, one I think more than worthy of you." He pressed his forehead to the bridge of Karsa's nose briefly.

Not letting go of the stallion, Judas straightened, and turned his head towards Nemir. "Here," he said softly, and Nemir stepped forward. Karsa started to step away, but Judas kept stroking the trust signal, over and over again, until the beast relaxed once more. "Stand behind me, with your hands over mine," he told Nemir in almost a whisper. Once Nemir was in place, he stroked the pattern once more.

"Can you do that?" he asked Nemir, and felt the other man nod. "I will slip out from between you. Keep stroking, and do not let go. When he settles once more, blow in his nostrils so that he will recognize your scent. After that, he will be yours for as long as you live." As am I.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Forty-Four ----------------------------------------

Nemir showed no fear to the stallion as Judas slipped out of the way. He kept stroking the way Judas had shown him, and while the beast tensed briefly, he had quickly quieted once more. Once he was completely relaxed, Nemir leaned forward and gently blew in his nostrils as Judas had instructed, a gentle puff of air.

The stallion -- Karsa, Judas had called him -- tossed his head, but took a step forward instead of away. He was still wary, but beginning to accept. "Beautiful," Nemir said softly, and the delicately pointed ears twisted towards him.

And he was beautiful. The stallion was a rich russet color that would shine like red gold in sunshine. It was completely without blemish, other than a white blaze down the bridge of his nose. His lines were the finest Nemir could ever remember seeing, and he longed to leap on the stallion's back and ride, just for the joy of it.

Judas disappeared from view, then reappeared, carrying a saddle and bridle. The bridle had no bit, Nemir noted. "This is the saddle Jamal used," Judas said softly. The leather was dry, and would need to be properly oiled, but it fit the stallion perfectly when placed on his back on top of a blanket. Karsa danced away from it for a moment, then settled, head held high. Nemir took the bridle, and the stallion lowered his head, allowing it to be slipped on. Without a bit, it would be difficult to use reins to control him, but a true rider used the pressure of knees and thighs to direct. Only a fool or a cruel man would need to pull on the reins to direct his mount.

The other horses seemed inclined to follow the stallion's lead, and in short order, they were lightly tethered together, and the group's bags, supplemented by what they had taken from the camp, were loaded up. The horses they had ridden until now were left unburdened, having served so faithfully until now. Judas introduced the others to several of the horses, and they were now all mounted on fresh beasts.

Finally, Nemir mounted Karsa for the first time. The stallion danced lightly under him, and he sighed in pure pleasure. Even his personal mount, who had been left behind in their escape from Ajantha, had not been so fine a beast. The tribes never sold their finest mounts, and Nemir could understand why. Karsa responded eagerly to even the lightest of touches.

Judas came up next to him, mounted on a golden-colored mare marred only by a scar from a long distant encounter with something that had both claws and teeth. Karsa leaned over and nipped her lightly, in a manner that bespoke affection rather than annoyance. "Do you like him?" Judas asked softly. He smiled, but his eyes were sad. Nemir wished that he could wipe that sadness away, but knew that only time would be able to do so, and maybe not even that.

"He is magnificent," he said, leaning forward to stroke the strong neck in front of him. Karsa arched his neck and preened, as though he could understand the compliment. "But he was your brother's. Should he not be your mount?"

But Judas shook his head. "He is the finest mount of the herd. He should be yours. I *want* him to be yours."

"But he is your--" Nemir hesitated. "Your inheritance," he finally said.

"Then he is mine to give as I wish, and I gift him to you," Judas said firmly, in a tone of voice that told Nemir that he was determined.

And truth be told, Nemir did not want to protest, for in only a few minutes he had fallen in love with the stallion. He already knew that when they sold the horses before joining a caravan traveling east, Karsa would be one of the mounts that they kept for themselves. "Thank you," he finally said, and this time, Judas's smile was bright and open.

They set out once more, heading east, and as they rode over the first dune, Judas and Nemir paused, letting the others and the more than a dozen horses they had chosen to take with them. Judas stared back at the silent camp. The mound of the communal grave on the other side of the camp was clear in the moonlight, as were the few horses too injured or too old to be brought with them. Their numbers, much fewer, would be supported by the oasis easily. Their only concern would be the predators of the desert. It was harsh, but it was life.

Nearly a full month had passed since the fading of the winter storms when they finally rode out of the desert, thinner, and showing the strain of long travel. Their clothing was stained and ragged, and smelled of dust and sweat. Their supplies were almost exhausted, and they had not yet reached the end of their journey.

For the end of the desert was merely the start of the wilderness that separated the Kingdom from the east. The sand was gone, but the ground was hard and dry, barely able to support the scrub that the horses eagerly lipped. They were no doubt as tired of their travel rations as their riders were.

The herd had shrunk by three, one lost to an infected wound, one to poisoned water, and the other to a sand lion during their travel, but the others still showed their quality, even though their coats were ragged and their ribs showed. They would bring a fine price once they reached the trade towns.

A line of mountains now filled the horizon, stretching from north to south. Passes through the mountains were few, and none were large enough to allow the passage of an army, which is why war between east and west had never happened, no matter how much the east feared the God-King and the God-King coveted the riches of the east. Indeed, only a few of the passes would allow the safe passage of more than a single man on horseback.

To the south, not too distant, was a haze of green that told them there was water. While water meant that there would also be humans, the need for clean water was too urgent to ignore. The last two oases they had stopped at had been poisoned, like the ones in the reports Nemir had read so long ago for his father. Nearly a third of the oases they had found during their travels had been poisoned, and he was grieved by it. Graves of the dead had been found at each, naming the poisoners as murderers. The desert tribes would not survive without the springs, and the fouling of them made them unusable for at least a full turning of the seasons, if not two or more.

The result was that even though they had carried as much water as they could, their water bags were nearly dry, so they would need to risk discovery by approaching the river, for there were still several days of travel ahead of them before they would reach the foothills of the mountains and the nearest of the trade towns.

The river flowed across the plain from the distant mountains, working its way through a ravine that grew deeper as it approached the desert, before finally, in the distance, disappearing underground completely. Perhaps this was the source of the river that had brought them water at their storm camp. Perhaps it was even the source of some of the many oases that were the lifeblood of desert life.

There was no sign of human life when they approached the river, although life there was aplenty. Greenery was abundant in the areas closest to the river, and there were tracks of many beasts, including a small herd of goats that winded their way down the far slope of the ravine to find a drink.

While Markus watched the horizon warily, the rest filled their water bags, while the horses drank their fill. The horizon beyond the mountains were starting to glow with the dawn's light, so they had little time to find a safe campsite.

They rode away from the river, and as the sun was rising, set their tents in the shade of several large boulders. The horses were hobbled, then feed was set out, and Dansen took the first watch.

From this point, they would need to be more vigilant. The desert tribes were few enough that they'd only seen two during their travels, and they'd managed to avoid one, and talk their way past the second. But only the tribes were fool enough to live in the desert. In the wasteland, the risks were greater. Small villages followed the trade routes, leading to the towns that were the last stop before the caravans passed through the mountains and into the east. As well, bandits were plentiful, preying on those same caravans, returning, loaded with foreign riches. Caravans traveled with many armed men to protect them.

That would likely be their best way of buying into one of those caravans. The sale of the horses would give them money, but the caravans would always welcome more guards.

A small fire was built from scrub and dried dung to cook a meal, then they went to sleep. The sun was high in the sky when Dansen woke Nemir to take the second watch. In soft tones, he told Nemir that there had been no sign of danger, whether of human or animal kind. Nemir nodded, then left him to sleep.

Outside, the heat was rising off the hard-baked ground in waves, making the horizon shimmer. Nemir pulled the hood of his cloak over his head to protect himself from the sun beating down.

A nudge to his back nearly sent him to his knees, but he rolled and came up again, his sword in his hand, only to find Karsa there, head bobbing in pure equine laughter. Nemir straightened up, shaking his head. "Some days I wonder at the things you find amusing," he said, patting the horse's nose.

Karsa nudged his chest in an affectionate move, then went back to his mares. Three were heavily pregnant, increasing their value. Nemir went to one of the boulders that sheltered their tent from view and scrambled to the top, keep a wary eye for signs of snakes or scorpions. The tent could be protected, but in the open, he was a vulnerable to them as he was to a crossbow in the hands of a bandit out of his reach.

But there was no sign of any of those dangers, and he sat down with a sigh, using all the techniques he'd learned in the Desert Guard to stay awake and aware and alert for the hours of his watch. As soon as the sun set, they would travel deeper into the wasteland, heading east, towards their goal.

He shivered lightly, whether with anticipation or fear, and settled in to watch.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Forty-Five ----------------------------------------

Judas's slumber was deep, but not completely dreamless. He woke to a feeling of foreboding, and for a moment it seemed that he could hear the angry scream of a large feline in the distance. He froze, but none of the others in the tent showed any sign of having heard the same. It stirred memories, but he could not bring them clearly to mind.

"Here," Nemir said, sitting next to him. In his hand he held a round of simple bread filled with a spiced mixture of meat. Judas sniffed it, and was surprised to realize that the meat was fresh. Nemir smiled warmly, recognizing his surprise. "A small family of wild goats went by just before the end of my watch, and I killed one with my bow before they ran. Markus gutted and dressed it, then roasted the meat during his watch. We have enough meat for tonight's meal and before we camp in the morning."

Judas bit into the bread-wrapped meat, and sighed in pleasure. They had few spices with them, but they'd been used to best effect, and it seemed finer than any of the Palace banquets to him. The water was warm and tasted of leather, but it was satisfying.

Then nature called, and he stood. Nemir questioned him without words, and Judas answered the same way. Nemir grinned, and nodded.

Outside, on the far side of one of the strange large boulders, someone had dug a small trench. After checking to see that no one was watching, Judas relieved himself with a sigh.

"Judas?"

The sound of his name made him jump, and he quickly arranged his robes again. "Yes?" he said suspiciously.

Nahanna came around the side of the border. "I am sorry to startle you," she said, smiling more brightly than she had since they had set out at the end of the winter storms. Judas frowned slightly at the sight. "But I wanted to talk to you alone."

Judas immediately shook his head, anticipating what she would say. "My place is with Nemir," he said, holding up a hand to forestall her arguments. "And I have no desire to travel south, with or without him."

"Are you sure that there is nothing that convince you? Truly, you are needed. They are your people, and they suffer greatly under the God-King's rule."

"Then tell me how I can end it," Judas said, frustrated. "Tell me what it is I can do that would end that suffering. All you say is that I am needed, but when pressed for specifics, you say nothing."

"I am not allowed," Nahanna said, her smile vanishing, and her eyes flashing. "Only in the temple of the Goddess can you be told."

"Then I will never learn, for Nemir has chosen to travel east, and I go with him," Judas said firmly. It was not the first time that they had had this argument, and he doubted that it would be the last time, which frustrated him greatly.

Nahanna sighed. "The day may come when you regret that choice," she said sadly, and for a moment, Judas's blood ran cold. While there was no menace in the woman's voice, her words seemed to imply a multitude of dangers. "But I pray not," she added, and his misgivings started to fade.

A whistle broke the silence that followed, telling them that the others were preparing to mount up. If fortune was on their side, two more nights of travel would bring them to the closest of the trade towns. Then their danger would increase even more, since there would no doubt be agents loyal to the God-King there.

Nahanna turned away first, heading for their camp. Judas kicked the pile of dirt next to the trench over it to conceal it before he followed her, considering her slender form with a frown. Even now, she showed no signs of long travel, other than the grime on her clothing. Perhaps she was a little more slender, but there were no new lines on her face, and she did not slump in her saddle at the end of a long night's ride, even when the rest of them could barely find the energy to set up one of the tents to sleep in for the day.

Back at the camp, everything was already packed and placed on the backs of their pack animals. Judas mounted up on the mare that carried him most nights, while Dansen helped Nahanna on her own mount. As was usual, Nemir was seated on Karsa, who despite poor feed and difficult conditions, still gleamed with health and energy. He was the finest stallion that his tribe had produced in many years, and seeing Nemir on his back made Judas smile. Jamal would have approved, he thought.

They examined their surroundings carefully to ensure that there was as little sign of their passage as possible, then set out again.

When dawn came, they were still an hour's travel from the tree-line at the base of the mountains, and the decision was made to press on, as the trees would provide better cover for them to camp. While there had been no sign that they were being followed, or even that anyone suspected their direction of travel, they were still cautious. Tales of the God-King's mystical abilities traveled far, hopefully gaining in power as they went, exaggerating the truth. But to hear the minstrel's sing, the God-King could see anything that happened in his realm. If those tales were true, then their flight was doomed from the start.

Judas huddled under the hood of his cloak. Through great care, more than half of the cream Healer Kale had included in the supplies he had given them still remained, but obtaining new would be difficult, and the caravans traveling east would likely do so during the daytime.

Indeed, the exposure to the sun's light, greater and more frequent than any time in his life, had had an effect, giving his skin a light tinge of color. It was not much, but as he had never been anything but the palest of white, so pale that the blue veins showed clearly through his skin, it was amazing to him.

The sun was rising above the mountain peaks and Nemir was leading when Karsa screamed, the loud scream of an enraged stallion. Judas looked up to see the stallion rear up, and Nemir fall from his back. At the same time, he heard the roar of an enraged lion, although they never traveled this far east.

Confusion reigned for a moment as the stallion struck out, again and again, with his hooves, while Nemir lay deathly still. The other horses, reacting to their leader's screams of rage, attempted to bolt back the way they had come, back into the wilderness, but they were quickly stopped by Markus who came us behind them. One horse alone managed to break away, one of the pregnant mares.

Then the stallion settled back down, slowly and reluctantly. Dansen dismounted and slipped around the stallion's side, sword drawn, to find out what had so enraged the beast. He stooped and prodded something with his sword, then stood. A snake, trampled into a bloody mess, was draped over the end of his sword. "A Diamond Strike," he said softly.

"Impossible," Nahanna said firmly. "Diamond Strikes live on the edges of rivers, and they are never seen this far north."

"Be that as it may, see for yourself. This is a Diamond Strike." He held out the snake, and she looked at it carefully, examining the pattern of white and blue scales against a black background. After a moment, she swallowed hard.

"You are right," she said. "But how can this be?"

"I know not. But I know that such a snake can strike a man on horseback down, and its poison is fatal in only a few heartbeats. If it had bitten Nemir, he would be dead. He may owe his life to the stallion."

Judas, in the meantime, had rushed to Nemir's side. He still lay senseless, and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Checking, Judas found that the other man had bit the end of his tongue, causing the small flow of blood, but had done no permanent damage. Indeed, the flow had already stopped.

However, a lump was already growing on the back of his head where it had struck the ground, and when his lids were lifted away, the centers of his eyes were different sizes, indicating that the head injury might be serious. Very serious, indeed. "We need to make camp here," Judas said, breaking into the discussion about the presence of a snake that should not have been.

"There may be more Diamond Strikes," Dansen protested. Markus had already dismounted and was unloading the pack with the tent.

"That may be, but we cannot move Nemir, at least not far. He is unconscious and injured. He cannot sit on a horse, and even if he could, it would risk further injury. Tonight, perhaps he will be able to travel, but I cannot say. But to continue on now would risk permanent, if not fatal, injury." He glared at the man, daring him to protest.

Dansen did not look happy, but he finally nodded. If anything, he seemed surprised at how forcefully Judas had overridden his objections.

By this time, Judas's hands were badly burnt, and he tucked them into his sleeves, ignoring the pain through long practice. He held up the canvas as Markus set up the tent directly above Nemir, protecting the unconscious man from having even that little weight press down on him in case there was any injury to the neck. Such an injury would be even worse, perhaps permanently crippling him.

Still protesting, although too softly to make out the words clearly, Dansen scoured the surrounding area, looking for any sign of other snakes, but found nothing, He returned, just as Markus finished erecting the tent. Judas had removed his cloak and carefully slid it under Nemir's head to cushion it from the hard ground, and Nahanna was pulling out bread and dried meat. "I will take the first watch," Dansen said, accepting a chunk of travel bread and chewing slowly on some of the dried goat meat. "We will get little sleep, but Markus and I can keep watch. You two should sleep."

Judas shook his head. "I will stay awake and watch Nemir. If he woke and tried to move, he could do himself damage."

"How is he?"

Judas looked to his lover, far too still. "He sleeps. The bleeding has stopped, which is hopeful, but from the size of the lump on the back of his head, his skull could be cracked." Judas bit into his lower lip, then reached over and pinched the thin skin of the webbing at the base of the fingers. For a moment there was nothing, then Nemir's hand twitched away from the small pain, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "There is no sign of paralysis," he said, and saw his relief mirrored on the faces of the other two men. Nahanna's expression was impossible to read.

"All we can do is wait," he finally said, settling down at Nemir's side to do just that.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Forty-Six ----------------------------------------

When Nemir woke, it was to a pounding pain in his head and aches everywhere else. He started to turn to his side to push up, but that small movement made him cry out, then start to retch, although there did not seem to be anything in his stomach to void. He curled up into a ball and tried to control his heaves.

A cool hand stroked his forehead, and a soft voice murmured reassurances, and he moved towards it. The touch was as comforting as that of his nurse when he'd suffered from the red fever as a small child. But Judas was even dearer to him.

"What... happened...?" he asked when the shudders started to fade. Judas helped him sit up, and everything spun around him for a moment. Eventually, everything settled into firmer patterns. Judas held a water skin for him, and he sipped the warm water gratefully. It settled his stomach and cleaned the foul taste from his mouth.

"A Diamond Strike nearly killed you," Dansen said from the other side of the tent. There was no sign of Markus, and Nemir assumed that he was keeping watch. "Your horse killed the snake, but it also threw you, and you struck your head on the ground."

"A Diamond Strike?" Nemir started to shake his head, then thought better of it. "They do not travel this far north or this far from a ready water source," he said. Diamond Strikes were water snakes.

Dansen glanced around the tent to the others, then shrugged. "Be that as it may, but it was a Diamond Strike. I traveled south along the river, years ago, and I have seen them. I have also seen the result of a bite, and it is not a pleasant death."

Nemir smiled slightly at that. "Then I owe Karsa my life. A headache is a fair trade for my life, I think. Where are we now?"

The expression on Dansen surprised him, turning sour as his eyes met Judas's. "We made camp where you fell. Judas did not want to move you until we could be sure that it would not injure you further. I checked the area, though, and I found no nest, no signs of any other snakes. But there was also no sign of how the snake came to be here. It simply is not natural."

That made Nemir's eyes narrow. "Then is it possible that its presence was unnatural?" he asked.

From the expressions on the faces around him, no one had thought of that possibility. But it was also an unthinkable one. How could a single snake have been placed directly in their path when their path was not wholly planned? And had it been planned for them in particular, or any traveler? And if for them, was he the target or Judas?

And who?

The thought that the God-King might be capable of this was terrifying, but unlikely. If he could kill -- are at least *try* to kill a man -- at this distance, then surely he would have been able to do so in Ajantha, which would make the sending of an envoy and soldiers to kill the Prince unnecessary.

Nemir's head started to ache even more than before, and he pushed those thoughts away. Unlikely as it seemed, surely the presence of the deadly serpent must have been coincidence.

The ache might be stronger, but Nemir's stomach had settled enough to eat. His vision was still slightly blurred, but when he stood up, he only swayed for a moment before regaining his balance. His neck pained him greatly, but considering the size of the lump on the back of his head - and after touching it once sent shards of pain through his head, he refrained from doing so again -- he was lucky to be alive and not paralyzed. If he had been paralyzed... He pushed such thoughts away.

"How long until sunset?" he asked instead, thinking in practical terms. He was not dead or paralyzed, and they still needed to reach the trade towns.

"Nearly two hours," Judas said, his eyes glancing to a point on the tent's canvas that Nemir knew would mark the sun's current position as it dipped towards the horizon. Normally, he would have known himself, but after being unconscious for most of the day, his time sense was not working as it should.

Nemir closed his eyes and swayed in place for a moment as he considered his current condition. "As soon as the sun goes down, we will continue on," he said.

"You need more rest," Judas protested.

"Perhaps, but we also need to reach the trade towns. Once we are there, it is not likely that we will be able to find a caravan traveling east immediately. I will have at least a few days, if not a full week or more, to rest. But we will not be safe until we are on our way through the passes and out of the Kingdom."

Then what strength he had abandoned him, and he collapsed into a seated position, and managed to keep from retching again by pure force of will. Judas was next to him in an instant, keeping him from collapsing further. "Reconsider," Judas pled. "You are in no condition to remain seated on a horse."

"Then sit behind me and hold me up," Nemir said, leaning against Judas, resting his head on his Companion's shoulder. "But we need to continue." Especially if the snake *was* somehow a deliberate attack.

Judas sighed. "If we must," he said at last. "But we travel slowly, and we stop if you are in any distress."

"Judas," Nemir said sternly.

"No," was the iron-willed response. "We will continue if we must, but we will not risk you. Without you, what would we do?" Judas touched the back of his head, and for a moment, Nemir felt as though it had gone warm, but the touch was so light that there was no pain. Thankfully, the pounding eased. "An extra day or two of travel is not likely to cost us anything if it will takes as long as you say to find a caravan traveling east that will take us."

Caught by his own words, Nemir could do nothing but acquiesce.

"Good. Now, sleep. You will need all the rest you can get before we set out."

Obediently, Nemir lay down again, closing his eyes. Judas was stroking his hair, humming a soft tune that he didn't recognize. He could hear the sounds of the others moving around, but it was a distant thing. Judas coaxed him back to sleep.

And as he drifted away, he wondered at how forceful Judas was in this. It had been more than half a year since Judas had become his Companion, and in that time, the younger man had always deferred to him. Now, Judas was asserting himself more and more. He had obviously argued with Dansen over whether or not to continue on immediately. And Nemir had the feeling that if he were to try to insist on traveling longer than he should that night, Judas would force them to stop.

Judas could be such a contradiction. Quietly accepting when Nemir pushed him away, but refusing to shift when he felt that Nemir's health or safety was at risk.

Judas was much stronger than he'd ever thought possible, Nemir realized as he fell asleep. Subjected to events that would have broken anyone else, Judas had not only survived, he had thrived. He was like sword steel: fire just made him stronger.

When they moved on that evening, Nemir wanted show that he was strong enough to ride alone, but the first time Karsa moved, he nearly slid off the stallion's back. Judas, who had been standing at his stirrup, prevented him from slipping out of the saddle altogether, and mounted up behind him.

Nemir took several deep breaths to clear his head, and leaned back against Judas's lean frame. He closed his eyes and relaxed, trusting Judas to support him, and dozed off as they set out once more.

That night's travel passed in a dream-like haze, and left Nemir with a pounding headache, but feeling much better. They had not covered as much ground as they would have had he been uninjured, but by they time they stopped to set up camp, sheltered by the mountain trees, they were only two days travel from the distant trade town, even at their slower rate.

Judas helped him to dismount, but he was able to stand steadily on his own, with none of the nausea or disorientation that had plagued him the day before. He was not allowed to help set the tent, and he fell asleep quickly once he was set inside.

Again, Judas was stroking the back of his head, and he felt warm, basking in the care.

Three days after the accident, with the sun brightening the sky on the other side of the mountains, they were within sight of the town, and pressing on, determined to reach the small village before stopping. The stunted trees that marked the edge of the wastes had grown thicker and taller, even more numerous than along the banks of the river.

Nemir, now able to ride on his own, having healed with amazing quickness, restrained the urge to laugh as Judas turned in his saddle so that he could take it all in. "It is not that amazing," he teased.

"So many trees!" Judas exclaimed, his eyes as wide as a young child. Raised in the desert, he would have only seen the palms and few fruit trees that grew in the oases, and were nothing like the forest that blanketed the sides of the mountains.

Markus snorted. "If you think this is impressive, you will have to come north some day," he said in his deep, rumbling voice. "There are places were you can stand on the side of a mountain like this and see nothing but the green of the treetops for as far as the eye can see."

The rest of them were silent at that. All of them being desert born and bred, the concept of trees, and not the small ones that graced the banks of the river, as far as the eye could see was beyond their comprehension.

The trade town sat on the crest of a hill, overlooking the trade route that wound its way from the south and west, passing the town and heading for the mountains beyond. From where they were, they could see the gap between the mountains that the road passed through, although not the road itself. Nemir had heard the tales of sheer cliffs rising on one side of the road, dropping on the other, barely wide enough for three men to ride abreast, or for one of the heavy covered wagons carrying trade goods.

To prevent two caravans traveling in opposite directions becoming ensnarled one of the narrow roads, a system had been developed. One caravan headed through the pass from east to west until it reached the trade town on the western side of the pass. Once there, a caravan headed east set out through the pass. Again, once it reached the town on the other side of the pass where the caravans waited, the next caravan set out. This ensured that an equal number of caravans were able to traverse the gap in each direction.

However, the passage took nearly a week, so if a caravan had left recently, and the next caravan was not willing to take on passengers -- although that was unlikely if they could pay -- they might have to wait a month or more in the town.

As they rode towards the town, Nemir could see one of the guards on the wall gesturing in their direction. The height of the town meant that they could see more than just caravans emerging from the pass. Surrounded by steep slopes on all sides, any traveler was seen well before they reached the town, and bandits or an army would be seen any sooner. The terrain also heavily favored the defenders, and they would have stores of food ready in case of a siege.

Once they were inside the city walls, even an army would have difficulty extracting them.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Forty-Seven ----------------------------------------

The sun was disappearing behind them as they rode into the town, so Judas was able to pull his hood back enough to look around. The trade town was nothing like Ajantha, being much smaller with fewer people, but it was only the second city he had ever seen, and he found himself cataloguing the differences between the two.

Ajantha was by far cleaner, he noticed immediately. The streets of the town were packed earth instead of cobbled, and there were no gutters to carry away the waste left by pack animals or thrown from the windows of the buildings above. The buildings were of rougher design, with none of the ornamentation he had seen in Ajantha on his night rides with Nemir, although those rides had normally been through the more prosperous areas of the city. While intellectually, Judas understood that there were segments of the town that were poorer, he had never seen them, and had no mental image of what they might look like.

But the trade town seemed to have more energy than Ajantha. The locals bustled from location to location as they were on urgent errands. They also looked to be of many races. Some had skin as fair as Markus, while others were so dark as to look like ebony, men and women from the far south. The latter looked like savage gods, muscular and dressed in skins, with weapons hanging from hips and sashes across the chest. Desert tribesmen who watched them and their horses suspiciously and the yellow-skinned eastern men with their strangely-shaped eyes were everywhere.

All this Judas took in without every letting the hood of his cloak fall back completely. His pale hair had resisted all attempts to dye it, and was far too distinctive. If there were any spies from the capital searching for them, all that would be needed for them to be discovered was for him to uncover his head.

Instead of looking for one of the boarding houses that apparently made their business by housing the members of caravans waiting for their turn through the pass, Nemir questioned one of the locals softly, then led the way to the east side of town where they could smell the animal pens long before they saw them. Once there, Nemir led the way to the area closest to the wall and, Judas noted carefully, another gate. The pens there were cleaner, and the people looked better prepared to leave quickly. Perhaps each group's location in the encampment was determined by the order in which they would go through the pass, so that those who would leave first were closest to the gates through which they would exit.

As they approached, the man who was obviously the caravan's leader came forth to meet them. He was of a height with Nemir, and so much shorter than either Judas or Markus, and he had the strangely yellow skin of the easterners, and his dark eyes were nearly hidden in a mass of wrinkles. But though the wrinkles implied age, his bare arms showed the lean muscles of a man much younger.

"I am told that you head through the pass in a few days," Nemir said without preamble.

"As soon as the caravan from the other side emerges," the man confirmed.

"I have horses to sell."

The man looked past them to the horses in question. His expression did not change. "They are in need of proper care," he said, and Judas bristled at the implied criticism. Nemir, on the other hand, did not so much as blink.

"Travel through the desert is difficult for both horse and rider," he said mildly. "However, the quality of the beasts is such that it would require little for them to be the envy of all."

The two of them hunkered down and began to bargain. It was quickly obvious that the man wanted the horses, but he was still a shrewd trader, and he was not so desperate that he would part with his money easily. Still, the price he gave Nemir in the end seemed more than reasonable to Judas, putting enough money in their pockets to live frugally for more than a year, if not two, leaving them with seven horses for their own use.

The payment, in gold coins and gemstones that were easily used as cash, was delivered, and after Nemir verified the quality of the stones and the purity of the gold, the horses were led away by handlers.

Nemir separated the money into five purses, not all of the same size, and passed them out. If one was robbed, not all would be lost. If they were separated, each would have a means of support for a while at least. Then Nemir moved on to their other, and perhaps more important piece of business. "We are looking to travel east. Do you have a place for travelers?"

The man's gaze sharpened, and he examined each of them in turn. "You do not look like traders," he said.

"Because we are not." The frown grew. "Only traders and fugitives travel east."

"We are not criminals. We are hunted for no crimes."

The phrasing was quite clever, Judas thought to himself. Nemir spoke the honest truth. They had committed no crimes. However, they were fugitives, as the trader had said.

"Wait here a moment," the trader finally said, then turned and walked over to one of the tents set to the side of the pens. Judas wondered why the tents were there, since there were many places for waiting traders to live if the signs along the roads could be believed. Perhaps he thought he might be robbed. Perhaps the tents were for those who guarded and cared for the animals.

The trader emerged from the tent a few minutes later. "You will have to bring your own supplies. We have none for five extra mouths. As well, you will be expected to be swords in defense if we are attacked for any reason. And if you intend thievery of your own, you will be slain without mercy and left for the scavengers. If you become ill and cannot continue, we will not wait."

Nemir nodded respectfully. "As you say," he replied. "And the price?"

The trader shook his head. "Since you will have to buy all your own supplies, there is no price. Chan-li has a list of what you will need for the journey."

Chan-li was barely more than a boy, several years younger than Judas. The half-awed, half-fearful expression in his eyes told them that this was probably his first journey west. He bowed quickly, then held a piece of paper rolled into a tight scroll. "This is needed for one person traveling," he said in a broken accent. "Water, food, and others. Beasts of burden you will also have need."

The trader smiled slightly as Nemir took the scroll, and Judas thought that perhaps the two were related, although he could not tell if there was a resemblance between them, since all of their kind that he had seen resembled one another, probably since this was the first time he had ever seen one of the eastern men. The skin color and the shape of the face and eyes were so unfamiliar to him that they made them seem as kin to each other.

"How long do you expect it will be before the caravan leaves?" Nemir asked.

The trader studied the sky, then the ground. "The caravan coming through from the other side is the first of the season, so it will depend on when they were able to set out and if there was any damage to the trail during the winter. However, I would expect to leave before the end of the week."

Nemir nodded again. "We will find lodging, then. We will send you word of which inn we choose so that you can notify us when it is time to leave."

That prompted a laugh and a large smile. "We will need to send no notification. When the first rider emerges from the pass, the entire town will know. At that time you will need to pack quickly and come to the gate here," he said waving towards the gate his camp was next to. "We will not wait. Once the caravan is ready to go, it leaves."

"Understood."

Finding lodging for five was not as easy as Nemir had made it seem. Several caravans had assembled, waiting for the end of the winter storms, which were in many ways harsher in the foothills of the mountains than in the desert. Most of the establishments that offered rooms were full already, and it began to seem that they would have to find someplace outsider the city walls to camp.

Then, as the sun rode high in the sky, they found a building on the edge of town, near the walls but far from either of the two main gates, with a sign indicating that it had rooms for rent. A stable was off to the side, large enough to hold a dozen or so beast, with a small exercise ring next to it. Everything was aged, but scrupulously maintained.

Unlike the last five establishments, when Nemir emerged, he was smiling. Every other inn had been filled with men waiting for caravans to leave or arrive, and their party would have been subjected to intense scrutiny, even if there had been rooms for them.

"There are two rooms available," Nemir said. "And four of the horses will have to stay in the paddock, as there is not enough room for them all in the stable."

"Nahanna can share with us," Dansen said, earning a sharp glance from the woman. Judas was not sure if she had expected one of the rooms for her sole use, or if she had intended to share with Nemir and Judas. However, she said nothing.

They began to unload their baggage from their remaining horses, and a small child emerged from the inn and began leading the unburdened beasts towards the stable. Karsa, Judas's mare and one of the other desert horses would be put in stable, away from larcenous eyes, while the others would have to be content with the paddock.

The shadows were beginning to grow again, so Judas was able to safely pick up his share of the burden without risking burns to his hands and forearms. But as he stood again, a flicker of movement at the end of the street caught his attention. Looking up, he saw a man disappearing around the bend, his back to the group. Judas frowned, for there seemed something very familiar about the man, although he could not say what.

Shaking his head, he followed Nemir into the cool, dim interior of the stone building.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Forty-Eight ----------------------------------------

The inn was not the best that the small town could offer, but neither was it the worst, and it was an inn, not a field on which to set their tents, vulnerable to thieves and bandits. That was especially important, since each carried enough gold and gems to support a farmer and his family for many years. Anyone who had seen Nemir bargaining with the caravan leader, or who had heard of it, might be tempted to make an attempt, no matter how honest.

The stable was small, but the child who cared for it and the horses -- son or perhaps grandson of the innkeeper -- kept the dirt floor well-swept and the stalls carpeted with clean straw. The horses kept in the paddock did not have as many amenities, but again, the ground was kept clean of droppings, and a large trough under a small shed roof was filled with fresh water.

Nemir introduced the boy to the horses with the command that Judas told him meant 'trust to a limited extent' to the desert-born horses, and warned the child of the limitations of that trust, then went back into the inn.

The inn's walls were of stone more than an arm's length thick. From their travel from the desert to the town, Nemir knew that stone was probably the most plentiful building material to be found, unlike in Ajantha, where both stone and timber had to be brought by barge, one from the quarries down-river, and the other from the forests at the sea coast. The poorest houses were made of dirt dug from the banks of the river and compacted until it was nearly as hard as stone.

The stone walls were practical for more than just ease of building, though. The stone kept the interior cool during the heat of the summer, and protected from the winter storms. Several large fireplaces provided heat as needed.

Upstairs were several private rooms, along with the attic space where individual beds were let out to those without the money for pay for an entire room. Behind the inn was a second stone building where water from a natural spring was collected, not just for cooking and the beasts, but also for bathing.

The two rooms they were able to rent, since the previous tenants had been waiting only for the end of the storm season before heading west again, were tucked against one outside wall. Each had a single shuttered window, high in the wall and too small for a body to fit through, although Nahanna might be able.

In one room, Markus was laying out his bedroll, since there were only two narrow beds, and neither was long enough for his large frame. Nahanna was examining the bedding of one of the beds as though she expected to find it filled with vermin, even though she had been sleeping on the ground for more than a month. She would not find any, though. The cleanliness of the inn had impressed Nemir enough to part with more of his coin than he had planned for lodging. Still, for the beds, with meals included, it was not an outrageous sum.

Nemir left them to decide on their own arrangements. In the room next to it, a stroke of luck, although unfortunately there was no connecting door, Judas was making their own beds.

Like the other room, there were two beds. Both were narrow and hard. They had been given clean linens on payment of the first night's stay. The linens were discolored by age and soft with use, but they were clean, and Nemir anticipated slipping between them for the first night's sleep in months almost as much as he did that first bath to wash the grime from his skin. The innkeeper had also recommended a launderer -- a relative, no doubt, but then most of the permanent residents of the town were probably from the same clan -- down the street who could wash their clothing.

Nemir's only regret was that the beds, which barely fit in the tiny room, the smaller of the two rented, were too narrow to allow him and Judas to sleep together. Still, they were not separated.

"What shall we do while we wait?" Judas asked as he set the last blanket onto one of the beds. Their dust-covered bags were slipped under the beds, out of the way but within easy reach.

Nemir leaned against the room, wanting to get clean before he sat down on the pristine bed. He pulled the scroll from inside his tunic and unrolled it. "According to the inn- keeper, the market will open an hour before sunset and continue until midnight, taking advantage of the cooler night air. We should go and purchase most of the items on the caravan's list. It may be that we will have a week or more to wait, but it may also be that we will leave tomorrow. We need to be ready for either possibility. Clothes and food and better travel gear than we have had up until now."

Then he smiled. "But first, I intend to bathe, dress in the cleanest of the clothing I have, and take the rest to the laundry house down the street. After that, a hot meal and a night in a clean bed, and I will feel much refreshed."

Judas ran the fingers of one hand through his own hair and grimaced. "I agree." Then he paused, and frowned. "Are the baths here communal?" he asked. The need to keep his appearance a secret would make communal baths impossible.

Nemir had thought of that. "They have both. I have paid for the use of a private bathing room with heated water. You and I can bathe together, and Nahanna can have her privacy for her own bath."

He tucked the scroll into one of his bags, then straightened. "However, someone will need to remain with the rooms at all times. Stories will travel quickly of what money we have, and even though the guards keep the peace well in town, that will not stop the truly determined."

He searched through the bags and found a tunic and loose pants that had been taken from the camp of Judas's tribe that were barely dirty, and tucked them under his arm. The clothing was thankfully not obviously in the style of the tribes, since to any familiar with the tribes, he would never be able to pass. "Let's go tell the others that we are heading for the baths."

Nemir luxuriated in the feeling of heated water against his skin, the rough cloth rubbing against his back, coated with a thick foam of soap. Then Judas found the place in which his muscles had become a thick knot and set aside the cloth so that he could work the spot more easily. Nemir groaned, and closed his eyes as muscles made tight by weeks in the saddle eased, then relaxed completely.

He had spent nearly a year after being recalled from the Guard in luxury, and in that short time he had been spoiled by the opportunity to bathe every day in water whatever temperature he desired, and while he had readjusted quickly to the long journey from Ajantha, when bathing water was difficult to find, he had dreamt of the chance to be completely *clean*.

"I have finished," Judas whispered in his ear, far too soon for Nemir's liking, but he opened his eyes and shook off his near-slumber, then turned in the small tub to wrap his arms around the lithe form of his lover. There was really only room for one in the tub, but they had managed somehow.

"Are you sure?" he asked, pulling Judas closer, feeling the urge to purr like one of the felines that wandered the palace of his birth.

Judas pressed against him with a smile. "What is your desire, my lord?" he said coyly, peering through his eyelashes.

Nemir laughed, and showed him.

After, Nemir returned the favor, cleaning Judas carefully from head to toe. They dried off, using the thin sheets of nappy fabric that the inn had supplied, then dressed in clothing that was the cleanest they had, but was still rough with sand and sweat. Nemir mourned that, but they needed to have their clothing cleaned.

They returned to their room, and found that Dansen had anticipated them. While Nahanna headed for the bath room, Markus told them that the other man had collected the rest of their clothing and had taken it to be laundered. Then, since Nemir and Judas were there to watch their belongings, he followed Nahanna to protect her from unwanted advances.

They settled in to wait, taking a set of dice that Dansen had carried all the way from Ajantha to game the time away. Dansen returned quickly, with the news that their clothing would be brought to the inn, cleaned, before morning. He joined the game as they waited for Nahanna and her guard. She took her time, as most women did given the chance, then Dansen and Markus took their turn, although they were quicker than any of the others, obviously choosing to simply bathe.

Then, after a meal in the inn's common room of a robust stew made mostly of root vegetables and a bit of dried meat, they set out for the market, Markus remaining behind to guard their possessions, and the currency that they did not carry with them.

The sun was setting, and the shadows of the town's buildings were long enough to protect Judas, but Nemir added an item to the list of supplied that they needed to purchase; a variety of hair and skin dyes. Perhaps they would find something that would work better than the dyes they had made from nuts during the storms, or the dye that Kale -- Nemir wondered what had happened to the elderly healer after their flight -- had thought to put in the bag with the jars of cream for Judas's skin.

Torches were lit and set around the perimeter of the market, with lamps at every stand, lighting the square as bright as day. It seemed as though every person who lived in the town was wandering the stalls. Traders from the east were either looking to sell any last goods before they returned home, or to buy western goods to take home to sell. Likewise, the western traders were looking to buy at lower prices from the traders who did not want to return home with goods they had brought west to sell, while also waiting in anticipation for the first new caravans of fresh goods.

Silks and incense. Carvings and delicate seedlings. Jewelry and ornamental weapons. Every form of luxury good was available, although no longer the finest of what had been brought. And local merchants were there also, selling more basic merchandise. Simple woolen and leather clothing. Grain and dried meat. The necessities of life.

The list they had been given was in Nemir's pocket, but in his mind he had reordered it, so that they could find the most necessary items first. Travel food, then fresh clothing, with new tents and bedrolls last.

"This way," he said, indicating the direction that seemed most promising to him.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Forty-Nine ----------------------------------------

It took less time that Judas expected to make their purchases. While at first glance, to him the market looked crowded and chaotic, as Nemir guided them through he started to see the order. It was still loud and bright, and he kept his hood well over his eyes to protect them. Light from lanterns reflected off of anything made of metal, sending shards of color in every direction. Voices, all loud, and many speaking languages he did not know, echoed in his ears, making his head pound. He began to wish that he had stayed with Markus, even though he wanted to stay close to Nemir.

Merchants, seeing new faces, new potential customers, plucked at their sleeves, calling out to them to stop and look at their wares. The close contact made Judas even more uneasy, and he moved closer to Nemir.

Nemir, however, ignored them all without effort, his eyes focused ahead, looking for whatever was next to be found.

Judas, however, had more difficulty. It had been more than a year since he had been surrounded by this many people, and never this many strangers. Wandering through the crowd were also women, but dressed in ways so immodest that he had to avert his eyes. The words they called out made it plain that they were also there to sell their wares, but that their wares were their bodies. Although the slaver, Kamal, had trained Judas to be a bed-slave, the thought of callously selling your body to strangers for a single span of time, and doing so many times in a night, turned his stomach to think of it. Death would seem a better fate, he thought.

Also running through the crowd were children, grubby and dressed in ragged clothing. Some begged for coins in pitiful voices, mostly ignored, and Nemir warned them to keep an eye on all in a hushed voice, unless they wanted to find their purses gone, along with most of the possessions they carried.

Their travel food was quickly found and purchased, and sent to the inn. Fodder for their horses was likewise purchased and sent to the caravan, as the scroll had instructed. Then new clothing was purchased, which was pleasing to them all. Although they had been able to take some clothing from the tents of his tribe, other than Judas, none were completely comfortable in the loose, enveloping robes. Breeches and tunics were purchased, along with new cloaks since the old were ragged and threadbare.

Once the basics had been found, Nemir turned to them. "Is there any other goods that we should have?"

"I need a new whetstone for my blades, and the oil to use with it," Dansen said.

"Jewelry is easier to carry than coins, and could have more value at our destination," Nahanna said, and Nemir nodded.

"Trade goods would be useful, as long as they are small and easily carried."

"Leather and a repair kit for the saddles and our boots," Judas said as the thought occurred to him. "Needles and threads and cloth to do the same for our clothing, since we still have long travel ahead. Soap as well, perhaps?"

Nemir smiled. "Very practical," he said ruefully, shaking his head as though he should have thought of those items himself. "I suggest that we part company, then. Nahanna and Dansen shall search out metal goods, while Judas and I look for other trade goods. Spend only what we brought with us to the market. Nothing that will take time for delivery, for we may need to leave on a moment's notice."

Now that the essentials had been dealt with, they were able to take their time and browse the booths that they had passed by earlier. In the leather quarter, two repair kits were purchased, as well as a tailor's travel case. Leather was also easy to find, and they bought a selection, including finely tooled leather that could be used for vests or belts or shoes that would be good for trading.

Then they came on a booth that sold books, and Judas stopped to peruse the selection. Some were from the east, and he stared at the strange symbols, trying to puzzle out their meaning, but there was nothing there that he could wrap his mind around.

"Do you have anything that would teach the eastern tongue?" he asked the seller after a nod from Nemir.

After a few minutes, two books intended to teach the language to foreigners had been purchased, along with a child's primer for the written language. Two history books and a volume of folk tales joined them, and Judas's fingers itched to open them and start reading immediately. His grandfather had taught him to read, but his time in Ajantha had given him a love of the written word that he had never thought possible. Shallow though it might be, he mourned the loss of the library at the Palace where he had spent many an hour browsing the shelves, free to chose any that he wanted to read.

They moved on.

Nemir bought tools and raw wood for carving. Judas was surprised to learn that the other man was apparently a fine carver, a pastime that was easy to store in a saddlebag. The caravan would take more than a month to reach the nearest of the Eastern cities, so pastimes would be essential.

Bit by bit, they worked their way towards the jewelry quadrant of the market. They had not visited the animal market at the far end of the square where the smell would not offend the delicate of nose, but they had not interest in that. They had their horses, and no need of hunting hounds or herd animals.

Judas's gaze roamed in every direction, taking in everything, and there was much to see. The package containing his books was tightly held as they were jostled, and he fought to keep his hood up, even though he received many strange looks as a result.

Then, as Nemir stopped to examine the wares of one of the jewelry booths, he caught sight of a familiar form. Nahanna was down at the end of the aisle, talking intently to one of the merchants. Dansen was nowhere to be seen, but Nahanna seemed unconcerned. Judas frowned, wondering if it was safe for her to be alone.

"Judas, what do you think of this?"

Judas glanced at Nemir, then back down the aisle again. Nahanna was gone, and for a moment he wondered if he had truly seen her, or if fatigue was leading him to see things that were not there.

"Judas?"

The question drew his attention back to Nemir, and he shook off all thoughts of Nahanna. "Yes?" he said.

"What do you think of this?" Nemir said, lifting his hand.

Hanging from it was a silver chain, plain and simple, and yet completely elegant. It was heavy in weight, and gleamed strangely in the torchlight. When he looked closer, he saw that each link was etched in delicate patterns that caught the light. "It's beautiful," he breathed. And it was. He had never seen anything of its like. It was fine work, and to his eyes, obviously intended for a male throat.

Nemir smiled and turned back to the merchant, handing over a number of coins. Then he turned back to Judas. "For you," he said, holding the chain out.

Judas blinked, and for a moment his throat closed up. "It... it is too much," he protested.

Nemir waved that off. "Never," he said. "And you deserve it. The pendant you wear deserves something finer to hang from."

Judas's hand came up to touch the quartz pendant that he had not removed since the night they had fled Ajantha. Nemir could not have missed it, but he had never made mention of it for some reason, at least not until now.

At Nemir's gesture, he removed the pendant and its rough leather thong from around his neck. While the merchant watched curiously, he took the pendant from the thong and strung the wire wrapped around the piece of quartz onto the silver chain. When he placed it around his neck, the crystal nestled warmly against his chest, just below his collarbone. He touched it, and smiled at Nemir.

"Perfect," Nemir said with a smile. If they had not been in the midst of a crowded square, Judas would have kissed him. To some it might seem a small gesture, albeit an expensive one, but it said more to Judas. It said that Nemir had noticed the quartz pendant and its value to Judas, but had chosen not to ask, waiting for a time when Judas would chose to speak.

As he turned, he thought again that he saw a familiar face. It was not Nahanna or Dansen, but he only caught a quick glimpse, barely enough to see that the person had been male. He frowned for a moment, then dismissed the thought as a trick of the torch light. That anyone here might be someone he recognized was a foolish thought. Like the man he had seen the night before near the inn. It was the months of flight, fearing pursuit, he told himself, that made him think that he saw faces he recognized.

They were both burdened now by goods and materials. Nemir shifted the canvas bag he had bought to carry some of those goods to a more comfortable position. "It is nearly midnight," he said, glancing up to see where the moon was in the sky. "We should find the others and return to the inn before Markus comes searching for us," he said with a wry grin.

Judas looked around and frowned. "How do we find them in so large a market?" he asked, baffled. Even though it was the middle of the night, the market crowd seemed even larger than when they arrived, with bodies pressing against them as people moved past. Twice, enterprising hands had sought for his purse, but it was inside his clothing, protected by several layers of cloth, and he had fended off those hands.

Nemir paused, and considered the question with a frown. "We head to the edge of the market, to the avenue that leads to the inn. Eventually, they must come that way," he said. That seemed reasonable to Judas.

They were working their way through the crowd when a bell started ringing. It was picked up by others, and the atmosphere of the crowded market turned excited. "What does that mean?" Judas asked, looking around.

A stranger, one of the merchants, answered him. "A caravan is emerging from the pass," he said, packing his wares. "It will be here by morning."

Nemir hissed. "It is just as well that we bought the necessities tonight," he said. "Hurry. We must find the others and return to the inn to pack."

He began to push his way through the crowd, less considerate this time. Judas followed, his eyes fixed on Nemir's back, even though there were quickly many bodies between them.

He was so intent on Nemir that the hand that seized his arm caught him by surprise. He turned, and found himself face to face with a familiar face. His eyes went wide as he recognized one of the men who had escorted Nahanna to Ajantha. He froze.

Then his vision sparked as something impacted the side of his head, sending him into darkness.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Fifty ----------------------------------------

The press of people around him was making it difficult for Nemir to work his way to the edge of the market. The ringing of the bell that announced that the first caravan had emerged from the pass, and so was less than a day away from the town, had energized everyone. People were rushing to the walls, wanting to see with their own eyes the proof that the new season had begun.

Judas was quickly separated from him, and when Nemir turned, he was nowhere in sight. Since the younger man was taller than most in the market, he should have been obvious, and yet he was not.

Nemir worked his way back to where he had last seen Judas, then turned in place, searching for any sign of his companion. There was none, other than a few abandoned packages that Judas had been carrying, lying on the ground. Nemir stooped to pick up the package of books that Judas had been holding so close.

"Watcha lookin' fer?"

Nemir looked down and found one of the street kids staring at him. The child -- he could not tell if it was male or female -- was dressed in ragged clothing, obviously someone's cast-offs, and had not seen a bath in too long. The large eyes looking up at him were an unusual shade of blue, not a color common to the Kingdom.

"My friend," he said, with little expectation that the child would be of any help. "He's a little younger than me, and taller. Very slim. He was wearing a brown cloak, with the hood pulled over his head, and desert robes underneath. Have you seen him?"

"Yup!"

Nemir waited for more, but the child just stared at him. Then the child rolled its eyes, and held out a hand. Nemir grimaced, then pulled a small silver coin from his pocket and handed it over.

The coin disappeared quickly, and Nemir had no idea where the child had secreted it. "Sother hit 'im. Took 'im that way," he was told, and a finger pointed in the direction of the animal market, with a gate beyond it. "Two more Sothers helped 'im."

"Sother?" Nemir asked, trying to puzzle out the guttersnipe's strange dialect.

"Y'know. Sother. From the south. Clanner. Don see 'em much round 'ere. These, they got 'ere couple weeks ago."

Nemir went blank for a moment, then his breath hissed out between his teeth. "Many thanks," he said, digging out a second coin and tossing it to the child, who looked amazed at its good fortune, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

This time, nothing was going to stop his progress. He pushed through the crowd, headed in the direction that the child had indicated. Some might laugh and say that he was a fool, that the child had taken him as an easy mark, but the story given was too plausible. Sother. Southern clans. The ones who wanted Judas for whatever purpose.

He reached the gate, then tapped the guard on the shoulder. "Have any left through this gate recently?" he demanded, out of breath. The guard frowned at him, so he pulled another coin from his purse. "My friend has been abducted, by three southerners. Have they left the city?"

"Aye. On horseback, not too long ago. Three Sothers, a fourth man they said was drunk, and a woman."

"A woman?" Nemir said dangerously.

"Aye." The guard grinned, revealing stained teeth, with one missing. He gestured with one hand to indicate the exaggerated curves of a woman. "A toothsome one she was too, from what I could see, although her clothing had seen better days." Then he spat. "Did not take an invitation for a tumble too kindly though. Bitch. Did ya want out?"

For a moment, Nemir was tempted, but knew that it was foolish. The ones he pursued were on horseback, and he was alone and on foot. As well, Dansen would be searching for him. "No. Thank you for the information," he added, handing the man another coin, then turning away. There was no offer to help pursue, but he had not expected it. The town guard was only to prevent brawls and bandit attacks. An abduction, unless it were of one of the town grandees, was beneath their notice.

It felt as though an eternity had passed by the time he reached the edge of the market and found Dansen waiting for him, pacing in his agitation. "Nemir," he said, catching sight of the Heir. "Nahanna is gone!" Then he paused. "Where is Judas?"

Nemir headed down the avenue in the direction of the inn at a trot. Dansen had to hurry to keep pace with him. "Judas has been abducted," he told the man tersely. "He was taken from the city on horseback and unconscious by three Southern men and a woman."

"A... woman."

"We need to get Markus and the horses. I know which gate they left by, and if we are to follow them, it must be soon."

They hurried through the dark streets, still carrying the purchases that had been so important earlier in the evening. The further they got from the market square, the darker the streets became, but if any common thugs had been thinking of robbery, a look at Nemir's face was all that they would have needed to convince them to look elsewhere.

They reached the inn unmolested, bursting in on Markus, who had his blade drawn before he realized who it was. Nemir brushed past him into the small room he'd shared with Nemir for less than a day, thankful that there had not been time to unpack their bags. What had been removed, he quickly repacked, including the night's additions.

"What happened?" Markus demanded from the doorway, watching in confusion as Dansen did the same in their room. "Where are Judas and the woman?"

"Gone," Nemir said, his shoulders stiff with tension. "Judas was taken, right in the center of the market. A child saw him struck by a southern clansman. Three left through the animal market gate, along with a cloaked man and a woman, on horseback, say the guard."

Markus took the bags Dansen tossed his way, his face dark with anger. "How is it that they knew where to find us?" he asked. "Why were they waiting in this town, when there are three others we could have reached. How did they know that we would travel east."

Nemir frowned, and stood, his bags and Judas's in his hands. It was a thought that had not occurred to him. "Nahanna," he finally said. "Somehow, she told them."

"Witchcraft," Dansen hissed softly.

Witches were feared throughout the Kingdom. If discovered, they were executed. The cause was that they trafficked with dark powers, by Nemir suspected that it was done so that they could not threaten the God-King. He had never seen evidence that witches worked in the Kingdom, either for or again the God-King, although the powers attributed to the God-King might seem like witchcraft, although no one was foolish enough to say so.

"Ready the horses," he said briefly. "I will inform the innkeeper that we will not be staying."

"You intend to follow?" Markus asked. Nemir stiffened, though there was no censure in the man's voice.

"Yes." He considered the man. "The first caravan has emerged from the pass. By the end of tomorrow, the caravan we found passage with will be leaving. If you prefer to leave with it, or to head north..."

Markus snorted. "I go where you go. I just wanted to verify your intents." He took one of bags from Nemir. "We will have to hurry if we are to overtake them. It is good that there is only three of them, though. More and we would have little chance of freeing Judas."

"Unless Nahanna is truly a witch," Nemir said, following the man down the narrow stairs to the main level. "Unless there are others waiting outside the town walls." He sighed. "I would understand if you chose not to come," he said, even though he knew what the answer would be, as it had been every time he had said the same since their flight from Ajantha. It seemed as though a lifetime had passed since then.

"We ride," Markus said firmly.

Nemir dealt with the innkeeper quickly. The woman was disappointed to loose paying custom, but they would have been gone within a day in any case, and Nemir paid for a second night's lodging even though they would not be there to use the rooms. He refused to answer any questions though, even though she pointedly asked about the woman who had been with them.

Dansen had the horses ready by the time they emerged. Three were saddled, while the others, fewer than there had been on arrival in town, thankfully, were tethered together. For a moment, Nemir considered abandoning the extra horses, but he knew that they would need them. If they had more mounts than the men they pursued, they would be able to travel faster, since they would be able to switch mounts more frequently.

They left the town by the nearest gate, then circled around to the one which Judas's captors had used. Nemir dismounted and examined the ground. The ground was too hard to show much of a trail, but there was enough to show that the most recent travelers leaving the town had headed directly south. He mounted up on Karsa and led the way without a word.

He might have been silent, and his face stony cold, but inside, Nemir's stomach roiled with fear. He should have known not to let his guard down. Everything had seemed to be going so well, and within the week they would have been beyond the God-King's reach forever. He should have realized that the Southern Clans, having gone to the trouble of sending Nahanna north to find Judas, would not have let him escape them so easily. Whether they had been followed to the trade town -- which he found difficult to believe -- or Nahanna had some way of contacting them, they had acted, desperately it seemed, to prevent Judas from leaving.

As the town receded behind them, the trail became easier to follow. There were fewer other trails to confuse it with. There were only the tracks of four horses that he could see, meaning that Judas, no doubt trussed like a calf for slaughter, was not on a horse of his own. That meant that it would be more difficult to separate him from his captors, but it also meant that they would be further slowed by the double burden on one beast.

Indeed, he wondered how it was that they thought that they would be able to travel far with no spare horses. Perhaps there were more waiting for them.

He found the idea worrying.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Fifty-One ----------------------------------------

The first thing that Judas became aware of was the uncomfortable pressure of a horse's withers against his belly. That was followed by the throbbing in his head and the realization that he was hanging over the neck of the horse with his hands tied. In a blind panic, he kicked 

away, and fell from the horse, landing hard on the ground. The hood of his cloak fell back, and he cried out in pain as the rising sun struck him full in the face, blinding and burning.

He curled into a ball, protecting sensitive tissues. Then the panicked shouts reminded him that he was in danger, and he pushed to his feet and ran. Even with his hood back in place, his eyes watered so badly that he could not see, and he could already feel the skin of his face starting to blister.

As a result, it was no surprise than his kidnappers caught him quickly. He could hear the thunder of hooves behind him, then a man's weight landed on his back, forcing him to the ground once more, and driving all the air from his lungs. A harsh voice, speaking a language that he did not understand, spat angry words at him.

A moment later, he was pulled to his feet, unkindly, and he hunched forward to protect himself from the sun's rays and any blows to ribs that were pained. He sucked in deep breaths, praying for deliverance that did not come.

Then a female voice, also angry, rang out. Nahanna's voice. Judas began to curse himself for a fool. They had accepted that she had given up on her attempts to convince him to travel south rather than east, but they had never thought that it was because she had other plans. He had thought that he had been seeing things when he had seen familiar looking men. He should have spoken up, told Nemir. And now it was too late.

"Judas," Nahanna said, crouching down next to him. He flinched away from her, furious at both her and himself. Himself for having trusted her even a little, and her for being so unworthy of trust. "How bad is it?" she said.

"Bad enough," he spat at her. His eyes were not clearing, and the pain was growing worse.

She called out orders in the other language. One of the men -- he assumed that they were all men -- brought her something. "Here," she said, and he heard the sound of a clay stopper being removed from something. "I have a jar of your cream. Let me help you."

He wanted to push her away, but he wanted the numbing relief of the cream even more, and he cursed himself for a weakling. She did not give him the cream. Instead, she spread it on his face and hands herself, then secreted the jar away, he did not know where. It was deliberate, he knew. To escape without the cream in his possession would result in great pain, he knew, so as long as she had the jar in her hands, he could not leave. Or so she believed.

But she underestimated him in this. If the chance came, he would take, pain or no pain. For every step taken was a step away from Nemir.

"Better?" she asked, sounding very concerned.

He considered refusing to answer, then dismissed the idea as childish. "Yes," he said, then paused. "But my eyes..."

"What?"

"The light... I cannot see. Everything is a wash of whiteness." And he spoke the truth. He could feel the tears running down his face, and he could see nothing but brightness. He was blinded, and until he healed, he was helpless. It was a risk, telling her this, but in his mind he was already planning. There was little reason to guard a blind man, for where would he go? And when they healed... He could continue feign blindness until his chance to escape came.

"Let me see," she commanded, and he lifted his head and opened his eyes. She wiped the moisture from his eyes, then was silent for a moment. "Can you see nothing?" she asked, and in his mind he could see the frown on her face.

"I see nothing but white," he told her again, blinking away moisture. For a moment, despair struck him dumb. What if they did not heal? He had always healed quickly from injury, but if his eyesight did not return, he would be forever helpless.

"Come. You will ride with Zahar. If you promise not to try to escape again, you will be allowed to ride with your hands unbound."

He nodded, and let her help him to his feet. He swayed in place, and nearly collapsed. His head throbbed in time with the pulse of his heart, and he shivered, despite the heat of the day. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice catching.

"I told you many times, we need you."

"But I am useless now. How can a blind man be of any use?"

She touched his arm gently, intending, no doubt, to comfort him, but he flinched away from her. "When we reach our destination, your eyes will be healed. But even if your sight never returns, you are still needed."

She guided him back to the horses. The men with her were silent, and he found himself twisting back and forth, trying to use his hearing to find their locations, but he could not tell where they were. Even in the dark, he'd always been able to see, so his hearing had never been as well trained as the rest of his senses.

Helpless.

Judas rode behind the mysterious Zahar, head down and hands tucked into his sleeves. He kept one hand on the back of the man's sash, but otherwise avoided contact with the man as much as he could. From time to time, he could hear Nahanna talking with one of the others, always in a language that he could not understand, but Zahar never spoke, to him or anyone else. Indeed, once they started riding again, no one spoke to him at all.

Instead, he had too much time to think. He wondered how long it would take for Nemir to discover what had happened to him, if he found out at all. And if he did learn who had abducted Judas, would he follow? Or would he and the others join the caravan and head east as they had planned?

In his heart, Judas knew that no matter what happened, Nemir would follow, but in the depths of his mind, doubts lingered. It would be safer for Nemir not to come. He could tell from the warmth of the sun beating down on them that they were traveling south, heading for the heart of the Kingdom, and into the grasp of the God-King. He wondered how it was that Nahanna and her confederates intended to evade the God-King's guards to reach the south lands. 

The sun was beginning to set, but they pressed on, even though Judas could feel the horse laboring underneath him. As for Judas, his head continued to pound, making him wonder if perhaps permanent damage had been done.

In the tribe there had been a man addled and rendered blind by a blow to the head. Judas tried to imagine what his life would be like if his sight never came back, and cringed in fear. Then he pushed such thoughts away. There was no time for doubts and fears. He was a prisoner, and Nemir would be coming for him. He needed to be ready to aid him when he caught up with them, which would not take long if his captors had no other beasts to carry them.

Finally, late in the night, one of the other riders called for a halt. Judas was helped down, although not gently, and lead to the side. He was allowed to relieve himself, for which he was immensely grateful, then a rope was tied around his ankle, leading to what, he did not know. Food was put in his hands, and he ate. Wine was given him, and he drank.

It was not long after that that he was assailed with a feeling of dizziness. He had to put his hand to the ground to steady himself.

"It is time to sleep," Nahanna said, and it was as if he was hearing her through a thick fog.

"You drugged me," he said accusingly.

"We cannot take the chance that you might try to escape in the night. You might cause yourself harm."

His strength melted away, and he collapsed. Someone broke his fall, then slid a folded cloak under his head. "Rest," Nahanna said gently, brushing the hair back from his forehead in a way that reminded him painfully of Nemir. "We will reach our destination far sooner than you might think. Then your true work will begin."

Protecting Nemir was his true work, he tried to tell her, but his voice would not work, and his eyes closed as he slipped into sleep, fighting every step of the way.

The cavern he walked through was larger than any he'd ever imagined. From one end, he could not see the other. Light came in through gaps in the ceiling through which the occasional patch of blue sky could be seen, then reflected of crystals, filling the air with a many-colored glow. It reminded him of the cavern in which he and Nemir had reconciled, but many times the size.

Judas wandered the cavern, watching as the light shifted. The sun above was going down, but here, beneath the ground, it remained bright.

He followed the sound of rushing water and found himself on the banks of an underground river, He knelt in the soft sand and dipped his cupped hands in the cold flow, then brought them to his lips. The water was so cold that it burned going down his throat.

A soft growl caught his attention, and when he looked up he found a lioness crouched next to him, lapping up water. Beyond fear, he reached out and touched her shoulder. She purred softly, and he stroked her head.

She got to her feet, and walked a few steps, then turned her head to look at him.

Understanding what was required of him, he stood, and followed.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Fifty-Two ----------------------------------------

The trail they followed grew clearer as the sun rose higher in the sky. The ground may have been hard, but Judas's abductors were doing nothing to hide the signs of their passage. They were also pressing their horses hard, with no sign of having replaced them which told Nemir that they would be tiring quickly.

Strangely, that did not reassure him. To ride their mounts so hard said that either their destination was close by, or there were more men waiting for them with fresh horses. Either possibility would bring them great danger.

Equally dangerous was the fact that they were riding south. The clans were obviously desperate to have Judas, but to take him through the heart of the God-King's lands seemed the height of folly, and while Nahanna had been many things, foolish was not one of them, he thought.

But whatever their folly, their quarry was pulling away from them. They had left the trade towns only a short time after them, but now, by the signs, they were nearly twice that behind. Their only hope was that the abductors would eventually stop to rest. Since Nemir, Dansen, and Markus were changing mounts frequently, they would be able to continue to ride until they were too tired to ride any further.

Nemir just hoped that they would be able to fight once they did catch up, for there was no doubt that their quarry would not let Judas go easily.

Nemir bit back a curse. Perhaps he should have been suspicious that Nahanna had not tried harder to convince Judas to her way of thinking. Perhaps he should have watched her more carefully. Perhaps he should have been suspicious when a serpent from the southern waters had nearly killed him.

And yet, who would have thought that Nahanna or her people could have arranged this? The men who had brought her north must have stayed in the Kingdom, waiting for her to arrange for Judas to be taken south, whether he wanted to go or not. But how had she told them that they were traveling east? How had she directed them ahead of them, if indeed she had. It all seemed so... impossible. Nemir had never believed in witchcraft, but it seemed more and more as though he had no choice.

Markus, who had ridden ahead, rejoined them. "Any sign?" Nemir asked, trying to keep his anxiety out of his voice.

Markus hesitated, and Nemir's heart froze. "I found signs of a struggle. And blood." Then he saw Nemir's expression, and quickly said, "Not much blood. And no sign of any great harm. But no sign of Judas or his kidnappers."

"Show me," Nemir ordered.

It was just as Markus had said. There was the sign of a body hitting the ground, with traces of blood. The person -- Judas, he knew in his heart -- had tried to run, but had been driven to the ground a second time. Then, the traces vanished, but the hoofprints led away once more.

"Judas woke, then tried to run," Nemir said, standing up. "But he did not go far before being stopped. But he will try again." Nemir smiled, even though the blood pained him to see. "Once we catch up with them..."

"What if we do not catch up?" Dansen said. Nemir turned to glare at his friend, but Dansen persisted. "What do we do if there is are more men and more horses waiting for them. What if we cannot overtake them, or if we do, there are too many men to fight?"

"Then we will follow them until they stop, and we will watch them until they make a mistake. When that time comes..." He stopped, and looked at Dansen carefully. "Or perhaps I should not make such assumptions. I intend to follow them. If you chose not to--"

"Of course we are coming with you," Markus interrupted, and Dansen nodded. "Judas has become our friend as well, and we will not abandon him, or you."

"All I meant was that when the time came, we need to know what is our plan. I never meant to imply that I thought we should just let them take Judas," Dansen said, and Nemir could hear the injured pride in his voice.

"Forgive me," Nemir said, dipping his head. "It is my fears speaking through me."

"There is nothing to forgive," Dansen said generously. "But while we talk, they are riding, and there are still several hours until the sun goes down."

Judas mounted up on Karsa's back, and the stallion whickered softly to him, as though he were trying to comfort his rider. "Indeed. And as for what we will do if we do not catch them... We shall face that obstacle when we reach it."

He squeezed Karsa's flanks lightly, and the stallion leapt forward, following the trail without hesitation.

They would recover Judas. Nemir refused to allow any other thoughts. He had lost too much already.

As the night wore on, Nemir's confidence began to fail him. Once the sun went down, following the trail had become more difficult, forcing them to slow their pace. As the moon set, there was no sign that their quarry had stopped to rest, even though their horses had to be close to foundering, and Nemir was forced to face the fact that they would have to stop soon themselves. Without even moonlight, the trail would be impossible to see.

"Enough," Markus said, reining in his horse. "It is too dark. If we continue, we risk a horse being injured, or losing the trail."

"A little further," Nemir said stubbornly.

Dansen leaned over and grabbed his reins, pulling Karsa to a stop. "No further," he said firmly. "The horses are tired, there is no light, and we are all exhausted. We stop here. As soon as the sky starts to lighten in the morning, we will continue on, and faster for the rest."

Nemir wanted to protest, but a wave of dizziness swept over him, so strongly that he thought he might fall from his seat. Dansen was right. To press on at this point was pure folly. And yet, he desperately wanted to. "All right," he finally said.

He dismounted, and almost immediately his legs gave way under him. Only his grip on the leather of the saddle kept him upright. Markus moved to his side.

"Let go, Prince. I will catch you," he said softly as another wave of dizziness made Nemir moan. He let go, and Markus's grip kept him from collapsing to the ground. The large man moved to the side, then gently lowered Nemir to the ground.

The earth seemed to heave under him, and he realized that a cloak rolled into a ball was being placed under his head. A second cloak was spread over him, protecting him from the chill of the night air. He wanted to get up and help the other two men as they quickly put together the rough camp, but his limbs did not want to cooperated. He closed his eyes -- no, they were already closed -- and tried to banish the fear he was feeling.

Why was he so weak all of the sudden? Was this because of the blow he had taken days before? Had some damage been done that was only know making itself felt?

Whatever the cause, he quickly slipped into unconsciousness.

When he woke, he knew that he was not truly awake, for the landscape he saw before him was one that he had never seen before. He stood on the edge of a cliff. A great city, far larger than Ajantha, spread out before him like a great wheel. Wide avenues made up the spokes of the wheels, leading from the city gates to the center.

The buildings closest to the walls were like those of any city. Some were made of mud brick, while others were of quarried stone. Small figures moved to and fro, going about the their business. But closer to the center, the spaces between the buildings widened, and the buildings took on forms he had never seen before. Grand temples, he thought, with columns and statues. And the one at the center of the city...

That structure rose up, taller by far than any of the others. He could not tell, but it looked to be half a league around its base. The sides, sloping inwards as they rose to a peak, were covered in smooth stone that gleamed white in the sunlight. And at the top, a flat space was 

crowned by the grandest temple of all, with a roof of gold that sent rays across the city, so that it seemed bathed in color. He had never seen anything like it.

From that place, the top of the pyramid, every part of the city would be spread out before you, nothing hidden. What would it be like to stand there, at the pinnacle, the highest point of the city?

"You had but to ask."

Nemir spun around to see a grand building behind him. Columns, elaborately carved and bright with paint, held up a sloped roof. Through the columns he could see a grand reception hall. And standing on the steps leading up to the building was a man.

"What?" Nemir asked, confused.

The man waved his hand, and Nemir realized that he was no longer on the cliff. He turned slowly, and found that he was now standing on the top of the pyramid. He walked to the low wall that guarded the edge of the platform and looked out.

Far below, he could see the inhabitants of the city, going about their daily lives. Some, in the plaza, stood looking up, pointing towards the pinnacle of the pyramid. So tiny, he thought to himself.

"Yes, they are," the man said, coming to stand next to Nemir. He was taller than Nemir, but not so tall as Judas. Strongly built, with skin that glowed a golden brown in the sunlight. His hair was yellow, and his eyes were amber. He smiled, and the teeth that showed were brilliant white, with none of the staining that was so common. He was the image of health. Sunlight personified.

The man laughed. "Indeed I am. I am the sun, and I shine over all the land. Without me, darkness would fall, and men would despair. Without me, this land is *nothing*."

His words rang through Nemir's mind, and for a moment he was afraid. Then the man smiled at him again, and his fears were washed away. "Why am I here?" Nemir asked, even though deep inside, he knew that this was nothing but a dream.

The man turned towards him and stepped closer, reaching up to brush a fingertip across Nemir's cheek. Nemir gasped, as an incredible warmth ran through him. "Because I want you to be. Come to me, princeling. Come to me, and I will make all your desires come true." He leaned even closer. "Come."

Then his lips brushed Nemir's, and Nemir cried out.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Fifty-Three ----------------------------------------

When Judas woke, he knew that the sun had not risen yet, but that was all he could tell. For an instant, he thought that perhaps everything had been a dream; that they had returned to the inn and he had fallen asleep.

Then he opened his eyes, and all his saw was whiteness, terrifying in its uniformity. There were no shapes or shadows to be seen.

"Judas?" Nahanna's voice said from behind him. "How do you 

feel?"

Judas closed his eyes, resisting the urge to cry. "I itch," he said, answering her honestly. "I need more of the cream, but we cannot have much left, and there is no way to replace it." And the journey south, if Nemir was not able to find them first, would be long.

"And your eyes?" Nahanna asked, sounding genuinely worried, even though it seemed to Judas that blind, there would be less chance of him escaping.

"Nothing," he said bitterly.

She stroked his forehead softly, then pressed a piece of journey bread into one hand, and a small water skin in the other. "Eat. We ride soon."

Judas did as he was told, then one of the men led him to a spot where he could relieve himself. He wondered if the man had stayed to watch him do so, but pushed such thoughts away. Blind, it did not matter to him, so there was no point in shame. Then he mounted up. It was not Zahar, this time, since the man in front of him was taller and broader. He was given no name, though.

"Do we continue on this way, for the months it will take to travel south?" he asked the air.

"The journey will not take quite so long," Nahanna replied from somewhere behind him. "Indeed, it will not take much longer at all."

She spoke smugly, and Judas wanted to ask how that could be, but something inside told him that she would not answer. He could not think how she should could say such a thing, though. In Ajantha, he had seen maps of the Kingdom, and the distance between the trade towns and the south lands was much further than from the trade towns to Ajantha, and that would take them through the heart of the 

God-King's lands. To reach the south safely, considering that he was actively being hunted, would require a more circuitous route. But Nahanna made it sound like a matter of days, if even that.

He continued to worry at the thought as they rode on, nearly as hard as the day before. The horses had rested through the night, but they would not be able to hold this pace for much longer. Where did they travel so fast that they were willing to risk the death of the horses? It seemed to Judas, more and more, that there was more to this than what met the eye. After all, the three men who had delivered Nahanna to the Prince in Ajantha had then gone to the trade town to wait for them, before they'd known themselves that they would be there. Or had they been told to travel there afterwards? How could they have known where their party would end up?

As he tried to puzzle through it, Judas's head began to pound in time with the horse's hooves. The sun was starting to beat down on them, and it was all he could do to continue to clutch at the cloak in front of him so that he could remain on the horse, while not exposing any skin to the burning rays. He began to hope that Nahanna was right, for he did not think that he could continue on this way for 

too many more days. His skin burned, his eyes ached, and the headache, while it was no longer getting any worse, it was nearly blinding in its intensity.

To distract himself, he concentrated on the images from his drugged dreams. For a moment it seemed as though he could feel the cool comfort of the water, and the soothing purr of the lioness, as real as it had seemed in his dream, and the pain began to recede, leaving his light-headed and barely aware.

The sun was still high as Judas was shaken from his daze when the horses were brought to a stop. Between his legs, he could feel the one he was mounted on heaving as it tried to draw in deeper breaths. Judas swayed in place as the man he'd been riding with dismounted.

A rough hand grabbed his arm, just above the elbow, and tugged him. He slid from the horse's back and landed on the ground in an undignified heap, his headache suddenly returned, full force. He moaned softly, and stayed were he was, hiding deep inside his cloak.

"Judas! Are you all right?" He did not answer her. He did not dare even move, the pain was so great.

A moment later, someone lifted him up. Another set of hands -- Nahanna's, he thought dimly -- tucked the cloth of his cloak around him, protectively. "We are almost there," she said soothingly. "Just a little further and all will be well."

"No," he moaned around the pain, his vision now filled with sparks of color. "Never well. Nemir!"

For a moment he thought he heard his beloved's voice. Then his captors started moving, and a sound like the storm winds roaring filled the air. Every hair on his body stood on end, and tremors ran through his limbs. His head fell back, and he trembled. Something was happening, like a storm building on the horizon, and he was scared. He wanted to strike out, try to escape again, even though he knew that it was hopeless, but his limbs refused to cooperate. He could not so much as twitch a finger.

Then a voice could be heard, humming softly, barely audible beneath the wind. There were no words, just song. He recognized it as Nahanna's voice, singing as she had when she'd first come to Ajantha. Her voice rose and fell, weaving a complex pattern of notes that was both strange and familiar to him.

Gradually the tone and tempo increased, until she was almost out-shouting the wind. One final note, held triumphantly, and the one carrying him strode forward, directly towards where the sound was loudest.

The wind tore at them, shredding their clothing, and it seemed to Judas that the ground underfoot was none too steady. Whatever they were moving towards seemed to be resisting them, pushing them back, but the southerners refused to give. They pressed forward, step by slow step, until, without warning, the pressure was gone.

Judas was dropped to the ground, and dimly, he could hear the sound of others collapsing. Then there was silence.

And darkness.

All the world was made of pain. Hands were lifting him, but when he tried to fight back, they restrained him easily. He was set down on something soft and yielding, and even that small bit of movement made him cry out in pain. His head throbbed, and he no longer saw the whiteness. Instead, eye-piercing colors danced before him until he could no longer tell whether he was looking up or down. The world was in a constant spin.

But he was not alone. Another set of hands -- female, but not Nahanna's he thought -- stroked his forehead, and he could hear her humming. "Am I dying?" he whispered painfully.

The stroking stilled for a moment then continued. "Zahar was too eager in his blow," the woman said, her voice soft and pleasant to his ears. "There is swelling beneath the bone in your head."

Judas relaxed. "Then there is nothing you can do," he said. He had heard of such injuries before. The pressure would increase, as would the pain, until he could bear it no longer and he would die.

"No, little one. Trust me, you will not die. The goddess takes care of her own."

He wanted to protest that he was not her goddess's, but she started humming again, and he found that he could no longer move, not even enough to speak. Her hands cupped the sides of his head, slowly pressing inwards, and it seemed to him that they were almost painfully warm. Then that warmth moved from her hands to his skull, sinking in, and the pain reached a crescendo.

And if he hadn't been prevented, he would have screamed before the darkness took him away.

He was back in his dreamland, and he welcomed it. In the dreams, the pain was gone, even the pain of being separated from Nemir.

He heard the purring, even before he opened his eyes. The lioness was stretched out on the ground next to him, watching him. Sound filled the air. The purring. The sound of water lapping against the shore. And above it all, a woman singing, wordlessly.

Judas stood. It was the same cavern he had dreamed of so many times before. The lake stretched out before him, fading into the distance, so far away that he could not see the other shore, nor the end of the cavern. High above him, lights glittered, reflecting off of the wet stone and quartz embedded in the ceiling, building until, to his eyes, it was as bright as day.

The lioness also stood, and moved away from him. She went a few steps, then stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. Quickly realizing what she wanted, Judas followed.

The lioness led him through the cavern, passing among a forest of stone pillars, embedded with more of the light-reflecting quartz. He reached out and touched one in passing, and it felt as though he had been cut by it, but there was not blood. He paused, looking at his hand, but a soft cough from the lioness encouraged him to continue following.

The pillars grew less numerous, and more widely spaced, as they walked, until, finally, there were none left. Then he saw it, rising up before them. A wall that extended in each direction as far as he could see, with a single gate set in it, tightly closed. Beyond the wall he could see a building, its dome rising up, covered in silver that seemed to glow softly. The lioness continued forward, leading him directly to the gate.

But the gate was locked. No matter how hard he pushed, it refused to open, until he was almost ready to cry bitter tears. He hammered his fist against the surface, but it did not help.

Then he saw it. An irregular indentation in the surface, just above his head. The shape of it was familiar. Working on instinct, he removed his pendant from the chain hanging around his neck; the chain that had been a gift from Nemir. He held the piece of rose quartz in his hand for a moment, considering it, then lifted it up to press it against the gate. He twisted it slightly, and it sank into place.

Immediately, the gates slowly swung open, soundlessly. The faint singing that had been hanging in the air grew in intensity until it reached a crescendo.

"Welcome, Judas. You have much to learn."

---------------------------------------- Chapter Fifty-Four ----------------------------------------

Nemir woke well before dawn. They ate quickly, cold bread from the saddlebags and a few sips of water. By the time they were back in the saddle, there was just enough light to see the trail, and he set off at speed. It may have been his imagination, but it seemed that Karsa was as eager as he to find Judas, and soon, Dansen and Markus began to fall behind. In his haste, he did not notice.

The sun was not far in the sky when he found the signs of a camp, and Nemir cursed himself for having stopped at the urging of the other two men. They had been so close. But he knew they were right. The trail had taken a turn not long before the campsite, and in the dark, there would have been no way that he would have seen it.

But still, he was worried. Their quarry was still riding at full speed, by the trail, and he worried about what that might mean. It just didn't make sense, unless they had a reason to believe that they would not need their horses for much longer. Nemir could not shake the feeling that they were running out of time. If they did not reach Judas soon...

Nemir pushed such thoughts aside, not for the first time, and continued on, trusting that the other two would catch up.

As the sun rose, the sense of urgency grew. Something inside of him urged him on, telling him that time was short. He had to reach Judas.

That was when the wind started to pick up. At first there was little to notice, other than the occasional dust devil, swirling on the horizon. But it grew, and so did the dust devils, until the sand blowing made visibility poor. Nemir cursed as he realized that the wind was destroying the trail. There had been little to follow up until then, but now even those traces were gone.

He pressed forward, even faster, into the heart of the wind.

As he continued, the howl of the wind increased, but above it he could hear another sound, like song. It reminded him of the song Nahanna had sung the night she was presented to his father as a gift. A poison gift, it now seemed. How he wished that they had not brought her along. For months she had traveled with them, always planning this treachery. If he had known what she intended...

He used his anger to push forward as the song increased in tempo. He could now see a light just over the next rise, one that was unnatural in its color. Any other horse would have refused to continue, but Karsa pressed on as eagerly as he.

"Nemir!"

The voice, thin and barely audible, was Judas's. "Judas!" he cried over the howl of the wind and the hum of the song. There was no reply, and he worried that perhaps he had been hearing things, wishful thinking.

He crested the hill and saw before him a sight unbelievable. The wind and the light originated from the same spot, a whirlwind of force, the likes of which he had never heard of before. Nahanna stood in front of it with her arms out stretched and her face raised to the sky as she sang, her expression almost blissful.

Behind her stood arrayed three men, all of whom he recognized from the party that had brought her to Ajantha. Obviously, they had not returned home, as they had thought. Instead, they had remained, waiting for their chance to abduct Judas.

And one of them held a limp figure with white hair trailing down until it nearly touched the ground. Judas did not move, and Nemir's rage boiled up within him. He drew his sword, and with a wordless cry, he squeezed his thighs and sent Karsa down the incline at full speed.

What followed went to quickly for him to take in. The light and wind coalesced together, and for a moment, he thought he saw something on the other side; something besides the hills of the wasteland. Then the man holding Judas stepped forward and was gone. He was quickly followed by the other two men, and finally Nahanna, before he could reach them. At the last, Nahanna turned around, and the expression on her face was one of pure triumph.

Then she lowered her arms and the vortex vanished. The winds died down, and it was as if there had never been any sort of disturbance.

They were gone, and Judas with them.

Nemir slipped down off of Karsa's back, his blade still in his hand. He stumbled forward until he reached the place where the vortex had been. The ground was scoured down to bare rock, and the rock appeared scorched; mute evidence that he had not been dreaming. That and the abandoned horses that the clansmen had been riding. One had collapsed to her knees, and looked to be on the verge of death from exhaustion. Bloody marks on her flanks told him how hard she had been ridden.

"Nemir!"

Nemir looked up to find Dansen coming to a stop next to him. Markus was just coming into sight. "They are gone," he said, not rising from his knees in the place where his Companion had vanished.

Dansen looked around, taking in the exhausted mounts and scorched stone. "How?" he asked, bewildered.

Nemir shook his head, closing his eyes in defeat. "Magic. He is gone." He wanted to wail his grief and anger to the skies, but he did not have the energy. Now he had truly lost everything. Not just father and city, but lover as well. Everything they had done to escape now seemed so pointless. Perhaps they had evaded the God-King's wrath, but they had brought betrayal along with them.

He stayed were he was, unable to summon the will to do anything, even rise from his knees. Dimly, he could hear the two companions remaining to him talking, but the words meant nothing. All their efforts, for nothing.

"Nemir, come. You need to sleep."

Dansen tugged insistently at his arm until he stood and turned. Somehow, the new tent that they had bought to replace the old ones had been pitched, and a small fire started. Had so much time passed? Nemir could not find it within himself to care.

He followed Dansen's urging and undressed. A tunic -- purchased or the ones they had sent to be cleaned, he was not sure -- was pressed into his hands, and he put it on before lying down on the bedroll. A blanket was spread over him and he closed his eyes.

He was back in the plaza that topped the pyramid, watching the city below, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun above. The grief was still inside of him, but it seemed distant, somehow. Everything seemed distant from this height. And he was alone.

"Not so very alone." A warm hand touched his shoulder, then ran down his arm. He leaned into it, feeling the heat spread through him, easing some of the pain. No. Not so alone.

He looked over his shoulder and saw the same man he had before smiling down at him. For a moment, he lost himself in the amber eyes. Then he pulled back to himself. "They took him," he said, feeling a burst of anger. The feeling of distance was rapidly fading. "He was mine and they *took* him!" His fists clenched, and he was filled with the need to lash out.

The man sighed. "The southern clans were always grasping. They are convinced that theirs is the only way, but they are wrong. They turn away from the true power. If they had simply accepted their place in the scheme of things, they would not have been so severely punished." Then his face hardened. "And now they will need to be punished again. Wind and fire will scour their land until there is nothing left. They will learn the folly of disobedience."

Then he turned to Nemir. His hands came up to cup Nemir's face, and his eyes were like fire. "They will learn, and you will be the instrument of that lesson."

His eyes blazed, and Nemir started to fall. Fall and fall and fall...

Nemir woke with a start, rolling over and reaching for his sword before he was fully awake. It was not where he expected to find it, and he jumped to his feet, nearly tangling himself in his blanket before he realized where he was. The sun was beginning to set, and he was in a tent pitched so that the sunlight came in through the open flap.

Now that he was awake, he had vague memories of Dansen and Markus caring for him after the clansmen disappeared -- he still could not believe what he had seen -- taking Judas with them. But he had no idea how much time had passed since then.

Their packs, including Judas's, were set in the center of the tent. Nemir opened his own, and dressed. He felt no sense of urgency anymore. Indeed, if he felt anything, it was a sense of numbness. Judas was beyond his reach.

Decently clothed, he emerged from the tent to find Markus sitting next to an open fire, roasting some sort of meat. Goat, from the scent. Seeing Nemir, he was so startled that he nearly dropped the roast into the fire. "You are awake," he said needlessly, rescuing what was obviously intended to be dinner.

Nemir sat down next to the fire, staring at the dancing flames, fascinated by their color and movement. Markus handed him a water skin, and he drank, but said nothing.

Sometime later, Dansen reappeared, carrying two more water skins. He glanced to Markus when he saw Nemir, and the other man shook his head.

Food was distributed, and Nemir ate, each bite bringing him more fully into the world, until he set aside the last of the meat with a sigh, and stretched. He felt tired, and was tempted to find refuge in sleep once more, but refused to give in to the urge just yet.

"Nemir? Are you all right?"

He looked up at the question, and found both his friends watching him with worried expressions. "How... how long did I sleep?" he said, his voice feeling rusty with disuse.

"More than three days," Dansen said, and Nemir was shocked. He had thought only a day, or even just the part of a day. He shook his head.

He remembered dreaming. Dreaming about Judas. Dreaming about telling someone about Judas. How Judas had been stolen from him, taken away south. How he was going to find Judas, retrieve him, destroy those who would come between them.

"Nemir. Maybe you should sleep again." Nemir wondered at how Dansen had been able to reach his side without him knowing, when he had been on the other side of the fire only a moment earlier. "In the morning we can decide what we will do next."

Nemir glared at him. "You can decide what you want to do. I am going to find Judas."

Dansen frowned. "How? We do not even know where he is."

"South. Nahanna and her people have taken him. I will take him back."

"Nemir," Markus said softly. "It will take months to reach the south lands."

Nemir shook his head. "I do not care. I will go south. If you want to return to the trade town, you can find another caravan traveling east. Or go north for all I care. I am heading south as soon as the sun rises."

He picked up the last of his dinner and returned to chewing, ignoring the concerned looks of the two men. If he had to travel alone, he would. But he would be damned before he let the clans take the only thing of value left to him.

"Then we travel south," Markus finally said. Dansen looked unsure, but he nodded his agreement.

"South."

---------------------------------------- Chapter Fifty-Five ----------------------------------------

Judas woke as he had every day for more days than he could count; alone in a luxurious room hidden somewhere within a stone building that seemed like a temple to him. Where that temple was, he did not know, and none of the people who attended him would tell him. They treated him with deference, and even reverence, but he was a prisoner within the walls of his suite. He had not been under the open sky since the night they had brought him through the portal to this place. He did not know what had become of Nemir or the others, or even Nahanna.

The last was of his own choosing, at least. For three days after his arrival, he had slept, while the priestesses healed the damage that had been done to him by his kidnappers. He had been near to death, he had been told later. A delay of only a few more hours would have been fatal. But he had recovered fully, although not his sight yet. He had been promised -- although not by the priestesses -- that that too would heal. In time.

When he had woke from the strange dreams he had told no one of, Nahanna had come to see him. At first he had simply turned his back to her, refusing to acknowledge her. She had not liked that, and had persisted, even to the point of grabbing his arm and trying to force him to turn to face her. At that, he had struck out blindly, managing to knock her off her feet and bloody her nose. She had not returned since then, and he preferred it that way.

Instead, he had been attended by a steady stream of priestesses who brought him his meals, cleaned his rooms, and taught him. The language of the south and the language of the temple were the first lessons, followed by religious training that he had little interest in, especially since what he learned during his dreams contradicted it in so many ways. He was taught the history of the Southern Clans, and the kings that ruled them, with great emphasis on the ones who had preserved their people through great personal sacrifice. Of the women of the clans, no stories were told.

He had been kept so busy that he rarely had time to think, but the loneliness never faded. Nemir was somewhere out there, far away, and he was here, locked up far away from prying eyes. They said they did this to protect him from the God-King, but he knew it was so that he would not be able to attempt to escape them. They called him Lord, but never let him chose his own path. And despite Nahanna's promises, he still had not knowledge of what they planned for him. Not that he had any desire to know.

And as for Nemir, he both wanted his love, his Prince, there with him, and yet prayed that he had gone east, or perhaps north. That he was safe and happy. He daydreamed of Nemir, traveling through those woods Markus had told them of, wearing furs to protect him from the cold. Or perhaps in the east, wearing fine silks and sparring with warriors with yellow skin and strangely shaped eyes.

But, deep down, he did not believe it. At times, in that haze that lay between the dreams and waking, it was as if he could feel Nemir, hurt and angry, drawing closer, and he feared for his life.

"My Lord, are you ready for your bath?"

Judas did not move to acknowledge the woman at the doorway. He heard her move into the room, to his side, but gave no sign of how aware he was of her presence. Of late, the bright white that he saw had come to take on shadows, and he had great hopes that this was the first stage of the return of his sight, but he chose not to tell his captors. Every piece of knowledge that he hid from them was a weapon in his meager arsenal.

But even without his sight, he was aware of every movement she made, although he did not let any know that either. As more time went past, he became more confident in the whiteness, able to... feel where objects were. When he ran his fingertip over the pages of the books he was being instructed from, and which had been carelessly left behind since he could not possibly read them on his own, he could feel the writing, picture it clearly in his mind. As a result, he had learned of many things that they left out of the lessons, or did not fully explain.

The junior priestess did not comment on the lack of response from him. She moved to his side and touched his arm lightly before helping to his feet and leading him towards the bath chamber. There, she undid his clothing, letting the simple robe made from eastern silks drop away. Someone else quickly whisked it away. There were four women in the room with him, but Judas had learned not to protest. There was no point.

His tunic and pants were also removed, and he was carefully led to the large tub set in the floor, with steps leading down into the water. In Ajantha, he had thought the tub in Nemir's suite to be the height of decadence, but this was far beyond it. Standing at the center of the tub, he was in water almost up to his breast, and the edge of the tub was nowhere within reach. If he had ever learned to swim, he would be able to in this artificial pool.

As always, Judas stood passively near the edge of the pool while other washed his hair and body. In the early days he had tried to do so for himself, but every attempt to explain that he did not want that service had fallen on deaf ears, and in the end, it had been simpler to simply acquiesce.

Once he had been cleaned -- so thoroughly that at first he had burned with shame -- he was dressed in clothing made of fabrics as luxurious as the robe he had been wearing before, then brought back to the sitting room where he expected to find the first teacher of the day. But instead of the expected greeting there was silence. Beside him, he sensed his attendant bowing low as she backed out of the room.

Judas stared straight ahead. "Is someone there?" he asked, even though he could tell perfectly well that there was someone sitting at the table where he received his instructions, and that it was someone he had not met yet. And yet, there was something about her that seemed familiar. But strangely, he could tell nothing about her, other than that she was female. Age, position, abilities; all of these were hidden from him. Perhaps deliberately.

"Come sit, Judas," the woman said, and her voice was of no help either. It was unusually deep for a woman, and was ageless, so gave no hints. Her accent was strong, and not entirely that of the south, but she spoke clearly and he had learned the language well.

Judas hesitated, then moved to his usual seat, even though he could not see it. He had the feeling that she knew quite well what he was capable of, even without his eyesight, so dissembling was of no use. He sat down, wondering if this was the day when he would finally get some of the answers that Nahanna had promised him so long ago. None of the priestesses he had met since his arrival had been willing to tell him more than what they chose to in the course of their lessons. Indeed, they had simply ignored any question he had asked until he had finally stopped asking. And as for his dream teacher, she had taught him many things, about things he had not known existed and histories he had never seen in any book, but even she had not told him what it was that he was expected to do, and in the dreams, it never occurred to him to ask.

He sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for the woman to speak first. He stared straight ahead, knowing that he was not looking at her, not allowing anything in his expression to speak of his thoughts. Hiding his thoughts was something that he had become very good at. It was the only rebellion he was allowed by his guards.

"You can stop that, little one," the woman said, and the way she said it finally sparked his memory. This was the woman who had healed him when he had arrived in this place that he did not want to be.

"I do not know what you mean," he said softly, even though he had the sense that she saw through him easily.

She laughed softly. "Yes you do. Tell me, Judas, what do you think of us?"

Judas felt his jaw tighten, and he tried to control himself. "I have met no one other than woman who have no interest in knowing me, so I know nothing of them. They tell me what to do, and since I am given no choice, I do it. What am I supposed to think."

The woman sighed deeply. "Indeed."

"Who are you?" Judas asked, leaning forward slightly. He had the sense that finally he had met one of the south who would answer his questions. "What is intended for me?"

There was the soft swish of fabric against fabric, then a strong hand, unusually calloused for a woman, wrapped around his own. "I am High Priestess to the Lady, and like you and Nahanna, I am Goddess-born. Unlike Nahanna, and like you, I was not born in the south. I was born in the Westlands to a branch of the family that had fled after the God-King conquered the south. I was raised in a simple fishing town. But my family was watched, and when I showed the signs, I was taken and brought to the temple to be raised. I and my family were given as little choice as you."

His hands clenched into fists. "Then why force the same on me?" he asked.

"Because I still have no choices. High Priestess I may be, but I am just as much a prisoner as you. Woman have little say in the south, even priestesses, for all that they worship the Lady. If you had not been found, I would even now be married off to a man of appropriate bloodlines to hopefully produce a Goddess-born son, and Nahanna would now be High Priestess." Judas could hear the faint bitterness in her voice. "So has it been in the past and so it will be in the future, and even the death of the God-King will not change that."

Judas turned his face away from her. As she spoke, he was forming a mental impression, one of a woman younger than he had originally thought, although nearly old enough to be his mother. "So whatever it is they plan to use me for, it will not end even if he dies."

"No," she said softly; sympathetically.

Judas closed his eyes, trying to hold back the urge to cry.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Fifty-Six ----------------------------------------

Nemir woke with the rising of the sun as he had every days for more than a month. The sound of water lapping against the side of the boat merged with the creaking of the wood of the boat to create a soothing environment. He stood and stretched, unmindful of the fact that he was unclothed, enjoying the warmth of the sun against his body. His muscles ached pleasantly from the weeks of hard travel, leaving him with muscles like whipcord. It felt so good, at least for the moment.

Then, fully awake, memories returned, reminding him of where he was and where he was going, as well as the reasons for it. At that, his smile and his pleasant mood faded slightly, and he began to gather his clothing to dress. Behind him, he could hear the whickering of the horses, and the soft voice of Dansen as he fed them. They would stop later in the day to exercise them, but for the moment, the most direct route south continued to be the river.

It was a route that they would soon have to abandon, as they were quickly approaching the capital. More and more tributaries were joining the river, which widened as it approached the lake country. Cities were becoming more frequent and closer to the river, as the land grew richer, meaning that the banks of the river did not need to be reserved for agriculture. As well, they had nearly reached the cataracts where the river curved east, and away from the path south.

And with that growing river population, the danger of discovery also grew. Dansen had been urging that they leave the river and populated lands for days, but Nemir resisted. He had his reasons. However, no matter how impressive those reasons were in his mind, when he tried to explain to the others, the words did not come. In the end, the other two followed his lead on faith, although in the dark time before he fell asleep each night, he wondered why they did. How could they remain so faithful for so long?

"Breakfast," Markus said from where he guarded the small brazier at the front of the boat, keeping it from being knocked over by any of the passengers, human or equine. A small pan sat on the brazier, its contents sizzling pleasantly along with the morning birdsong.

Nemir took the offered piece of roasted meat set on a piece of bread bought two days earlier at one of the small villages they had passed. The food was simple, but at least it was filling.

Food was eaten quickly, then the ropes that kept the boat in place along the bank were released. Markus and Nemir used long poles to maneuver the boat out to the center of the river, while Dansen used the till to steer them. Once there, they could raise their sail, and use a combination of wind, and pole to set them on their way, fighting the current every league of the way. They worked in silence. After so long, each knew how the others worked and thought.

The only thing that Markus and Dansen knew nothing of was the dreams; Nemir said nothing of them. In truth, he barely remembered them on waking himself. All he could say for sure was that the dreams left him with a feeling of peace, and a surety that what he was doing was right.

The day grew warmer and warmer as the sun rose in the sky. With the winter storms long past, the first growing season was coming to an end. Then the heat of summer would descend on them, baking the land and sending all life for cover during the height of the day. Then, once the days grew shorter and cooler, the river would flood its banks, and the second growing season would begin, ending in the winter storms as the year came full cycle once again.

As the sun reached the zenith, Nemir waved to Dansen to maneuver the boat over to the western side of the river bank.

Once they were anchored in place, the other two men waited patiently for Nemir to explain himself. Nemir glanced south, and for a moment he thought he saw a flash of light. "It is time to leave the river," he finally said.

Dansen sagged for a moment before covering his reaction, but Nemir could tell that he was relieved by the news. Thankfully he did not say what they all knew; that he had been urging Nemir to do so for days.

It took very little time to pack their bags and load them on the back of Judas's mare. Other than her, they only had a single mount each at that point, having either sold the others or lost them to accident.

The only question was what to do with the boat. Rather than discuss it, Nemir released the ropes, then pushed the boat out into the river again. Once it was within reach of the current, it began to drift away, heading back in the direction they had come, carried north by the river's flow.

"So, which direction do we go?" Dansen asked, already mounted.

"West and south," Nemir said, pointing in the direction he intended. "The river curves east, leading to the lake country and the capital. If we travel more westerly, we will skirt the edge of the heartlands, although I doubt any are looking for us this far south of Ajantha."

It was an argument he had made in the past; that this far from Ajantha, there would be no one who would recognize them, so traveling in secret by night was no longer necessary. Dansen always responded that the three of them were very distinctive. Markus had dyed his hair dark, but that did not alter the fact that his body held more hair than just on his head, and it was all the color of red told; as impossible to dye as it was to disguise his height.

But Nemir always countered that it was impossible that every guard and lord in the kingdom had been warned to watch for them. Still as they approached the heart of the kingdom, the chances of encountering just such a person grew, which is why he had finally chosen to leave the river road. As well, the river no longer presented the most direct route, and so was not the quickest way to reach Judas.

Nemir turned Karsa south and squeezed his thighs to urge the stallion into motion. Some days it seemed as though they had been traveling for a lifetime, first east, then south. So much so that he woundered at times if he would ever have a home again. As he lay down to sleep at night, tired and aching, he wondered if he would ever come to the end of the travels. When he listed the tasks he had set himself in his mind, it seemed hopeless. First he wanted to rescue his Companion from his captors -- assuming that he still lived and was still Judas -- no matter who stood in his way. If he had to destroy the entire south to do so, he would, and with a smile on his face. Then he intended to take the battle to the God-King. No more did he want to flee the lands of his birth. He would take back *everything* that was his. No more would he be driven too and fro by the actions of others.

But no matter how determined he was, deep down, he despaired, for both tasks seemed impossible. He might as well chose to assail the mountain peaks where the true gods lived.

But he intended to try.

This far south, the arable land on either side of the river had spread out further from the river. The desert still existed, but it was only a narrow band between the crop lands and the savanna. It was along the edge of that strip that they traveled, far enough from the croplands to avoid the farmers, but not in the savanna where the herdsmen kept their flocks. The desert was more rock than sand, making travel easy.

Nemir found, more and more as they traveled, that he loved the desert. He had not disliked it, back when he had traveled with the Guard, but he had not felt this deep kinship with it back then. Perhaps it was because during his years in the Guard, he had never been alone in the desert. Now, he spent hours in contemplative solitude while his traveling companions slept and he was on guard.

He wondered if Judas had felt this way. Was this why he had been so uncomfortable in the Palace? Did he miss the hiss of the wind across the sand, the way that the moonlight shimmered like liquid silver?

And did Judas even know about the splendor of the desert in day? To Nemir, the air took on a golden hue, and he could feel the warmth of the sun, the warmth of the sand, seeping into his body, relaxing him when he was tense, invigorating him when he was tired. At times, he wanted to just strip completely and lie on the sands, letting that warmth seep into his bones.

But underneath, driving him on, was the anger. Anger at Nahanna. Anger at the Southern clans. Anger at the God-King. Anger at the world that had robbed him of father and home and lover.

That anger burned with the heat of the sun, simmering in his mind as he waited for the chance to let it boil over. And when it did, even the gods would not be able to help whoever stood in his way.

Beneath him, Karsa tossed his head, whickering softly, and it seemed to Nemir that the steed was just as ready for war as he was. With Markus and Dansen at his side, Karsa as his steed, and Judas somewhere before him, he would let nothing stand in his way.

These were his thoughts as they made camp for the night, and he clung to them desperately as the sun went down and the doubts returned. That brief period between the setting of the sun and the coming of sleep plagued him.

But once sleep had come, so did the dreams, and the confidence he felt while the sun was high in the sky returned, for in his dreams, the sun was always shining, and a warm voice that made him shiver told him tales of blood and fire, promising that when the time came, he would triumph.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Fifty-Seven ----------------------------------------

Judas scrubbed at his face, even though he'd let no tears fall. Even though it was not yet noon, he felt exhausted. He straightened and composed himself when he felt the arrival of the midday meal, though.

The conversation with the High Priestess had been disheartening to say the least, although at least he had a better idea of what life in the temple was like, and what his place would be in it. Despite his readings, both in Ajantha and here, he had not realized just how tightly controlled the temple was by the clan leaders. He had known that women of the south had little freedom, but the temple was populated by women only, devoted to a goddess. He would have thought that they, at least, would have some say in their lives, but it seemed that it was not so. Indeed, the higher the rank, the less freedom was had, with the High Priestess a virtual prisoner, never allowed to leave the temple or walk among the people she was supposed to serve.

And the idea that those men who made the decisions might expect him to father children, and with Nahanna no less, was almost sickening. His stomach clenched at the thought of lying down with anyone but Nemir. Nemir had been his first, and he had thought would be his last. He would have had to share Nemir with a wife, eventually, but Judas had no desire to marry himself. It was not likely that he would find a woman who would be interested in a man who had been a slave, let alone with his freakish coloring. Even in Nemir freed him and gave him a place in the court after his marriage, he would not be considered proper marriage material. He would remain true to Nemir, much as Lord Konda had been true to the Prince, Nemir's father, before him.

The High Priestess -- whose name he still did not know -- had left shortly before the meal, promising that she would come to speak with him again. Judas hoped that she would, even though he knew that the only reason that she had been sent to him was to convince him to accept his place; something that he had no intention of doing.

The midday meal was a simple one, with a bowl of soup and bread still warm from the ovens. The soup was a savory mix of vegetable broth with pieces of potato and carrots. Meat was something he had not tasted since his arrival at the temple. The avoidance of meat was one of the facts of temple life that no one had explained to him, and he had not bothered to ask. It would not do to show too much interest, he thought.

He ate slowly to fill the time, then set the dishes aside. He was thankful that they no longer tried to feed him. He had proven that he could feed himself, even though it might have been wiser not to show them that much competence. Then he got to his feet and carefully shuffled towards the side of the room where his bed waited. The midday services were ongoing -- services that he was not expected to attend as of yet -- so he would be left alone for some time to come. There had been no books left behind the day before, no doubt in anticipation of his morning visitor, so instead of sitting and waiting, he decided to take a nap.

"Just because they expect you to follow their rules does not mean that you must," the Lady said from her seat in the window overlooking the city of the cavern. She held a strange instrument, shaped somewhat like a guitar, but held across the lap, facing up, plucking idly at the strings, filling the air with a soft music. It was eerie in tone, but suited her completely. Her hair was black as midnight, cascading down her back and to the floor. Her eyes were a pale silvery gray that matched her garments. They were embroidered in silver and black with images of the night sky and strange, mythical creatures.

"I am blind, and trapped in the heart of the land they control. What choice do I have?" Judas said bitterly, almost throwing himself on a pile of cushions at the Lady's feet. If she had a name, he had not learned it, although he had his suspicions who she was. Certainly, she had to be more than simply a dream wraith, haunting him.

"You do not seem terribly blind to me," she said with a soft smile.

Judas sighed. "Not here, but in the waking world, I can see little."

"You see more than you think," she said, enigmatically.

Judas shook his head, then rested it against his knees, his bent legs hugged to his chest. "I miss him," he said softly, barely more than a whisper.

The music stilled, and a gentle hand stroked his head for a moment before returning to the instrument's strings. "I know you do," she said, just as softly, and with a touch of sadness. "But do not despair. You may see him again."

"And what of the plans the clan leaders have for me? Not the plans that no one can explain, of how they think I can kill the God-King, which I do not believe is possible. The plan to use me to breed more children for them."

"Would that be so terrible?"

Judas lifted his head and stared at her in horror. "Yes! To bed any but Nemir..." He shuddered. Then his expression hardened. "And if they expect to use me as stud, it had best not be Nahanna. If she comes within my grasp, she will not leave it intact."

The Lady's laughter was like silver bells. "So blood-thirsty you are, little one," she said lightly, although her tone was slightly disapproving.

Her words punctured his anger, and his breath left him in one long hiss. "I wish I knew where Nemir is, what he is doing. If I could only see him again."

There was silence for a moment, a silence that seemed full of portent. Frowning, Judas looked up and found the Lady looking at him with an approving expression. "I wondered if you would ever ask," she said.

She set the guitar-like instrument aside and stood, holding out her hand to him. "Come," she said, and he took her hand. Her grip was strong for so slight a woman, although he was again surprised at her height; even a little taller than himself, and he had met few that came even close to his own height, even in the south.

Still holding his hand, she turned to the window, drawing him to her side. "Look, and tell me what you see," she said, gesturing towards the window with her other hand.

Judas frowned. "I see the cavern, and the lake," he said. "I see the lights of the gems and the strange plants you showed me before. It is lovely, like a landscape under a full moon, but it is a sight I have seen many times before."

"Of course, for that is what you expect to see. It goes with what you have always been told you should see. Now, close your eyes." When he hesitated, she released his hand and covered his eyes. "Close them, sweet child. Now think of your love. Picture him in your mind."

Judas sighed. He did not seen the reason for this, but he did as she asked. To this time, none of the lessons she taught had been without a point, so he trusted that there was one to this exercise.

He pictured Nemir as he had last seen the man, dressed in dusty robes, haggling with the jeweler for the heavy necklace that he wore all the time. At times it surprised him that he had been allowed to keep it, as wells as the quartz stone that hung from it, but the priestesses of the temple did not seem to even notice it. He was grateful, for if they had tried to take it from him, they would have had to kill him, for he would not surrender it while he lived.

"Open you eyes, child, and see," the Lady said, with satisfaction plain in her voice.

Obediently, Judas did as he was told, and gasped.

The window no longer opened onto the cavern. He no longer saw the gleaming stones, the still waters, the glow.

Instead, he saw bright sunshine and water that flowed slowly. A river wound its way through a lush landscape, full of greenery he did not recognize, and on the edge of the river, three men rode. Two rode together, one slender and the other both taller and broader. The third rode ahead, all his attention focused on the land around him.

Judas watched that man hungrily, and for a moment was dizzied as Nemir's image suddenly grew until it nearly filled the window. "He looks tired," he said, seeing the dark marks under the man's eyes. Nemir looked tired, and thinner, and yet, at the same time, he seemed full of health and energy.

Nemir tilted his head back, closing his eyes briefly as he turned his face to the sun overhead. The lines were deeper on his face, and yet, his skin was tanned darker than it had been since they day they met, when he had just returned from his time in the desert guard. Sunlight added highlights to his hair that were almost gold in color, to match his skin.

Then Nemir opened his eyes, and Judas frowned. His eyes, normally a rich, dark brown, seemed wrong somehow. And yet, he had no doubt that he was seeing his beloved, as he was now, not some product of his own mind.

Without thinking, Judas reached towards his beloved, desperate to touch him, for a moment believing that he truly was there, just on the other side of the window opening. But as his hand seemed to touch the image, it vanished, like a soap bubble bursting, and all he saw was the cavern and the silent lake once again. He sagged, suddenly exhausted, but the Lady caught him before he could fall to his knees.

"Easy. Seeing requires great strength of will, and it can be draining to those who are just learning how. But your will is already strong, and the time is coming when it will need to be stronger still. Dark days are coming, child, and it is time you learned the skills that you will need in them."

Her grip was now even stronger, more so than it should have been, and her gray eyes glowed with the light of the night sky. Judas found himself sinking into them, the darkness enveloping him like a warm cloak, and he fell.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Fifty-Eight ----------------------------------------

The further south they moved, the more lush the landscape became, and the less familiar. The palm trees were still ones he recognized, but the bushes with large, crimson flowers, were like nothing Nemir had seen before. Fields of grain waved on the horizon, not even in sight of the river that fed the fields of the lands he had grown up in, indicating other sources of water and land that was much richer. The folk here were not dependant on the flooding of the river like the north.

And with that greater richness came larger populations. Thankfully, the people of the villages they had passed had seemed disinclined to comment on the strangers, and when Dansen or Nemir had gone into a market to buy more food to replace the supplies that had been long used up, there were no signs of alarm. Supplies were even more necessary now, for while the land was richer, the game was less plentiful, as farmers droved the wilderness away for herd beasts and cultivated fields. Lions were seen frequently in Ajantha, but here, if a lion was sighted the men of the nearest village would hunt it down and kill it quickly to protect their herds and flocks.

Richer, perhaps, but to Nemir it seemed far poorer for having been so completely tamed.

The traveling was easier, with roads carved into the landscape by ancient hands, but it was becoming more dangerous for them. At the last two villages that they had stopped at, rumors had been traveling like the winter winds. Soldiers were abroad, traveling in larger and larger numbers. Young men had vanished from fields and grazing land, leaving behind animals and tools. Rumors said that they had been taken to fill the ranks of an army that the God-King was building.

No one knew what that army was for, but Nemir did. The God-King planned to march south. The Southern Clans were plotting against Him, and would be crushed for it.

And he could not find it in himself to pity them. They had brought this on themselves by their actions. It was nothing like what had happened in Ajantha, were his father had been slain for no crime of his own. The Prince had been loyal, and would have remained loyal.

But he did not care of causes or reasons now. He was traveling to retrieve his Companion. Once that was done, he would return to Ajantha and reclaim the rest of what was his.

After that, he had no interest in what happened to the rest of the world.

It was on the morning of the fourth day after they had left the river that the well of fortune that had protected them for so long finally ran dry. They had rested during the hottest part of the day, then mounted up to ride on. Not long after that, the skin at the back of Nemir's neck began to prickle.

He reined in Karsa, scanning the surrounding landscape. Birds sang in the flowering bushes that were almost of a size to be called trees, but other than that, there was no movement. Yet he could not shake the feeling that they were being watched. There was no place for a watcher to hide, but he was knew one was out there.

His eyes glinted dangerously, and his hand inched towards his sword hilt. Whoever it was would learn the price spies paid. It had been long since his blade had tasted blood -- one of a group of river bandits who had thought three travelers would provide no fight -- and he itched for it; a chance to expend his frustration in violence. Sensing his mood, his companions also readied themselves, although a glance in their direction found only confusion. Obviously, they did not feel whatever it was that he did.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the feeling of being watched vanished.

But they were no longer alone. The birdsong stopped abruptly, and in the resulting silence they could hear the sound of metal on metal; the jingling of harness and stirrup. It was the sound of a large number of mounted men coming down the road behind them, somewhere out of sight.

"What do we do?" Dansen asked in a harsh whisper. "If we ride, we will be heard, and there is no place to conceal ourselves."

Nemir frowned and thought quickly. "We continue to ride at the pace we were before. If they overtake us, we are just travelers." He squeeze Karsa's flanks with his knees lightly, setting him to a fast walk. Dansen and Markus quickly followed, keeping pace.

For the rest of the afternoon, they kept pace ahead of the travelers on the road behind them. As they rode, they could still hear the sound of a large company behind them, never speeding up to overtake them, but surely aware of them. From time to time when they turned in the saddle, they saw a glint of sunlight on metal, but the riders never quite came into view. Still being not too far from the river, the water caused the sound to carry much further than it might have otherwise.

But the sun was beginning to set, and if they continued to ride through the night, the horses would be exhausted come morning, and the riders behind them would become suspicious. Honest travelers made camp for the night. Dishonest travelers could become a target.

Finally, reluctantly, Nemir signaled that they should stop.

There was an open area next to the road, with a circle of stones surrounding the remains of many past fires. When they stopped, the horses stood in place, sides heaving. Even Karsa looked exhausted, and of the mounts they still had, his endurance was the greatest.

The weather being warm and pleasant, with no blowing sand or danger of wild animals, they did not bother with the tent. Indeed, Nemir was giving thought to discarding the tent as unnecessary weight. If they needed one again, they had the money to buy a new one when the time came. Instead, dry wood was found and they made a small fire inside the circle of stones, then set a pot on the fire to boil. Root vegetables and dried meat was added, along with a touch of salt and spice for flavor. Soup was not as filling as they might have liked, but since the hunting was so poor, it would do. At least they still had meat. It seemed that most of the south subsisted mainly on vegetables. Nemir could not imagine finding such a diet satisfying.

The horses were unsaddled and brushed, and dinner was nearly ready when the riders behind them came into view. Almost immediately, the three of them were the focus of sharp and suspicious eyes. They all stayed where they were, trying to look as unthreatening as possible, although their weapons were close at hand.

The party of riders were a dozen strong, and obviously soldiers. Even more disturbing was the golden sunburst that adorned the breast of each tunic. That mark was the one of the God-King's elite troop. The soldiers that had accompanied the envoy to Ajantha had been common soldiers. These were anything but.

The leader of the troop urged his mount forward a few steps. "Greetings travelers," he said courteously, eyeing Markus most of all. Markus was the largest, so likely the most dangerous in a fight. As well, it was impossible to disguise that he was a foreigner, which was why he had remained with the packs and horses whenever Dansen or Nemir went into a village to bargain.

"Greetings," Markus said, the accent he always had suddenly thicker and more pronounced. This was a situation they had planned for, realizing that it would might eventually come.

The rest of the troop stayed in a parade rest, the horses perfectly still, but to Nemir's eyes they looked ready to strike at the slightest provocation. The leader glanced to each of them in turn, then returned his attention to Markus. "You are a great distance from home," he observed.

Markus nodded. "Indeed. Markus, son of Ivan, I am. Karl of North marches, he is. Come to see the south, I have." He paused and frowned. "Learning your language I still am."

"You speak it quite well. And your companions?"

"To see your land, guides were needed. They show me."

The soldier nodded, but his eyes narrowed. "And what brings you to our lands? We do not see many from north of the seas here."

This was the most dangerous part, since if the soldiers decided that they were spies, their lives would be forfeit immediately. "To see if the tales are true. A land ruled by a god made flesh. Gods we have, but only in disguise do they walk among men. To see what a god would make..." Markus waved his hands in the air, an awed expression on his face. "Such a thing, amazing would be. Yes?"

A small smile crossed the man's face. "Amazing it most definitely is. So you travel to the capital?"

If Markus tensed, there was no sign of it. "Last, that should be. The best it would be."

"Perhaps. But the capital is the truest expression of the God-King's might." The man dismounted, and the others of the troop did the same. "It would be my honor to escort you there," he said, but there was a coolness in his eyes that said that it was not a suggestion. Markus would go to the capital.

Markus made a show of considering it, then nodded. "Honored to accept. My guides should go home then?"

The captain shook his head. "They are welcome to come as well. More than welcome," he said ominously, his eyes \sweeping over the other two men, and Nemir felt an urge to sigh.

Instead, he simply nodded to the man. "As you wish, captain," he said, and Dansen echoed him.

"Excellent. I am Limon, captain of the Imperial Guard." His men were setting up their own camp, to the side of where Nemir and his companions had. The man eyed the soup pot. "We have fresh meat with us, if you would share, and fresh bread."

"Welcome it would be," Markus said. "What we have, we will share too, but not much is there, as you see."

"Do not concern yourself. Now, please, I would very much like to hear about your land. I have heard tales, but I have never met a northerner. Is it true that in winter, the lakes and rivers become solid from the cold?"

The man now looked honestly interested, if not eager to know. Markus nodded, and while the troop continued to prepare their own camp, he began to spin tales.

As for Nemir, he fought back the frustration. The capital was the last place he wanted to go.

At least, for now.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Fifty-Nine ----------------------------------------

Four days after the Lady had taught him how to see things happening at a distance, Judas was sitting in his room holding a silver metal mirror that he was using to watch Nemir with. After the lesson, he had woken to find his sight completely returned, and he remembered the Lady's comment that he saw more than he thought. He had not told anyone yet. He let them lead him around and tell him what to do, mimicking blindness while covertly watching everything.

The complete return of his sight, strangely sudden as it was, had restored his hope that he might eventually escape

from the temple, but he had yet to see anything outside of the suite of rooms that were his prison. He had no way of knowing the layout of the building, and there were no windows, so he still had no idea how he would escape. Perhaps with practice he would be able to direct his sight at will.

But so far, all he'd been able to do was focus his sight on specific individuals, and even then, only ones he had met before. Attempts to view strangers or the dead -- he had wanted so badly to see his brother once more -- only made his head ache until his vision was clouded with sparks of light, scaring both his keepers and himself.

Still, he had experimented as much as he felt he could get away with when he was left alone. The tiny mirror in his hand had been the best tool he'd found so far, and he had looked far and wide with it. Once, he had even looked to Ajantha. Nemir's aunt, the Prince's sister, still lived, confined to the harem. She had no freedom and was watched carefully, but was otherwise unharmed. The guards who had helped them leave the city had managed to escape punishment, although they now rode the borders, which was probably the most dangerous duty of the Guard, since it was the border between the lands of Ajantha and the wilderness which was haven to bandits. Still, they seemed to be unharmed and in good spirits.

Once -- but only once -- he had even used this new talent to see what had become of Nemir's cousin. He did not remember Layla very fondly, and what he saw made his dislike turn to something both colder and hotter. Lord Morlan -- the man Nemir had warned him about so long ago -- governed the city, not as Prince, but as the God-King's appointed representative, and Layla stood beside him. He

could not tell if they had married, but it would not surprise him. She had a connection to the dead Prince, if only through marriage, and he had the power, but wanted more. Perhaps they believed that together they could take the throne that was Nemir's birthright.

But in the end, it was Nemir he watched as the man traveled on with Markus and Dansen.

Judas watched as Markus rode next to the captain of the troop that Nemir and the others had joined with the day after Judas had first looked in on them. Nemir and Dansen rode in the back of the group, speaking when addressed, but not starting conversations, trying to avoid notice.

Judas had not seen what had happened that brought them together with the troop of soldiers. He only knew that the morning after he had managed to palm the mirror, he had looked into it to see not three men, but a dozen and three. For one brief, terrifying moment, he thought that they had been captured, but he quickly realized that they were thankfully not prisoners. However, he doubted that they had truly chosen to travel with a troop of soldiers.

His only regret was that while he could see Nemir, see what he was doing, he could not hear him, so he had no idea what the truth of the situation was.

He heard footsteps approaching the door before the door opened, and quickly slipped the mirror between the cushions of the reclining couch. He composed his expression and closed his eyes as if he had been dozing while waiting for his next instruction.

The door opened, and the footsteps slowed. Judas stirred, pretending to be waking, then stiffened. "Nahanna," he said. He did not turn to face her, but he also made no pretense of not knowing who was standing behind him.

"Judas," she replied confidently. "I trust that you have come to terms with who and what you are, and outbursts like the last time I saw you are a thing of the past?"

Now Judas did turn, and he smiled at her. He was pleased to see her flinch back from his expression. "What I have and have not come to terms with is none of your concern," he said coldly. "And if you are wise, you will leave now."

Fear flashed across her face briefly. Then she squared her shoulder, no doubt still certain that he could not see her. After all, what danger could a blind man be? "You would do well to guard your tongue," she said harshly. "The lords of the clans are coming to the temple. They will be here in three days time. At that time, they will decide what is to be done with you, and I suggest that you learn to obey, for they will not appreciate threats or defiance."

Judas sighed. "You jump so quickly to their tune. A priestess, are you not? And servant to a Goddess. And yet you are no more free than any other woman of the south. The men snap their fingers, and you rush to do their bidding."

"I am well rewarded for what I do," Nahanna said. Her voice was tight with anger.

"Rewarded as a valued person or a valued tool? Do they see you as a person, or of no more importance than a beast of burden, treated well but in the end, disposable?"

Nahanna's eyes flashed. "Word games do not impress me. Remember, to them, I am the more valuable."

"For the children that will be fathered on you, whether you will it or not?" Judas shook his head. "Do not fool yourself. I am told that I am the first male born with the mark since the God-King killed the royal family. Girl-children are far more common. Do not fool yourself into believing that they would choose you over me if they had to."

Nahanna clenched her fist, and there was a faint glow around it. Judas tensed, wondering if he had finally driven her to violence. If she did attack him, though, she would find that he was not helpless. He might not have a blade, but he remembered the knife lessons Nemir had given him so long ago. His time of captivity had not yet completely softened him.

But she controlled herself. Bit by bit, the tension bled away from her. "Perhaps you are right. But it matters not. Your only choice it to do as you are told. No matter what."

She spun around and stalked out of the room, leaving Judas to wonder why she had come. The message she had given could have been delivered by any of the others and he would not have minded it as much. Was her presence a message as well?

He remembered what the High Priestess had told him, of how the lords of the clans tried to breed a Goddess-touched male. Perhaps they intended to have Nahanna bear his child.

If so, they would be disappointed, for he would never consent to such a thing, and it would not be possible without his cooperation.

Judas's hand inched towards the hidden mirror. He wanted more than anything to lose himself in watching Nemir, but knew that it was too late. The sound of approaching footsteps simply confirmed that thought.

The next few days passed in a whirl of activity. Judas was \fitted for new garments made from rich materials. Fine silks and smooth cotton, with boots of the softest leather. The clothing he had been wearing to that point had also been rich, but they had not been made for him. These garments fit him like a glove.

As well, his skin was massaged with scented creams and his hair was cut and set. In fact, he began to wonder at the elaborate preparations. He was being treated like a bride readied for her wedding. That thought did nothing to calm his nerves.

Despite the bravado of his conversation with Nahanna, Judas was terrified, although he was careful to conceal it. He hated it, but the men coming now controlled his existence. His life was literally in their hands.

Finally, the day came. He was dressed in the robes prepared for him, and for the first time since he had woken in the rooms that were his prison, he was led to the door and out.

Judas took in everything as they walked through long, windowless corridors, trying not to be obvious. The walls were carved stone, lit by generations of lamps that had left dark marks above them that not even the harshest of soaps would be able to remove. The stones were roughly fitted, giving the impression of great age.

They took so many turns as they went that Judas was quickly lost. It was like his early days in the palace of Ajantha before he had learned how to find his way around.

Finally they reached large doors made of ornately carved marble that swung open with amazing ease. On the other side was a large space open to the sky. Thankfully it was after dark, and it was lit with burning torches and moonlight instead of burning sunlight.

The details of the room escaped him, for at the center, seated in stone chairs that were more like thrones, were five men, all dressed in dark robes set with gems that sparkled like stars. The seats were set in a circle facing inwards, and at the center was a simple bench.

Judas was lead to the bench, and sat down gracefully, doing his best not to notice the piercing gaze of the five men.

The clan lords ranged in age from not much older than Nemir to one white-haired man who was older than Judas's grandfather had been at his death. But they all had the same hawk-shaped nose in common, and eyes so dark that they looked almost flat in color. He wondered what they thought of his own silvery-gray color. But Nahanna's eyes were an amber color, and the High Priestess's were a soft gray-green. Perhaps strange eye colors were yet another sign of the touch of the Goddess.

The priestess who had lead him that far bowed to the silent men, then left, leaving Judas alone with them.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Sixty ----------------------------------------

The first morning after becoming the unwilling guests of the Imperial Guard, Nemir found himself fighting his frustration. Why Limon and his troop were traveling so far from the capital was never explained, but they seemed eager to return to it. They did not travel unbearably hard, but they rode through all but the hottest part of the day at a steady pace, not making camp until close to sunset. At the pace they were setting, they would reach the Capital before too many days had passed.

Strangely, though, as the days passed, Nemir began to calm. Once again, fate had stepped in to change his path, and while it was not a change he would have welcomed, perhaps it was for the best. He would see the capital; a place he would have ended up in eventually. He would see what it was he would be facing. And then he would leave and continue on his way. Surely their forceful hosts would not be able to continue watching them once they had reached the city.

And his curiosity was definitely aroused as he listened to the captain wax poetic about the city at the center of the empire to Markus as they rode, describing the sights that the man would see.

The Captain took great pleasure in his conversations with Markus. He seemed to find the man fascinating, and he asked many questions about what the north was like. Markus described the vast forests and snow-capped mountains in great detail until they all felt as if they had seen them for themselves, even though they still sounded like places in a dream or fable.

By the time the fifth day came, they were into the farmlands that surrounded the capital. Clay pipes carried water from the nearby lakes to irrigate the fields, resulting in a sea of green as far as the eye could see. \Fishing boats sat serene on the lake, and as they watched, nets were pulled into the boats, glinting with silver that moved. The landscape was serene. Almost, Nemir was able to forget that the God-King ruled these lands closest to his home with an iron fist, or so he'd always heard.

And late in the day, in the distance, there was a glint of light, almost as bright as the sun.

"What is that?" Markus asked, pointing towards the beacon.

Limon squared his shoulders and stared towards the light with an expression of awe. "The temple of the God-King is capped in gold. Seeing the sunlight reflected from it tells travelers that they are almost home."

"So, we arrive today?"

The Captain laughed. "Not today or tomorrow. But we should reach the city by noon, the next day. Then you will see true greatness."

"I look forward to it," Markus said seriously.

That night, after they had eaten and set out their bedrolls, Nemir went to check the horses. For a brief instant, he was tempted to swing himself up onto Karsa's back and run, but even this close to the capital, Limon still set two guards at night, saying that even here, wild animals could still be a danger. There was no place to run, and no way to escape.

In less than two days, they would be in the heart of danger.

He just wished that he could escape the feeling that someone was watching him.

Mid-morning on the second day, they rode over a small rise and saw the capital spread out below them, shimmering in the rapidly rising heat of the day. Limon waved them all to a stop, and waved expansively towards the city. "Behold the heart of the kingdom. A true jewel in the world," he said proudly.

Nemir could only stare, for what he saw was the city from his half-remembered dreams, with the pyramid at the center, and the temple roofed in gold at the top of the pyramid. In the distance, at the far side of the city, he saw the cliff from which he had first seen it. It was beautiful. It was confusing.

"Nemir!" Dansen hissed in his ear. He realized, suddenly, that the other has started down the hill, following the road that became one of the boulevards leading to the central square, and had stopped to wait for him.

He blinked, and shook his head. "My apologies," he said, riding down to join them. "I was... overwhelmed," he added in complete honesty.

"Quite understandable," Captain Limon said generously. "Many are affected that way the first time they see the city. Now come, there is much much more to be seen."

"An inn, perhaps?" Markus suggested. "A bath and sleep in a bed is very appreciated."

"Soon, I promise. But you must see the temple first."

Markus exchanged quick glances with Nemir and Dansen before obediently following the captain. The temple at the center of the city was closer to the God-King than any of them wanted to get, but there were no protests that would not seem suspicious.

Not for the first time, Nemir wondered to himself how it was that a troop of the God-King's finest soldiers had just happened to be traveling along the same road as them. They had not been on one of the main travel routes, and their road did not lead directly to the city. Had their presence been mere coincidence, or deliberate?

The pyramid loomed larger and larger as they rode down the boulevard towards it. The sides, surfaced with smooth stone, gleamed slickly in the sunlight, and the shine off the gold roof of the building at the top was almost painfully bright from this distance. Shops and carts clustered along the side of the paved road, selling everything from flowers and food to clothing and furniture, and both the sellers and the shoppers turned to watch them pass.

The buildings were constructed of a sand-colored stone, and as they approached the center of the city, facings of polished marble began to appear, along with ornate carvings, matching the pattern of smaller cities, such as Ajantha, where the richest buildings were closest to the center, and the Palace.

But the closer they got to the pyramid, the less Nemir noticed these details. Instead, his attention was taken entirely by the impressive structure. It was huge, just as he remembered from his dreams, and he marveled at how long it must have taken to build it, and how many workers would have been needed.

From his angle, approaching the base, he could no longer see the building at the top of the pyramid, sitting at the center of the flat area where the point had been removed, although he could still see the light glinting from its roof. For a moment, he wanted to find a way up there to see if the view from the parapet was also the same as his dreams, foolish as that thought was.

Captain Limon led them to the impressive temple building that was pressed up against the base of the pyramid. It was open on the other three sides, the interior shielded from view by painted columns that held of the roof and the gauzy curtains of a pristine white that hung in between them.

In front of the temple stood several statues, more than four times the height of a man. Each portrayed a handsome man, with chunks of lapis lazuli set for the eyes, but having assumed that they were statues of the God-King, Nemir was surprised to realize, as they got closer, that each was of a different man. Why, he did not know, and he did not bother to ask.

A long ramp lead up into the temple, flanked at the bottom by two obelisks carved and painted with scenes of the God-King's deeds. One band depicted the conquering of the southern clans, he noted as he passed.

The interior of the temple was filled with a diffuse light coming through the curtains, with pools of light coming from the skylights in the roof of the temple. Priests moved through the space in pursuit of their duties. None of them so much as glanced at the strangers in their midst, even though Nemir felt filthy in his layer of road dust compared to the cleanliness of the temple.

The interior of the temple seemed to demand silence. Even the sound of metal against metal from the armor of the soldiers seemed like an affront to the sanctity of the temple, even one devoted to...

The thought faded away as the glint of yet more gold caught Nemir's eyes from the back of the temple. Forgetting about his companions, Nemir followed it. Far from the light of the sun was a single statue of a seated man. Looking up at the grave face, covered in gold, he felt a flash of recognition. It was a face he had seen many times, in his dreams, just like the pyramid.

Another spark of light demanded his attention, and he obeyed. He moved around the side of the statue's base to a small opening in the back wall, lit by torches. No one stopped him, so he followed the passage until he reached the end. There he found the base of a stairway, leading up into the pyramid proper.

Nemir stared up into the darkness, wondering what he was doing. A small voice within urged him to turn around and go back the way he had come. To find some way to evade the vigilant captain, and to leave the city with Markus and Dansen. Judas was in the south. South was where he should be traveling. Why was he here?

But instead, he started to climb.

Nemir climbed for what seemed like a lifetime. When the light first appeared in front of him as he turned one of the periodic corners in the stair, he thought it might be an illusion. The passageway was so narrow that he could not even stretch his arms out to the side. The ceiling was so low that he could touch it easily. Markus would not have been able to pass.

And it was completely unlit. Not a single lamp or torch broke the darkness, which was why he did not believe his eyes when he saw the glimmer in the distance.

But as he continued to climb, the light grew brighter, until it took the form of a rectangle, growing more distinct with every step. Despite his exhaustion, Nemir sped his steps, seeing an end in sight.

He burst from the darkness into the afternoon sun, nearly blinded by the brightness. He crouched where he was, covering his eyes. Tears streamed from them, but bit by bit, they readjusted to the light. Once he was no longer blinded, he straightened up once more, only to find that he was no longer alone.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Sixty-One ----------------------------------------

Judas sat, staring into the distance, waiting for the men to speak. None did. The two he could see just watched him silently, without expression. Only the practice of his time of captivity allowed him to sit still. The back of his neck itched as well, and he had to fight the urge to move.

"Speak," one of the men finally said from behind him. His voice was deep and almost hypnotic.

"What would you have me say?" Judas countered. "You have asked no questions, and it is obvious that no one will answer mine." His jaw tightened in his bitterness.

There was a soft chuckle. "Perhaps, but you will never know unless you try."

Several sharp replies came to mind, but Judas refused to give them voice. "Why am I here?" he asked instead.

"Because this is where you belong. This is your home."

Judas shook his head angrily. "Ajantha was my home. The tribe of my father and my grandfather was my home. The desert was my home. Ne..." He stopped, and took a deep breath. "This is my prison, for there is no reason for me to think of it as anything else."

"You should be grateful," one of the men he could see said. "An outcast in the desert, a slave in the north. Here, you are revered. Here, you are valued."

"Here, I have no say in what I do, or when I do it, or even what I wear. I am treated as little better than a pampered pet, rewarded with small luxuries if I do as I am told, ignored when my presence is not desired," Judas spat back, his temper beginning to get the better of him. "Would you consider this life so great a boon?"

In a few quick steps, the man -- the youngest of the group -- was in front of Judas, his fist raised to strike a blow, and without thinking, Judas blocked it. His training with Nemir made that easy. Then he realized what he had done and went pale.

The man who had spoken before chuckled again. "Shall we dispense with the claim of blindness then? It will make this so much easier."

For a moment, Judas was tempted to deny. His block could be explained by saying that he had heard the sound of the fist swinging through the air. But instead, he sighed, and twisted in his seat to face the man who had spoken.

Where the others were all grim faced, and the one outright hostile, the white-haired man was smiling almost fondly at him. There was something in his calm authority that reminded Judas of his grandfather. "Now, shall we discuss this like adults? Hamar, sit down," he added, his expression becoming a glare as he shifted his attention to the young man still standing in front of Judas with his fists clenched.

"What is to discuss?" Hamar said angrily. "He will do as we tell him, or he will suffer for it."

"Sit, Hamar."

There was steal in the older man's voice, and Hamar chose to sit; wisely, in Judas's opinion. The older man's voice was the voice of authority, and it was obvious that the other clan chiefs deferred to him.

"Now, how long has it been since your sight returned?" the chief said, returning his attention to Judas, his expression softening.

"Seven days," Judas said, his mouth twisting with displeasure at having to make the admission.

"And you hid this in the hopes that you might be able to... leave us." Judas simply shrugged. Because of his earlier words, there was no point to deny it. "You would have failed. The temple is set on a high rock above our largest city. If you evaded the guards around the temple, and made your way down the cliffs, you would never be able to make your way out of the city without being detected." Then he smiled. "But if you cooperate, it may be that you will have a better chance of escape later."

"Chiram!" Hamar protested, jumping to his feet.

"Hamar, be silent. If you speak again, you will be removed from this council."

Hamar sat down again, but the glare he sent Judas's way was filled with anger and, surprising to Judas, jealousy. Why he should be jealous, Judas had no idea.

He turned back to the older man, Chiram. "What is it you want of me?" he asked bluntly. It was a question he had asked many times in the first few days after he had woken at the temple, then stopped since it was obvious that there was no one willing to answer it.

"The Goddess-touched have abilities that ordinary men and women do not," Chiram said, bringing his fingers together to form a peak in front of his chin, resting his elbows on the stone arms of his chair. He could not have been comfortable. Judas's back already ached from sitting on the stone bench for the short length of time he had been in the chamber. Above, the edge of the waxing moon was beginning to peek over the edge of the opening in the roof. "Those abilities hold the key to destroying the hold of the God-King."

"What abilities?" Judas asked. The only one he had discovered so far did not seem to be one useful in a war, since he had only been able to see people that he already knew.

"You will learn what they are in time," Chiram said enigmatically. "The Goddess will teach you."

Hamar snorted, his expression one of disbelief, but he did not say a word, no doubt remembering the earlier threat.

"So, what happens next?" Judas asked, ignoring the young man.

"You have some training in how to fight, from what Nahanna told us. Now that the women of the temple have taught you our language and history, it is time for you to learn how to fight the way we do. We will be leaving for the gathering plain. The call has gone out and the time has come for us to march north and take back what is ours. Too long have we lived with the God-King's heel on our necks. Freedom will be ours!"

"Freedom!" the other men echoed.

The moon was fully displayed in the space above them, giving everything a silvery glow, and an unreal feeling. "How?" Judas asked.

"You will kill the God-King in single combat."

Judas lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. After the end of his meeting with the five clan chiefs, he had been escorted back to his room, and for the first time, the door was locked solidly behind him, in response to the fact that they now knew he could see. After Chiram's pronouncement, he had barely been able to follow the rest of what they had said. How did they think that he would be able to fight a man with god-like powers who had ruled for centuries? Nemir had taught him enough blade work to know how to defend himself against the average swordsman, but not one with centuries of experience. Surely they could not truly expect him to win such a battle.

He was not the only one who had his doubts. Just before the end of the audience, Hamar had finally spoken up again, urging Chiram to 'breed' Judas first, as though he was a stallion to be used for stud. From what he said, it was not one woman he was speaking of, such as Nahanna; it was many. The thought of it was enough to make Judas feel ill. He had never coupled with a woman, and he was not sure that he would even be able to perform if they insisted.

Thankfully, Chiram did not seem inclined to try that. If they failed, he had told Hamar, there would be no need for them to have bred a new Goddess-touched male, for there would be no one left to follow him into battle. This was their last chance to cast of their yokes.

That quiet and dignified statement was almost enough to inspire Judas to their side, despite all that had happened, but he said nothing. The truth was, he was still so very confused. Chiram seemed so honest, and so certain that when the time came, Judas would know what to do. Hamar, on the other hand, was young and arrogant. He reminded Judas of many of the young men of his tribe; the ones who would torment him when no one was around to carry tales to his brother or grandfather. He did not trust Judas, or his supposed abilities. He wanted to breed a new champion who would be raised from birth to do as he was told.

But as Chiram had pointed out, the God-King knew of his existence. He had sent soldiers to Ajantha to find and presumably kill him. Rumors had spoken of war coming in the south. With Judas still not found, there was little chance that the God-King would not be on the march by summer. Like it or not, the final battle to control the south was coming, and they would have to fight.

Judas pulled the mirror from its hiding place, but found himself unable to concentrate enough to see Nemir. Despite his best efforts to see him, or either of his two companions, all that he found was a headache that threatened to blind him again. Finally, he slipped the mirror into his sleeve and closed his eyes, trying to find some rest. At dusk, they would be leaving the temple. The call had already gone out to all of the clans, it seemed, even to those who had fled even further south in the wake of the first war with the God-King. The army was beginning to form, he had been told. Once they reached the plain, he would be presented to them as the new avatar of the Goddess on earth, and then he would lead them into battle, even if it was really the clan chiefs who commanded.

Judas's stomach clenched. He rolled over onto his side and curled up into a small ball. Rest was a long time coming.

Judas chewed on his lower lip, listening to the soft music, before turning to the Lady. "They said that... you would teach me what I need to know; how to destroy the God-King."

"Do you want to destroy him?" the Lady asked, setting aside her instrument.

"I... don't know. But if I am ever to be free, I need to know what I am and what I can do. Will you teach me?"

The Goddess stood, and held out her hand. "I will."

He took it and stood, then waited for what came next.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Sixty-Two ----------------------------------------

Nemir stood at the center of a large temple, much like the one far behind and below him, only there was little in the way of a roof. It was almost entirely open to the sky. Statues adorned the space, although there were more pedestals than figures, and their bases, like the columns, were painted with scenes that seemed to illustrate tales that he did not recognize.

He stopped at one pillar and lifted his hand towards a figure carved into it. A man with a halo of sun beams reached down to where a priest knelt, hands reaching upwards in supplication. The man's face was open and kindly, and his eyes were the blue of the summer sky.

Nemir moved around to the other side of the pillar, and frowned. Whatever had been carved there had been gauged out crudely, leaving a hint of the images that had been there, but not enough to recognize more than a crescent moon hanging over a shape that might once have been a person. The cuts were weathered, though, and he wondered how long it had been since the images had been excised.

He pushed the gauzy curtains aside and stepped out onto the terrace that surrounded the temple. He walked away from the structure, towards the low wall that ran along the edge of the top of the pyramid. He could see the city spread out before him,, all straight lines, clean and orderly. Completely unlike Ajantha. He glanced back over his shoulder briefly towards the temple that hid the passage down, and was nearly blinded by the sunlight off of the gold. He turned back to the view.

The fatigue from the long climb had faded, leaving him feeling like he was viewing the world through one of the sheets of gauze. Everything had a hazy, almost unreal feeling, all tinged with a golden glow. Part of him thought that he should go back; Dansen and Markus would be looking for him. Looking down the side of the steep pyramid, he could see the temple at the base where the two men were probably hunting for him at that very moment.

But he did not seek out the passage. He did not go back to the structure behind him. He simply stood there, staring out over the city.

The sun was warm on his back and he lifted his face to the light.. Needing to feel the light more fully, he undid his sword belt and let it drop to the stone tiles with a clatter. Then he pulled his tunic up over his head, and tossed it aside. Now the sun was warming his entire upper body. It felt even better.

He relaxed even further, swaying slightly in place. At that moment, he could understand those primitives who worshiped the sun itself as a god, not realizing that it was simply an aspect of the true God. The sun brought warmth and light to the world. Plants were inspired to reach higher under a shining sun, and flowers could be seen to turn their faces to follow the sun as the day progressed. The sun was life.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he did not notice the figure creeping up in his shadow. He did not hear the footfalls, or the hiss of a sword being drawn from its sheath. It was only the bellow of rage that let him move quickly enough to avoid the blade being swung at his back.

Nemir rolled to the side, reaching for his discarded sword, but his tunic lying on top of it fouled his attempt. He continued his roll until he was back on his feet, all of his attention focused on his attacker.

It was a man, dressed in little other than a kilt of linen; light and cool in the heat of the mid-afternoon. His skin was tanned, and gleamed with sweat, or perhaps oil. He was old, perhaps of an age with Nemir's father if he had still been alive. There were fine lines around the man's vivid blue eyes. He would have been a handsome man if his face had not been twisted into an expression of rage.

Nemir held out his hands, trying to placate the man. "If I am where I should not be, I apologize," he said, his gaze darting briefly to his sword, tantalizingly just out of reach.

The man noticed that, and moved to block Nemir from reaching his weapon. "This is my place. I will not let you take it."

"I had no intention of taking anything," Nemir protested, then was forced to duck as the stranger swung his sword at Nemir's head. The blade passed so close to him that he could feel the air move as it went past. Whoever the man was, he was intent on killing Nemir.

With that realization, Nemir stopped trying to reason with the man. There was little sanity in those blue eyes, and while he was aging, he swung the sword with authority, and he was not weak. If Nemir made one mistake, he would be dead.

Nemir cursed the haze he had been in before that had let him abandon his weapons. His sword lay behind his attacker, and his other weapons were with his bags below, still with Karsa and the other horses outside the temple. He was completely disarmed...

Except for his boot knife, he suddenly realized. As soon as he remembered that it was still there, he could feel the bulk of it against his calf.

When the stranger came after him again, Nemir rolled out of the way, and as he did so, he managed to pull the blade from the top of his boot. It was barely more than a hands width in length, not much against a sword the length of his forearm, but any weapon was better than none.

The stranger was growling deep in his throat as he made short jabs towards Nemir with the point of his sword. He did not even seem to realize that Nemir was no longer completely helpless.

Having the blade in his hand also increased Nemir's confidence. He used it deflect another swing, then kicked out at the man's legs. The man went sprawling, but was on his feet again before he could take advantage.

The sun was shining in Nemir's eyes, and the heat was so thick that it felt as though it were smothering him. Sweat ran down his face, threatening to blind him. And yet, through it all, he couldn't remember ever feeling more alive, more *right*, in his life.

Gradually, step by step, the fight changed, becoming a dance. Every step felt as though it had been done before. Nemir knew every move that the stranger would make before he made it. His chest was tight, and he could barely breathe, but every block or feint he made was effortless.

The stranger was cursing steadily as he tried without success to drive Nemir back, tears running down his face. But he was starting to falter, and instead of driving Nemir away, he was forced backwards, step by step, until the parapet was directly behind him and he could go no further.

When he felt the carved stone against the back of his legs, the stranger froze. His eyes were wide and mad. Nemir wondered idly if he would stop fighting now. It was clear that he could not win.

The entire world seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see what would happen.

Then the man bellowed loudly, raised his sword, and charged Nemir.

A moment later, he was collapsing to his knees, Nemir's knife embedded in his chest to the hilt. Nemir pulled the knife back, and was hit with a spray of blood, hot and metallic as it hit his face, burning hot. The other man's sword dropped to the ground with an obscenely loud crash. "You..." the man said, pointing towards Nemir.

Nemir dropped his blade and moved to support the man as he slid down until he was supine on the stone tiles of the terrace. The man was dying. He had killed him. He did not even know who he was, he realized with regret.

"Easy," he said, supporting the man's head in his lap. He wanted to reassure the man, but could not find words that would not be an obvious lie.

"Someday... this... will be... you..." the man choked out, his face twisted into an expression of hate. "This... is... your... fate." Then he closed his eyes.

And died.

Nemir shivered at the hate in the man's dying words. Then he continued to shiver, as if the sun had vanished and the world had gone cold. The shivers ran through him in waves, growing stronger and stronger until his entire body was wracked with spasms.

He fell backwards, the dead man forgotten. His eyes were fixed on the sun far overhead. It expanded into a great wheel of fire, blindingly bright, filling the sky.

He drifted in a cloud of light, filled with a strange buoyancy. For the first time in far too long, he felt completely at peace.

A warm hand was stroking his forehead, smoothing his hair away from his face, and he turned towards it. "Judas," he murmured softly, knowing that his beloved's presence was the only thing that would make this perfect.

"No, Nemir," a deep and rich voice said. "They still have them. The heretic Goddess-worshipers want to turn him against you. They will turn him into your enemy unless you take him back and destroy them."

Nemir frowned. He did not recognize the voice, and yet it resonated deep inside of him, filling him. And it rang with the sound of truth.

"Destroy them?" he muttered, still bathing in the golden bliss. "How?"

"Raise up the armies," the voice said, full of fire and steel, hot as the sun, cold as the mountains. "Cast them down. Show them that the balance cannot be changed. They live in the darkness, and they must either come into the light of the sun or be destroyed."

The fire was running through Nemir's veins now, and he felt a fierce joy rising up in him. Destiny was here. Destiny was his. "Destroy them for what they have done," he said.

"I will smite them, and you will be my sword," the voice said, now ringing like bells, and Nemir vibrated in tune with the words.

And he burned.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Sixty-Three ----------------------------------------

After sundown, for the first time in Judas did not know how long, he left the temple. They did not leave by the main doors, assuming that there was such a thing. He assumed that it was because there was the risk that the temple was being watched. If indeed the God-King was worried about the south, surely he had spies to watch his enemies.

Instead, they went to a large chamber that felt... peaceful to Judas. Instinctively, he knew that he was in the heart of the temple complex. This was where generations of clansmen had raised their voices in praise of their Goddess. Every stone felt consecrated.

Behind the altar, a passage led deeper into the temple, gradually changing from carved stone to rough rock as it went down. It gave the passage the feeling of even greater age than the secret passages in the palace of Ajantha. It twisted and turned until Judas could no longer tell which direction they were traveling in, and they were too far underground for him to feel where the moon was.

The five clan chiefs, accompanied by twice that number in guardsmen, surrounded Judas as they made their way through the darkness, following a single torch held high. Even if there had been any side passages, Judas would not have had the chance to try to escape. They need not have worried. As of yet, Judas had seen no way to make his escape successfully. Perhaps at a later date. But until he could be sure of his plan, there was little point in trying only to fail.

Some time late in the night, they came to a stop and the torch was extinguished. From there they made their way forward almost entirely by touch towards the end of the passage where faint light could be seen. They emerged from the darkness into the night, illuminated by stars and a crescent moon low on the horizon. Judas turned his face skyward and took in a deep breath. It was the first truly fresh air he had breathed in far too long. He would have happily stayed where he was, but he was urged down the path.

The path they were on was steep, hugging the edge of what seemed like a cliff to Judas, and he clung to the inner edge. Once and only once, he looked over the edge towards the ground far below, and became so dizzy that he had been in danger of falling. Even traveling into the mountains towards the trade towns, he had never looked down from such a height. One of the guardsman grabbed the back of his sash, pulling him back from the edge.

But eventually they reached the bottom, where yet more guardsmen waited, along with horses, although none of them as fine as the horses of his tribe. They mounted up immediately and set off across the plain.

As they rode away, Judas twisted in the saddle to look behind them. Looming up over them was a rock formation that seemed out of place, rising out of the plain with almost vertical walls, reaching up towards the sky. At the top, he could just barely see the buildings he assumed were part of the temple. Other than that, there was no sign of human habitation to be seen. The city must have been on the other side of the rock.

A hostile command from Hamar turned him back around again, although he did not acknowledge the young man. Part of him already missed the temple, prison though it had been. And at the same time, he would be quite happy never to see it again if that meant that he had gone home. No matter what the chiefs said, he had no intention of giving up his hopes. Even promises of power and position once the God-King was dead were not enough to turn his head.

Somehow, although he was not sure how, he would make his way home, and back to Nemir.

The three days of travel that followed was very familiar to Judas. It reminded him of the flight from Ajantha, although there were more members to their group. The danger was presumably was less, but they still rode hard through the night, and into the day while Judas huddled under the cloak he was given. The nights were cool and the days were hot, although nowhere near as hot as in the desert.

And Judas was well-guarded the entire time. Not once was he left alone, not even to deal with bodily functions. Despite Chiram's suggestion that cooperation might provide him with the opportunity of escape, no one was foolish enough to make it easy for him.

He was glad to be away from the temple, though. His freedom might have been barely more in Ajantha, but at least he had had Nemir to talk with. In the temple, the priestesses talked to him, telling him what he was expected to learn, but he had had no friends. His only regret on leaving the temple was that he had not been allowed to talk to the High Priestess again.

His only true fear as they left the temple, though, had been that they might bring Nahanna along, but the duplicitous woman had been thankfully left behind, despite the protests of Hamar. Why the young chief wanted her to travel with them, he was not exactly sure, but it seemed to him that the man had designs on the Goddess-born priestess. Perhaps it was that status that made her appealing, or perhaps it was her beauty that had him ensnared. Whatever the reason, he spoke of her like a man besotted.

Judas woke well before sunset on the third day of travel. He had a small tent to himself, but as usual, it had been set at the center of their camp. The tents of the five chiefs formed a circle around him, and the guards formed yet another circle around them. Only a feat of great magic would allow him to leave undetected in the light of day, and he knew of no such magic.

Taking advantage of the fact that he was, for the moment, alone, Judas pulled the small mirror from inside his cloak and cradled it in his hand. Staring into the reflective surface, he tried once more to see Nemir, but the mirror flashed brightly, and he covered his eyes, choking back a soft cry of pain. The light had been as bright as the noon sun, but at least it did not burn him the way the sun would have.

Since the day he left the temple, it had been that way. Every attempt to see his beloved had failed. Even Dansen and Markus were somehow beyond his seeing. When he asked the Lady during their dreamtime lessons, she just shook her head sadly and said that there was nothing she could do.

The tent flap opened suddenly, letting in a stream of light from the sun low on the horizon. Judas shrank back protectively from the glare. Then the light was blocked by the far too familiar form of Hamar. "We ride in an hour," he said harshly, tossing a loaf of travel bread to Judas. "Do not dawdle."

He did not wait for a reply; he simply turned and let the flap fall shut again.

Judas picked up the loaf and tore off a chunk. The dried meat and fruit mixed into the bread made it a filling, although less than appetizing meal. Warm water tasting of the leather of the bag holding it washed it down. Then he pulled on his cloak and rolled his bedroll. He pulled the hood of the cloak up over his head before leaving the safety of the tent.

A small fire was burning, not far from his tent, and other than a couple of the guards and Hamar, all of the travelers were clustered around it. The smell of cooking food wafted his way. The chiefs, it seemed, were not eating travel bread.

Chiram saw him and waved him over, indicating that he should sit next to the older man. Chiram was the only one among the chiefs who Judas actually liked. Hamar hated him, and the others ignored him, other than the teachers who drilled him in the southern form of fighting with a curved sword for a time before the night's ride began, but Chiram actually took the time to talk with him. In many ways, the man reminded him a great deal of his own grandfather, and perhaps a little of Nemir's father as well. He took his responsibilities seriously, but did not let them wear him down. He praised Judas's rapidly growing skills with the sword and told him tales of the clans and their history.

Hamar, on the other hand, seemed to be of the opinion that the accident of birth that had made him a clan chief meant that all should look on him with respect and awe before he had truly earned it. Then he saw Judas being treated with that awe because of marks on his arms, his own accident of birth, and he burned with anger. Hamar was one that Judas would not want to be left alone with.

"Did you sleep well?" Chiram asked mildly, setting a piece of roasted meat on a flatbread and handing it to Judas. The travel bread had been filling, but he accepted it gratefully, his stomach appreciating the warm food.

"Well enough," he replied before biting into the soft bread. He used the edge of the bread to catch the meat juices that promptly started to run down his chin.

"Good. We reach our destination tonight, before the setting of the moon. No lessons tonight."

"What is our destination?" Judas asked, sipping water from the skin.

"You do not need to know that," Hamar snapped as he joined them. Where he had been, Judas did not know or care.

"Enough, Hamar. Learn to curb your tongue," Chiram chided him before turning back to Judas. "There is a valley near here, at the feet of the eastern mountains. One that is sacred to the Goddess. It is there that the armies of the clans have been gathering. In a few days time, after we join them, they will march north to face the armies of the God-King. By the time that the moon is full, it will be decided; whether his tyranny will continue unchecked, or whether the lands will regain their freedom."

Judas nodded, even though he still had his doubts as to whether or not they had a chance of succeeding. The Lady had been teaching him even more than he had known before, but still, nothing that might give him the chance of killing one such as the God-King. No battle spells or tricks of the sword.

And even if he could, he found it hard to believe that the Southern Clans could muster a large enough army to stand against the one that the God-King surely had. And without an army large enough, there was little chance that he would ever get close enough to the God-King to do anything.

But he said nothing. For nothing he said would change the minds of the brave and foolish men around him.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Sixty-Four ----------------------------------------

Nemir woke with the rising of the sun. The bed he lay on was on a tall dais at the center of the pyramid-top temple, beneath the open sky. He sat up and looked around, the light bed coverings falling away from his body, revealing that he was naked beneath them. The day was already growing warm as summer approached. He pushed aside the gauzy draperies that partially shielded the bed from view and stood, stretching up onto the tips of his toes, reaching towards the sky. He closed his eyes and turned his face upwards, filled with a sense of warmth and purpose.

One of the temple servants approached, eyes respectfully downcast. Nemir stood still, feet planted apart and his arms held wide. The servant wrapped the linen kilt around his waist, then stepped back again. Nemir ignored him and headed out to the terrace.

There, a low table had been set out, with a pile of cushions next to it. He sat down on the cushions and reached for the bowl of fruit. All of his favorites were set out for him, along with cheese and bread, and slices of rare meat. A perfectly ripe orange came to hand first. He peeled it and bit into one succulent wedge, the juices running down his chin.

All of this had a feeling of unreality, like a particularly vivid dream, and yet at the same time it was very familiar. All was exactly as it should be.

He look toward the rising sun. For a moment he thought he saw blood soaking into the marble stone that paved the terrace, and he wondered what had happened to the body.

He frowned slightly. Body? Why would there have been a body here in his place? Who would have dared to die here? He shook his head. Foolishness.

"Great one."

He turned back from his consideration of things that could not be. The high priest was kneeling, a respectful distance from the table and Nemir. "Yes," he said coldly, irritated by the interruption.

"Reports have arrived from our spies in the south. As expected, the clans have started to gather their armies. By the time of the next full moon, they will be marching north. What are your orders?"

Nemir was still watching the sun as it rose higher. It irritated him that he was being asked question when the answers were so obvious. "Send for Limon. Tell him that it is time. We march south as soon as the army is ready. It is time that the clans understood the world as it is and their place in it. When I am done with them, there will not be enough left to rise up for ten generations."

The priest bowed so low that his forehead was tapping the marble. Then he backed away, never looking up at Nemir.

But Nemir had already forgotten him as he continued his breakfast. When he finished, as servant brought him his sword and he moved out to the center of the terrace and began the first steps of the sword practice. He breathed deeply, moving slowly at first, then gathering in speed. His eyes were shut, and he swung his sword precisely, almost as if he could see his opponent in his mind's eye. His muscles moved smoothly under his skin, tightening and relaxing.

The sweat began to flow and the sense of peace grew until he felt almost as if he was floating above the smooth marble tiles of the terrace. In his mind he could almost see wings of snowy white feathers spreading out to either side of him, surrounding him, keeping him safe from the world. Safe from the darkness and prying eyes.

As he reached the end of the practice, his moves slowed again until he came to a stop, facing the sun with his sword raised in salute. Then he sheathed it and turned, expecting to find a towel laid out for him so that he could wipe off the sweat. The towel was there, but so was Captain Limon. Nemir frowned, having briefly forgotten that he had called for the man.

The towel was set on the table, along with a deep dish full of sun-warmed water. He lifted the dish over his head and let the water cascade down over him, not caring that his kilt was soaked, then used the towel to dry himself roughly before heading to where the Captain waited respectfully. "How soon can the army be readied?" he asked harshly, sitting back down on the cushions.

"In three days' time, my lord," Limon said.

Nemir thought about it. "How long until the next full moon?"

"Fourteen days."

"Good. I want the army on the march as soon as possible. I will ride at its head. It is time that the South understood the penalties for what they have done."

He turned away, dismissing the man from his mind, but after a moment he realized that the man hadn't left as expected. "Is there something more?" he asked, frowning his displeasure.

"Your companions, my lord," Limon said, bowing low. "They have been asking after you. They are quite insistent."

Nemir blinked slowly. Companions? Then he remembered. Dansen and Markus. It seemed like a different life, his travels with them. "Tell them I am fine. There is no need for them to worry." He was not sure why they *would* worry. All was as it should be.

"I have told them, but they do not believe me. They will only be happy when they have seen you for themselves."

Nemir shrugged, unconcerned. "Then tell them to join the army. They will see me then, as all will. Now go."

This time, Limon bowed deeply and backed away, heading for the hidden passage that was only known to the servants of the temple. Like all Captains of the Guard before him, Limon was a priest, as well as a soldier. He was the best Captain that Nemir could remember having, though, which was good. While victory was assured, of course, it was aided by having strong men in his service. While victory was assured, he was not foolish enough to think that the south would cave in without a fight.

With Limon gone, Nemir shifted so that he could lay back on the cushions he had been sitting on and turned his face towards the sky once again. The sun spoke to him in soft tones, and it made him strong. He opened his kilt and let the sun touch every part of him, like the fingers of a strong and knowledgeable lover. His flesh stirred under that touch and he moaned softly, confident that no one would disturb him for many hours. When the sun was high in the sky, they knew to stay away.

Nemir closed his eyes and let the light take him away.

For the next two days, preparations proceeded at a high rate, although Nemir took little notice of them. The priests would deal with all that was needed for him to travel. Instead, he spent more time in his sword practice in anticipation for battle, making up for months without.

He had never led in battle, but he was confident in his abilities. It was only right that he should be the one to lead the army south. After all, was he not the one most wronged by the actions of the clans?

So by day he readied himself for battle, and by night he retreated into the temple to wait for the sun to rise. From time to time, he could feel the touch of spying eyes, but he repelled them easily.

Finally, as the moon approached half full, the preparations were complete, and for the first time since his arrival, he followed the dark passageway back down to the temple at the base of the pyramid. Waiting priests draped him in cloth of gold and crisp white linens. A collar of lapis beads was placed around his neck, and a tall crown was set on his head. A sword of the finest steel was hung by his side.

Fully prepared, he stepped out of the shadows into the temple where the priests all knelt. He paused, and nodded, then strode down the center aisle to the grand entrance of the temple.

The square beyond was packed with bodies. Men, women, and children, nearly the entire population of the city, were waiting, and at the base of the ramp, Captain Limon waited with Karsa, saddled in the finest of gold-chased leather.

Nemir paused at the top of the ramp, and a mighty shout went up. Thousands of voices, lifted in praise. Nemir raised his hands in acknowledgement, then strode down the ramp to the waiting guard. On either side of the bottom of the ramp stood the statues, with a new one at one end being carved. The sculptor stood next to it, his chisel in hand, watching Nemir with hawk-like eyes. Nemir stopped briefly and met the man's gaze until he finally nodded.

"Is the army ready?" he asked Limon, who bowed his head.

"Yes, my Lord. It only waits for your order."

Nemir nodded. "The order is given," he said, and a cheer arose from the crowd.

A young man in the livery of the guard rushed to kneel next to Karsa so that Nemir could use his back as a mounting block. It was not necessary, but he accepted the gesture as an indication of the great respect that was his due.

Mounting Karsa was like coming home, and he wondered at the fact that the horse had been willing to allow for the care he had so obviously received. He had been trained not to accept the touch of any but his master. Then he dismissed the thought as unimportant. Far more weightier matters awaited him.

"The South has grown bold," he announced, and the square went silent, his words almost echoing in the space. "They think to defy the might of the empire. They think to defy *me*! But they shall learn the futility of their rebellion. They think to send an army north to contest me, but they will find that there is no contest. They shall be defeated and cast down.

"The Empire is eternal, for so long as I exist, so does it!"

The roar that answered him was deafening. Nemir set his heels to Karsa's flanks, and the stallion pivoted sharply. Immediately, a passage opened through the crowd, and he set off at a slow pace, Limon and his men behind him. Hands reached out to him from the crowd, but he ignored them, eyes focused forward.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Sixty-Five ---------------------------------------- The valley of which Chiram had spoken was not so much a valley as a crevice, deep in the earth, invisible to the eye until you were nearly on top of it. It reminded Judas bitterly of the valley where they had spent the winter storms in safe seclusion. There were days when he would have wished himself back to that time, even though Nemir had not been speaking to him. Even with the pain and the fear, everything had seemed so simple.

Nothing was simple any longer.

The valley was narrow at each end, but the middle spread out and a small lake sat at the very center, perfectly still, reflecting the full moon as it sailed overhead. Across the valley, Judas could see buildings clustered along the base of the cliffs surrounding the valley, but no fires to indicate that anyone lived there.

Instead, the growing army was camped around the valley, clustered close to the edge of the cliffs, but not actually in the valley. Puzzled, Judas turned to Chiram. "Why is no one camped below? They would be closer to the water, and surely there is game to be found."

Several men within earshot hissed, and for a moment, Judas thought that Hamar might actually strike him. Chiram simply shook his head. "The valley belongs to the Goddess. Only her avatar and his servants may enter."

Judas frowned. "Her avatar. I do not understand."

Chiram took Judas's hand and lifted it, brushing back the sleeves of his over-robe, revealing the marks on his arms. Judas tried to cover them again, but Chiram was relentless. "Her avatar. The living embodiment of the Goddess in the world. The one who bears the marks. But the God-King killed the last avatar, and the priestesses had to retreat to the main temple. With no avatar, the valley sits untended."

The chief finally let go of his arm, and Judas turned back towards the valley, taking in what the older man had said. If his words could be trusted, if Judas made it into the valley, no one would come after him. But he would also be unable to leave, for surely all paths out would be guarded. Still, the thought was tempting. And there was something about the peaceful feeling of the valley -- a hush, as if it were waiting for something -- that drew him.

Instead, he turned and followed the other men away from the edge, refusing to acknowledge either the pleased expression on Chiram's face or the sneer on Hamar's. Some day he would have his freedom, but when *he* decided the time was right. This had been a test of him, he knew, and he would not show his hand so quickly.

But he wondered at Chiram's words. The avatar and *his* servants. Could a woman not be an avatar? Nahanna bore marks of her goddess, as did the high priestess. Why did they not live here? How was it that he was an avatar, but they were not? He wanted to shake his head. The south confused him with its strange refusal to consider women worthy, even though they worshipped a Goddess. Surely they had not always been that way.

They stopped before they reached the main encampment, and Judas frowned in puzzlement. The men around him said nothing, but Chiram gestured for him to remove his cloak. Then his hair was brushed out, and his sleeves were rolled up and fastened so that the markings on his arms could be plainly seen. After a lifetime of keeping them covered, Judas had to fight the urge to roll the sleeves back down. But the marks were what made him important to these people, so they insisted.

The clothing he wore under his robes were travel-stained, but mostly white to match his hair and skin. In the night, the marks on his arms were so dark that his skin almost glowed in contrast. A silver coronet set with moonstones was placed on his forehead.

Chiram stood back to look at him and nodded in satisfaction. "You are ready. The army waits for you."

"And keep your mouth shut," Hamar hissed, taking a place behind and to the left of him. "You are here only for them to see. We shall do the talking. All you need to do is stand and look serious. I am sure that you can manage to do that."

Judas bristled at the tone. He had the feeling that the day would come when he and the young chieftain would face each other, and when that day came, Hamar would not hold back, and there would be no guards to stop him. He did not fear that, though. On that day, Hamar would learn that Judas could do much more than just stand and look serious.

He turned away from the young man without a word, ignoring the soft growl of anger. Hamar was of an age with Nemir, but the two men were so different. Hamar had obviously been raised to believe that his birth meant that all should respect and obey him. Nemir, on the other hand, had been raised to expectation that he must earn the respect that went with the position he was born to. It was amazing how much of a difference that made.

In the distance, Judas could hear all the sounds that would go with an army. Horses moving, metal clanking against metal, countless voices murmuring softly. If he concentrated, he could even tell what each voice was saying, which surprised him. He had never been able to do that before.

They came around one of the oversized boulders that seemed to hug the edge of the lip of the valley, and the army was spread out before them. Men and beasts, clustered around tents and fires, for as far as the eye could see.

Then silence fell, starting with those closest, but spreading out through the camp. Men emerged from tents, and those sitting stood. Judas fought the shivers as he found himself the focus of so many eyes. He had never enjoyed it, but it had never been for anything but his freakish coloring.

"Men of the clans!" Chiram called out, stepping forward with his arms raised. "The time has finally come for us to reclaim what is ours. The false god of the north thought that he could destroy us, destroy the line of the Goddess, but he failed. The Lady has sent a new avatar to lead us into battle. With him, we cannot lose!"

A sharp shove to his back by Hamar sent Judas forward, almost stumbling, but he caught himself before he fell. Cheers rose up, and swords were brandished. Chiram nodded to him approvingly.

The cheers continued, and Judas felt like telling them that they were foolishly optimistic. If having an avatar guaranteed them victory, then how was it that the God-King had killed their avatars before? He was just a man, and a young one at that, with little training in fighting. How was he expected to lead an army? Not that he would truly be leading it, he knew. Despite Chiram's pretty words, he was nothing but a figurehead, a symbol for them to rally around.

He just wished that he could believe that they were doing anything but marching to their deaths.

An army does not march on short notice, no matter what the tales might say. A tent was set up at the middle of the camp, and it was to that tent that Judas was lead in a circuitous route designed to let as many as possible see him up close. The ones that did not get the chance would hear from those who did. Hands reached out to touch him, but his guards kept them away, and men called out to him in praise. Judas kept his expression impassive, not wanting to show just how disturbing he found the adulation.

They finally reached the tent, and once inside, Judas collapsed to the ground in relief. His skin crawled, and it seemed to him that he could still feel all those eyes on him. Oh, how he wished he was back in Ajantha, a simple slave once more.

"You did well," Chiram said, settling down on the pile of cushions around the small brazier at the center of the tent. The brazier was lit, sending a small column of smoke up to the vent hole and filling the space with warmth.

With all the dignity he could manage considering his fatigue, Judas pushed back to his feet and moved over to sit on one of the other cushions. The other clan chiefs filed into the room and took their own seats. All looked pleased, except for Hamar, which did not surprise Judas. The youngest chief was never happy.

Immediately, the five men set to discussing plans for the march north and what would happen when they reached the capital. Judas had his doubts about whether or not they would get that far. If the God-King was everything that stories said, there was little chance of getting that far before encountering the armies of the Kingdom. But he doubted that the men speaking around him as though he was not there would listen.

The tent flap opened and a heavily shrouded woman ducked to come in, carrying a large tray with a tea pot and small cups. She set the tray down on the carpet and started pouring. The chiefs ignored her, but something about her seemed familiar to Judas. Then she turned to hand him one of the cups and he saw her eyes. The robes covered everything else but her hands, but it was enough for Judas to recognize her, and he stiffened. Nahanna.

He opened his mouth to demand why she was there, but her eyes flashed at him, and for a moment he thought he was hearing humming. His mouth shut with a snap and he took a sip of tea. Hot and sweet. She served everyone else, then left.

Judas continued to drink his tea, fighting the urge to yawn. It had been a long few days since they had left the temple, and he wanted very much to just go to sleep. The chiefs, who had barely noticed Nahanna's presence, did not seem to be suffering from the same fatigue.

Then he caught Hamar watching him with a small smirk, and he wondered just what had the man so pleased.

The cup was empty, so he set it on the tray, then decided that if the chiefs were going to ignore his presence, he might as well ignore theirs. He was tired, and they would probably insist on moving the army soon, so he curled up on the cushions and closed his eyes.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Sixty-Six ----------------------------------------

The army set out at sunrise, and Nemir rode at their head, garbed in gold and white, unmatched in beauty and arms. Karsa pranced, head lifted high, tail streaming in the breeze, and like his rider, there was no mount in the army to match him.

Limon and his troop rode with him as his honor guard. Nemir had little need for a guard; no one in his army would be foolish enough to try to harm him, and no assassin would ever make it through the army to reach him. But his position demanded an honor guard, and he trusted Limon. The man had brought him to his destiny, after all.

"How did you know?" he asked Limon, just from curiosity.

"My Lord?"

"How did you know where to meet me to bring me to the capital?" Nemir asked. It was a question that had nagged at his mind for many days. On the one hand, his presence was inevitable. If he had not been there, who would have led the army south? Who would have protected the Kingdom? And yet, how could have been mere coincidence that had brought Limon to him?

"Word came from the temple and the High Priest. We were sent to meet you and escort you to the temple, for that was where you were needed. Do you disagree?"

For a moment, Nemir considered rebuking him for his tone, but did not. The Captain was his most valuable servant. "You did exactly as you should have," he assured the man. Indeed, as time went by, he found it more and more difficult to remember the time before he came to the temple.

On several occasions as they traveled south, he caught glimpses of Markus and Dansen in his retinue, but never close enough to speak to them. They looked worried to him for some reason. Perhaps they were worried about the outcome of the battle they rode towards. They need not be. There was no way that the clans would be able to raise a force that might possibly be a danger to the armies of the Kingdom. He would squash them like a hill of ants. Then he would ride on to their great city and this time he would leave no two stones still standing together. He had been generous before, but no more.

Each evening they camped well before sunset. It might waste valuable travel time, but Nemir needed the chance to immerse himself in the warmth of the sun without the worry of being on horseback. His connection to the sun was what sustained him. The priests raised his tent and prepared his evening meal while he sat and turned his face skyward, welcoming the sunlight like a lover's touch. The sun filled him with a strength and purpose.

Then as the sun set, he retreated into his tent. With the sun gone from the sky, unease settled on his shoulders. He could see the campfires of his soldiers and hear them singing his praises, and it helped to keep the darkness at bay. It was only at night that his doubts started to surface.

Night was also when he thought most of Judas. During the daytime, his Companion seemed so far away, but at night, it seemed as though he could just close his eyes and see the young man lying next to him on his pallet. He seemed close enough to touch.

It was at night that he missed Judas the most. During the day, events kept him distracted, but at night, with the lantern doused and the tent silent around him, he wished for him. He could have opened the tent flap and beckoned for anyone he wanted, but in the end, it was Judas he wanted and no other.

And it did not matter if every southerner stood between him and Judas, he would get him back.

It was the second night of the full moon when the fever hit. The sun had gone down, and Nemir was deep in sleep when something woke him. He lay on his pallet, staring up at the canvas of the tent, trying to identify what it was that had woken him from a sound sleep.

Then the pain struck him. His stomach cramped up, as though it were trying to turn itself inside-out. Nemir pulled his knees up to his chest, trying to contain the pain. He was sweating profusely, and for a moment he thought he might die. He tried to call out for help, but his throat closed up, chocking off the sound before it could escape. Every muscle seized, holding him in place.

Nemir closed his eyes and took as deep a breath as he could, calling on all the techniques he had ever been taught for dealing with an unwilling body. The second breath was easier, as was the third, but the pain refused to release him. Sweat streamed from his forehead, stinging his eyes.

As time went by, he was drawn into the pattern of his own breath. Each inhalation centered him, and each exhalation pushed that center away from his body and the wracking pain it was experiencing, until finally it was as if he were no longer subject to his own flesh. The perfect darkness of the tent was no longer so perfect. He could see sparkles of starlight through the vent at the center, and even through the seams where the pieces of canvas were sewn together.

The starlight drew him, and suddenly he was no longer in his tent. He stood on an empty plain, lit only by moon and stars, and the only sound was of the wind. And yet the wind also sounded like music; a single, pure note that went on forever.

Like the starlight before it, the note drew him away. The landscape around him did not change, but he felt a sensation of movement, smooth as Karsa's purest gait. Easy and effortless. The pain remained, but he barely noticed it. It felt like it was being experienced by someone else. But its presence was disturbing, and he began to wonder if it were an attack. Could the South have found a spell to cripple him, or perhaps even slay him?

The moon, which he saw rarely anymore, rose higher, illumination the landscape around him, and he realized that what he had thought to be a plain was not. Billows of white, like foam on a rushing stream, surrounded him. Then the whiteness rushed towards him, and he plunged through it as if it were the foam it resembled, leaving him feeling chilled and damp, although that sensation disappeared quickly.

Then he saw a true plain, far below, and he realized that the whiteness was clouds, and that he had touched them. He had never realized, looking up into the sky, that they could have so much substance.

There were lights on the plain, he suddenly saw. The lights of many campfires, and he realized that what he was seeing was the army of the south. He tried to count them, but did not have the chance too. He was being drawn down, faster and faster, and if he were not suddenly certain that he was dreaming, he might have been fearful for his life.

He was drawn to a single tent at the center of the army, and through the vent in the center, just as he had been in his own tent.

Inside, a single lamp burned. The ground was covered in ornate carpets and cushions, and on the cushions was Judas.

Judas moaned and shifted. The robes he was wearing were soaked with sweat, clinging to his body, and his face was blotched with red. Seeing him, Nemir realized that the pain and fever he felt was not his own. Somehow, he was feeling what Judas was.

Nemir moved to Judas, but something seemed to be trying to force him back. A blaze of heat was between him and his companion, and for an instant all he wanted was to flee the tent, to flee the pain that would be inevitable between them. After all, wasn't it because of Judas that his father was dead, a voice deep inside of him asked. Wasn't it because of Judas that he had been forced to flee across the width and breadth of the land?

And yet, how could it be Judas' fault He was blameless for the fact of his own birth. And it was through Judas that he had felt love. It was through Judas he had found his place in the world. He had grown beyond the confines of Ajantha and the small life he had led there. Ajantha seemed so far away.

Then Judas cried out and clutched his stomach, and all doubts fled for the moment. Nemir pushed through the barrier to his Companion's side. He reached out to touch Judas, but his hand went through the other man. He stared at his hand in shock, then realized anew that this was not real.

But Judas was still in pain, and unable to touch him, all Nemir could do was will his own strength to the other man, for while his emotions were still conflicted, he could not bear to see Judas in pain.

The pain he felt from Judas was almost overwhelming, and the force trying to separate them was back, but Nemir refused to surrender. He pushed against the resistance until he felt it give way, and he fell forward, drained of all strength.

But it was not on Judas he landed on, or the cushions that his Companion lay on. Instead, he hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud. And he was no longer in that distant tent. There was no lamp lighting the space, but he knew where he was; he was back in his own tent, lying on the ground next to his pallet, and he was alone.

Or was he? A pale light filled the tent, and when he looked up, for a moment he could see a woman standing over him, a gentle smile on her face. He had never seen her before, and yet she felt familiar. He opened his mouth to demand to know who she was.

Then the first light of dawn started to creep in through the seams of the tent, and a glow filled the tent. The woman's expression turned sad, and she vanished from sight.

A beam of sunlight worked its way through one of the seams to strike him directly in the eye, and he blinked, coming fully awake. Another day had started, bring him a step closer to his destiny.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Sixty-Seven ----------------------------------------

It was getting late in the day when Judas woke, feeling exhausted despite the sleep. He was chilled and soaked with sweat, while the pillows he lay on smelled strongly of vomit. He sat up, and his stomach cramped slightly, bringing back memories of excruciating pain. Pain that suggested poison. And yet the last of the pain was fading quickly.

Judas stood and stumbled over to a low table holding a jug of water and a bowl. He poured some of the warm liquid into the bowl and splashed it on his face before lifting the bowl and taking a careful sip.

The water slid down his throat and settled in his stomach, calming the slight roiling. Judas rubbed his face, then looked down at himself and grimaced in disgust. He had fallen asleep in the same robes he had worn to be presented to the army, and the white of the fabric was now stained with fluids that he did not want to examine very closely; especially the rust-colored stains that suggested dried blood.

He pulled his tunic up over his head, not caring that if someone were to open the tent flap, he could be severely burned if he were close enough to be reached by the sun. It was a danger he had faced every day of his life, and yet now it was not so much that he did not care as he suddenly did not feel the danger. For the moment, the sun no longer felt like the enemy.

He searched through the pile of cushions and found a folded outer robe and pulled it on. While the sun did not worry him, he had no desire to be so bare if someone did come in. Clothing was like armor when surrounded by people who wanted something from him.

Also in a corner of the tent he found the cup from which he had drunk tea before falling asleep. He sniffed it curiously, and it seemed to him that there was a scent there of more than just tea. Again he remembered the feeling as though a blade had been plunged into his stomach and twisted. But if it had been poison, then who had done it?

Then he remembered that he had not been the only one to drink the tea. What of the clan chiefs?

Judas shook his head. If anyone else had been poisoned, then surely he would hear sounds of anger or panic outside in the camp. Instead, all he heard was the sound of men talking, horses moving, a distant call to prayers. No sounds of alarm.

The tent flap was pulled open without warning, and Judas stepped back carefully. Hamar stood there staring at him with a glare. His nose wrinkled, and he glanced around the tent. "Disgusting," was all he said before letting the flap fall closed again.

A moment later, the flap opened again, and this time it was a group of young men, army trainees no doubt, carrying jugs of water and armfuls of cloth and leather. The pillows were sorted through, and the soiled ones were piled at one side of the tent, while the clean were moved to the other side. The leather proved to be a small bathing tub braced with slats of wood. It was set up, and Judas was encouraged to disrobe and stand at the center.

The first jug of water was poured over his head, and two of the boys went to work with sponges from a distant sea and rough cloths, scrubbing him clean. Despite the time he had spent at the temple, the attention made him uncomfortable, perhaps because before it had been women. It was... different when it was young men touching him in ways that could be construed as intimate. It felt like a betrayal of--

Judas stiffened, a memory of the night before springing into his mind. At the worst moment, he could have sworn that he remembered Nemir being there, holding him and reassuring him, taking away the pain. Judas looked around the tent wildly, ignoring the confused expressions on his attendants' faces, but there was no sign of his prince. No sign that he had ever been there, and how could he have? Nemir was far away, far to the north. And with armies ready to take to the field, he prayed that Nemir *stayed* far away.

The boys returned to their duties, and in short order he was clean and fresh smelling once more, wrapped in a clean robe while his hair was tended to. Once it was dry, he dressed in the tunic and leggings he was given, and an vest was hung over it. The under layers were pale enough to almost be white, while the vest was midnight blue and embroidered with silver stars and moons. The boots he was given were died the same deep blue, as was the ribbon they used to tie his hair back. While there were no mirrors to see himself in, he did not doubt that to people who did not know him, he was probably an inspiring sight.

It was hard to believe that men would find him so inspiring that they would follow him into battle, though. All through his childhood he had been called demon-born. And now, far from the desert of his birth, he was being called Goddess-born. Was there really that great a difference? Especially when the men who insisted on following his unwilling leadership started to die in battle. No matter what he had been told, he found it difficult to conceive that they might succeed.

The sun was setting, and the moon would be rising soon. He could already feel the anticipation in the air. Sounds of activity outside the tent were growing in volume.

The tent flap opened once again, and the boys left swiftly, no doubt having more preparations to complete before the army started to move. Chiram smiled fondly at them as they passed him. "And how do you feel this morning?" he asked Judas. Then he frowned, no doubt noticing the foul smell of the tent.

Judas handed the older man the tea cup. "Considering the fact that I was probably poisoned, I am luck to feel as good as I do," he said.

Chiram sniffed the cup, and his nose wrinkled. His smile was gone. "How bad is it?"

For a moment, Judas's stomach heaved again, but he was able to control it through pure will. "I am well enough now," he said. "But the night was bad." He closed his eyes, and a flash of pain came back before fading once more. "I will be able to ride, though," he added, even though he still felt slightly weak and lightheaded, since that was probably what the chief was most worried about.

Chiram urged him over to the pile of clean cushions and told him to sit and rest. One of the boys was back with a tray. The first meal of the day, complete with tea. Judas's stomach clenched at the thought.

Chiram picked up the tea cup and sniffed it carefully, then sipped. His set it down on the tray, then picked up the leaf of bread and broke off the heel. Judas realized, surprised, that the older man was tasting all of his food to make sure that it was not poisoned. That he would do so for him amazed Judas.

Once Chiram had tasted every item on the tray, he nodded to Judas that it was safe for him to break his fast, and he did so gratefully, his worries allayed. Food in his stomach took away the last of the sick feeling, leaving him refreshed and better suited for what was to come.

At this point, Hamar reappeared again, a scowl on his face. The scowl was quickly wiped away as soon as he saw that Judas was not alone, and who was with him. "The army is nearly ready to move," he said, nodding to Chiram. "They will need to strike this tent soon."

"As soon as the sun sets," Chiram said firmly.

"That will waste time," Hamar protested.

"Then we shall waste it. It will give you time to find the servant who served the tea last night."

Hamar looked puzzled, but his eyes flickered to Judas. There had been something about the woman, but Judas could not remember what it was. Something very important. "Why?" Hamar asked.

"Because they attempted to poison the boy last night, and I would know why."

Hamar went white at that. "It may difficult to find out who he was."

"She."

Both the men turned to Judas. "What do you mean?" Hamar demanded with a scowl.

"The server last night was a woman," Judas said, his brow wrinkling as he tried to remember any other details, but all that came to mind was a female form swathed in layers of cloth, and bright eyes that made everything else fade in consequence.

"There are no women traveling with the army," Chiram said.

Judas frowned. "Why not?" Not having women as warriors made sense, since few women had the strength to swing a sword effectively, but he would have thought that there would be women brought along to tend the camp and the men. And among the tribes, women were often part of scouting or hunting parties. It did not take strength to follow a trail or set a snare, and there were bows that a woman could pull, even if the arrow would not go as far.

Hamar looked as though he wanted to say something scathing, but a glance at Chiram kept him quiet. Chiram simply said, "It would not be appropriate."

Judas considered debating the issue, then decided against it. "Be that as it may, the person who served the tea last night was definitely female."

"Perhaps it was simply a boy with delicate features?" Hamar suggested.

Judas considered the suggestion. "Perhaps, but I believe that it was a woman. Would a boy have been dressed in robes with a veil across the face?"

Hamar snorted. "No male would dress that way," he said firmly. "Not unless he were a eunuch." The word dripped with scorn.

"A what?" Judas asked Chiram, not recognizing the word.

"One whose manhood has been removed," Chiram said. "They guard the Harem. Do you not have them in the north?"

Judas shook his head. "In the desert, there were no harems. Women were wives and mothers, hunters and scouts. A man who tried to force himself on a woman might find himself emasculated by her, but we do not do so when no crime has been committed. And even then, better to kill him. In Ajantha there was a harem, but the guards outside were part of the Palace Guard, and not unmanned. But the doors of the Harem were locked, and could only be opened from within, except for the one leading from the Prince's chambers. He is the only man out of childhood allowed inside."

Hamar was shaking his head, as if in disgust. "There is no point to this. There are no women in the camp. Hunting for some mysterious woman who you claim tried to poison you is a waste of time. The army must leave tonight. The God-King will be coming south, and there is no time to waste."

Judas glanced to Chiram, who showed no emotion. "Do it," he ordered. Then he turned to Judas, dismissing Hamar. "Your horse will be ready as soon as the sun sets. Until then, rest. The time of destiny is quickly approaching."

Hamar left the tent, but the glare he sent Judas's way did not bode well.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Sixty-Eight ----------------------------------------

Nemir had woken with a strange headache and the memory of dreams that he could not quite recall, other than that they were not the usual dreams that filled his nights. He thought that the dream might have been about Judas, but he was not sure. Still, even the tattered fragments of a dream where Judas was in great danger just added fuel to the fire burning within him. It burned so high that he felt almost fevered.

That fever was rising higher and higher, the further south the army marched, and more and more of his dreams were filled with blood. He would smash the clans. He would reclaim what was rightfully his. And then, perhaps it was time to push his borders even further south.

The sun had barely mounted up above the horizon when the army was on the move. More and more, Nemir was frustrated by the slow pace, but there was little he could do. There were not enough horses for every warrior to be mounted, even if they had all been able to ride. The majority of the army were foot soldiers, farmers and servants drafted into service in the army. Few would know what to do on a horse's back. They barely knew how to swing a sword without endangering their fellow soldiers, but they would have to do.

So they continued south at a snail's pace, while the guard and scouts rode ahead.

Nemir tried to stay with the main part of the army as much as possible, knowing that his presence would hearten them and urge them on, but it was difficult. Often by midday he would ride on to the camp that was already being erected by the advance riders. There he would pore over the maps, discussing the route with Limon and make preliminary plans for the coming battles.

At the army's current pace, they would be arriving at an open plain on the border between the southern lands and the old Kingdom about the time of the full moon. It was on that plain that the south had been defeated before, and there he would crush them. Never again would they have the chance to rise up in rebellion again.

Did they not understand the privilege that had been granted them? The Kingdom had brought peace and prosperity to all the lands under its dominion. Its peoples had freedom from war. Even the lowest of the low had the chance to advance. Loyalty was rewarded, and treason was punished swiftly and brutally. If the southern clans had embraced their place, they could have been content. Instead, rabble-rousers had driven them to rebellion, and it would be their destruction. Nemir was saddened slightly by the thought, but did not let it deter him from what must be done.

The battle plain had mountains capped with snow year-round bordering it to the south and east, but the land was itself completely flat, as if rolled out by some divine hand. Wastelands pressed in on the west, separating the Kingdom from the lands inhabited only by barbarians and the costal cities beyond which traded across the sea and with the Kingdom. The plain itself was home to no one but herds of grass-eaters and the predators that hunted them. Springs dotted the plain, feeding rich growth. And yet, despite the relative richness of the land, even the nomads avoided it. Men feared and avoided the plains except for in battle.

Nemir did not fear it. There was little that he would fear now. He had come so far since his grief-stricken flight from Ajantha after his father had been executed.

Nemir paused. So long ago it had been that he could barely remember his life before the temple. It was a strange feeling, not being able to recall something so important. Then he shook his head and put such thoughts out of his mind.

It was not as if his past was important anymore.

All that mattered was what he was now.

They reached the plain where the battle would be fought two short days before the full moon and found the army of the south already waiting there for them there. On a plain so flat, it was impossible to get a proper vantage from which to evaluate the enemy, but Nemir already knew that their army was smaller than his own. His own army had been growing for months and would have been even larger if they'd had until winter to bring in soldiers and warriors from the northernmost princedoms.

There'd been no reason to wait.

If he had been inclined to worry, it would only be that his own army had not had enough to time train. Many of his foot soldiers were simple farmers who knew how to swing a scythe, but not a sword. The Southern clans, on the other hand, no doubt trained all their sons to fight in anticipation of this foolish rebellion. As well, they had little to lose. If they failed, they would all pay with their lives. With such a fate in front of them, they would fight like a cornered lion.

For a moment, Nemir thought that he could even hear the scream of an enraged lion. No, a lioness. It sparked memories of kinder times, and for a moment he wondered where Markus and Dansen were.

Then those thoughts were pushed aside as Nemir considered the coming battle. There was little doubt that the clans would lose, for the Sun God was on his side.

By late in the afternoon, the camp was already forming around the center hub where Nemir's large tent had been erected, and those of the army commanders. Nemir's tent was being used as the command tent, and he met there with Limon, the high priest, and the company commanders.

"Nearly half the army is here," Limon reported, spreading out the papyrus map on the folding camp table. The mountains were painted in shades of brown, while the plain was yellow. At the far northern edge of the map, Nemir's capital was marked with gold leaf that gleamed brightly in the sunlight coming through the tent flap and vent holes. The day had grown increasingly hot, and the slight breeze that moved through the camp did little to cool things.

Limon was indicating a point at the center of the plain. Mountains, wasteland, and the kingdom of the north were all equidistant from that point. Nemir eyed it, noting absently that the mountain ranges formed an almost perfect crescent around the edge of the plain, much like a waning moon.

For a moment, silver eyes were superimposed over the map, and Nemir winced, a shooting pain stabbing at his eyes. He closed them, then reopened them once the pain had faded. The eyes were gone, but it seemed to him that he could hear a woman's voice sighing sadly.

He ignored at as a trick of the wind.

"What of the enemy. What are their numbers?" he asked, ignoring the puzzled looks he was getting from his commanders.

"Nearly a thousand," Limon said. "We outnumber them already, although the soldiers are still tired from the journey. Once the rest of the army arrives, we will outnumber them by nearly five men to every one of theirs."

Nemir smiled at that, but he was not foolish enough to celebrate his victory yet, even though victory was assured. "Superiority of numbers is good," he cautioned, "but they know that we mean to crush them. Nothing fights fiercer than a cornered animal."

"I have set extra guards around the perimeter of the camp," Limon assured him. "If they think to take advantage of our relatively weaker position to launch an early attack they will find us ready." The other commanders all nodded fiercely in agreement.

Then Limon turned serious. "But I would feel better if you were with the main portion of the army. We may be ready for an attack, but if they were very lucky and were able to slay you, it would be a devastating blow to us all." His voice was thick with emotion, and Nemir smiled slightly at the obvious love in it.

He did not reply at first. As it had been all day, his gaze were drawn to the tent flap and the view beyond. He focused on the distant enemy, even though he could not see them. He could feel them out there, waiting.

Was Judas out there as well? Was he a prisoner of that distant enemy?

"They will not attack yet," he said slowly but confidently, turning back to the table. "And my place is here, not cowering behind companies of soldiers. They should see that their king is willing to take risks as well. Do not fret so, Limon. All will happen as it must."

Limon nodded his obedience, but the unhappy expression did not clear completely.

The rest of the afternoon was spend drawing up possible plans, trying to anticipate everything that the enemy might try. Nemir knew that no battle plan ever survived the first melee, but anticipating possible events would make the battle smoother, if you could ever say that about something so bloody and chaotic as a war.

But as the sun began to dip towards the horizon, they broke up the strategy session. The clans, who worshipped a moon goddess instead of the sun god, were more likely to attack at night, so the commanders needed to be with their men, preparing in case such an attack came.

But Nemir did not think that would happen this night. The moon was still two nights short of being full, and a full moon was what the enemy would consider most auspicious for their chances. That would give his army time to finish coming together and rest in preparation. Rest that would make his own victory even more assured.

The priests were already performing their evening devotions as the commanders left. Nemir emerged from the tent, ignoring all the of the eyes on him. His own gaze was fixed on the sun rising low on the horizon. Behind him, over the mountains, the sky was already turning purple and the first stars were beginning to appear. He did not turn back to look.

The sky around the sun was slowly turning the red of fresh-spilled blood. A good omen, he decided.

He dropped to his knees, then sat back on his heels, closing his eyes and opening himself to the last rays of the setting sun. For a moment he thought he heard his name being called, but he ignored it. It was not important.

All that was important to him was the sun, the battle to come, and the warm voice that whispered in his ear.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Sixty-Nine ----------------------------------------

The moon rose before sunset on the first day of the full moon. For three days they had sat and watched as the enemy gathered, just north of their own camp. They were so close that Judas could smell the smoke of their fires in the air, and when the wind blew in the right direction, he could almost hear the sound of hundreds of voices as the soldiers went about their business.

Judas did not understand why they were waiting. With each day, the odds against them grew, and the tension in their own camp grew until it was something you could almost touch.

But when he asked Chiram the chief had only said that the signs were not yet right. The battle would start with the full moon. How he could be so sure that the God-King would wait so long, the man could not say.

Strangely enough, though, he was right. Every day Judas waited for the sound of battle trumpets being sounded and the rumbling of countless feet marching in unison, but they never came. Every night he was displayed before the army, and spent time practicing with the sword, wondering if he would die the next day. If they would all die.

But now that the moon was rising full above the plain, the atmosphere of the camp had changed, sharpened. Metal rings sewn to leather tunics jingled as armor was donned. The light scraping of metal against smooth stone as blades were sharpened set his teeth on edge. The sense of anticipation grew by the hour. This was the night when the enemy would be engaged.

There was little for Judas to do as the army prepared. Even the pages who had tended to him were needed for more important tasks. Food was delivered, along with battle garb, but other than that he was left to tend to himself.

He had forced himself to eat, although anxiety made the food sit uneasily in his stomach. Then he had dressed himself as best he could in the unfamiliar garments.

The pants were made of a heavy linen that had been bleached so that it was white. His tunic, made of leather, was the same color, and covered with metal rings polished to a bright shine. It was so heavy that he had to stiffen his back to keep it from pulling him down. The boots and wrist guards, however, were black, and the wrist guards were studded with more metal. He wore more metal in his armor than most warriors could afford, no matter how wealthy. Most of the army had to be satisfied with layers of stiff leather quilted together, if even that. Finally, Judas put on his cloak and pulled the hood up over his head to protect himself from the setting sun before leaving the tent.

"Ah, good, you are ready."

Judas turned to face Chiram. "As ready as I can hope to be," he said with a sigh. He rubbed his damp palms against the sides of his pants, no doubt leaving dark smears on the pristine white.

"Do not worry yourself. All will happen as it is supposed to," Chiram told him. "Now, hold out your arms."

Judas did as he was instructed, and Chiram took a sword belt from a soldier standing behind him. He buckled it around Judas's waist, then took a sword, still in its distinctively curved sheath, from the man and stood holding it for a moment, staring at Judas.

"This sword was the sword of the Lords of the Clans," he said formally, holding the sheathed sword in front of himself. "The lords seldom rode into battle, but when they did, this was the sword that they carried. For long years it has been cared for in secret, waiting for the day when the clans would have a lord to carry it again. That day is come."

With those words, he knelt before Judas and attached the sword sheath to the belt so that it hung at Judas's side. Judas froze, realizing for the first time that there were many eyes fixed on them. All preparations had come to a stop as the soldiers in the immediate area watched the ceremony, for a ceremony it was.

Chiram stood and bowed, and all the others bowed as well. For as far as Judas could see, all he saw were the tops of heads.

Except for one set of angry eyes. Hamar stood at the opening of his own tent, a glare on his face, and behind him Judas saw a second figure. A flash of bright eyes and the swing of long hair teased at his memory.

And then the drums started to beat in the distance and all heads turned. Anticipation turned fierce. "Come," Chiram said, taking hold of Judas's arm.

They hurried through the camp, and it was all Judas could do to keep from stumbling on the rough ground, so fast was the pace Chiram set. In short order they reached the edge of camp. Soldiers of were already forming into ranks facing the army of the north. In the east the moon was rising, while the sun slowly sank in the west.

Chiram came to a stop, and five men with the harsh faces of warriors who had seen too many battles joined them. "Here you will stay," Chiram instructed him. "These guards will protect you, but be ready with the sword. The enemy will try to take you if they can."

Judas nodded. It seemed as though he had been numb for far too long, but now that the time was at hand, fear made his blood race and his heart beat ever faster. He was no warrior, no matter how many lessons Chiram and Nemir before him had given him, but this man and all his people were depending on him to do something that he still had no idea of how to.

Chiram seemed to see the doubt running through Judas's mind, and a sad smile crossed his face. "Do not look so unsure," he said, touching Judas's cheek tenderly. "This day was promised to us, and all will be right in the end. Trust in the Lady."

He lowered his hand to brush the back of Judas's where it clutched the hilt of the sword so tightly that his knuckles were white. "This was meant for you, and I am glad that I was able to see it in your hands."

Chiram turned and left to take command of his clansmen for the battle and Judas felt a wave of sadness pass over him. Something in the way Chiram spoke reminded him of his grandfather's farewell before his death from an infected wound and Judas fought the urge to chase after the man. Chiram may have been one of his captors, but he had also been the kindest, taking the time to talk to Judas and teach him.

But he did not, for a shout rose up from the army on the other side of the battlefield and a matching cry from the clansmen nearly deafened Judas.

Then the battle trumpets joined the pounding drums, and it was too late to do anything but brace himself for the clash of the armies.

As Chiram had said, while the guards were there protecting him, once the enemy saw Judas, they began to send sorties to try to kill him. Wave after wave of soldiers were cut down trying to reach him, but a few made it through.

The first time it happened was a surprise to Judas, and he was barely able to get his sword free of its sheath in time to meet the attack. But it seemed to swing with a life of its own, and he blocked the first blow easily, then, almost without thought, he brought the sword back around in a swing that cut through the man's neck, nearly decapitating him.

Blood splashed his face, warm and tasting slightly of metal, blinding him momentarily. He wiped it away with his sleeve, leaving a bright red stain on the pristine white, already starting to turn brown around the edges.

Judas's stomach heaved as he struggled with the realization that he had just killed a man. Then a thrown spear struck him in the chest with bruising force, barely stopped by the ring armor, driving him to his knees. All thoughts of guilt vanished as he fought to stay alive.

The battle came to an end as the moon set and there was no longer enough light to see by. Those who could walk returned to camp to bind their wounds and seek what rest they could before the next attack came. Searchers with torches to light their way went through the battlefield looking for those too wounded to walk, calling for stretchers for those who could be saved and giving mercy to those who could not.

Judas had managed to escape injury, due to the vigilance of his guards, but they were not so fortunate. One was dead, and another was likely to lose his arm before the healers were done with him. The other three were all wounded, but would be able to continue the fight.

In the first battle, neither side had been able to gain the upper hand, but Judas knew that that could not continue. While the clansmen had skill of arms and desperation on their side, the God-King had strength of numbers, even if many of those numbers were untrained in the art of war. Eventually those numbers would wear the south down and overrun them.

The only hope was to kill the God-King; a task that seemed hopeless.

Judas returned to his tent and cleaned as best he could with just a basin of water and a cloth. His blood-stained clothing was whisked away, and fresh left in its place. Food was brought, and he forced himself to eat.

Then, exhausted beyond belief, he collapsed onto his pallet and pulled the coverlet up to his ears, and surrendered himself to dreams that were thankfully free of screams of pain and blood.

Judas woke late in the morning from dreams of soft music and moonlight to the renewed beating of drums. Confused, he sat up and looked around the tent, trying to interpret the unexpected sound. Then he realized that the enemy was attacking. He scrambled to his feet and dressed as quickly as possible. The sword had been cleaned of blood and left for him, and he belted the scabbard to his waist. But what he would be able to do with the sun high in the sky, he did not know.

Now dressed in clean clothing with the sleeves hanging down over his hands and his hood shading his face, Judas hesitated at the tent flap, then stepped out. Already he could hear the sound of fighting. He waited a moment, then squared his shoulders and headed to the slight rise where he had watched the previous night's battle.

Of his surviving guards there was no sign, nor of Chiram, and Judas began to wonder at the wisdom of his decision to leave his tent. But the warriors around him cheered when they saw him, then turned with greater eagerness to face the enemy. Judas drew his own sword, wishing idly that he had gloves to protect his hands, and readied himself. These were still not his people in his mind, but he had grown to respect some of them, and did not want them to die.

The fighting was quickly approaching his position, and from time to time he saw a strange golden glow over one place, when he felt a prickling sensation. The world twisted and took on a dreamlike haze. Suddenly, no one seemed to be looking at him, or even realizing that he was there. Judas turned and found two familiar forms behind him. Hamar.

And Nahanna. Singing softly.

Memory rushed back, and he now remembered that it was Nahanna who had served him the poisoned cup. "Why?" he asked, bringing up his sword.

"Because you are not worthy," she said fiercely, then returned to her singing.

Hamar attacked, and Judas lifted his sword to defend himself. But Hamar had much more training than he did. He was forced to retreat before the hostile young man's attack, wondering that no one seemed to notice. There was something in Nahanna's song that kept anyone from coming to his aid, he realized. He would live or die on his own skills.

Step by step he went backwards, knowing that this was a fight he had no chance of winning. Then Hamar stopped, a cold smile on his face. Judas wondered why. He was answered by a burning pain in his side. Looking down, he saw the hilt of a dagger protruding from his side, having been slipped through a gap in his armor. The white leather was already stained bright with blood, as was Nahanna's hands.

Judas slowly crumpled to his knees as the world began to go dark.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Seventy ----------------------------------------

Nemir decided to be generous. There was little harm in waiting for the southern clans to make the first attack. It gave the soldiers of his own army time to finish collecting and time to rest before they threw themselves into a fight. They did not carry enough food for a long wait, but Nemir knew when the attack would come; the rising of the full moon only a few days hence. His generals seemed less than pleased, but Nemir had decided. As for the whispers of his god coming through the sunlight, they had nothing to say other than assurances of domination.

The attack came exactly when he expected. The sun was still riding high in the western sky when the full moon rose over the distant mountains, and drums and horns both began to sound. Dressed only in a kilt of heavy linen and carrying the gold ornamented sword of his rank, Nemir moved to the front ranks of his army. Across the plain, he could see the clansmen shaking their weapons in the air in a futile show of bravado.

"Fools," Nemir said to himself, his lips twisting in amusement. "They would do better to cast their weapons down and flee in search of caves to hide in, for they have no hope of winning." Soldiers within hearing distance of him cheered and raised their own weapons, even though he had not spoken for them. Nemir ignored them, for the battle was beginning.

The sun was warm on his skin, but the blood of his enemies was hotter. With every swing of his sword, another faceless warrior fell before him. In very little time, he was sticky with the drying blood of his enemies. Nemir merely brushed it from his eyes and licked it from his lips, a metal tang, before pressing on.

In the distance, surrounded by the largest concentration of clansmen, a faint white glow caught his eye. Even as the setting sun colored the sky with the red of fresh blood, like the field beneath it, the white glow remained unstained, growing brighter as Nemir watched. A soft humming filled his hearing, drowning out the screams of the wounded and dying.

Without thinking, Nemir had turned towards the glow and way making his way towards it. Warrior after warrior threw himself in Nemir's path and was cut down for their troubles. All they managed to do was to confirm in Nemir's mind that whatever the source of the glow was, it was important to them.

Nemir pressed forward, almost wading through bodies, but the sun was almost down to the horizon, and the voice of his god was calling to him, warning him that he was in great danger. He wanted to ignore that voice, so clear was the music becoming, so bright the glow was, but as the last rays of the sun disappeared from the sky, doubt assailed him.

On instinct, he turned and left the field of battle without a backward glance.

Limon came to him in his tent where he sat and brooded, still covered in the blood of those he had killed. A priest had brought him a basin of water and linens to clean himself with, but they still sat on the low table, untouched. "Well?" Nemir asked after the man had waited a while, kneeling patiently just inside the tent flap. The moon had set, and what he saw of the sky through the flap was velvety darkness broken only by the sparks of light that were the stars.

"Both armies have retreated from the field and the healers are searching for survivors. Those who were able to walk away from the field themselves have already had their wounds bound."

"And the death toll?"

The man hesitated, and Nemir's stomach clenched briefly. Many had died in his name, he knew. Only a few days ago, the thought of that had been of no consequence. Now, with the faint remnants of the music still ringing in his ears, the reality of it grieved him.

"High," Limon finally admitted. "A several hundred, perhaps more. But the enemy's losses were as high, if not higher, and they have fewer men to begin with. Time alone would be enough to wear them down."

But how many of his own people would die in that time, a silent voice asked him. How many would lose their lives at his orders? "Pass the word," Nemir said, hardening his heart against that soft voice. None would have died if the southern clans had not been so stubborn. None would have died if they had not taken Judas from him. "We attack tomorrow at noon."

Nemir woke with the rising of the sun the next morning, and he emerged from his tent to find only quiet activity in the camp. A few sleepy soldiers were in sight, cooking their breakfasts, cleaning their weapons, but most were probably still asleep. A few looked in his direction, but they quickly looked away.

Nemir stretched and turned his face towards the rising sun, let its calming warmth seep into him. His doubts of the night had faded in the light of day, and the strange music he had not been able to escape had finally been silenced. All he felt was anticipation for the battle to come. Despite what Limon had said the night before, he was not willing to wait for the enemy to be worn down. He wanted to crush them utterly, and soon.

Once his morning devotions to the god of the sun were finished, he returned to his tent. Spying the water basin, he realized that he was still smeared with the brown stains of dried blood. Immediately his skin started to itch, and he set to washing away the remains of the battle.

Clean and dressed in a fresh kilt, Nemir sat down on a cushion set in the spill of light coming from the tent's vent hole and started eating from the tray waiting for him there. Semi-divine he might be, but he still needed nourishment if he was to be ready for the battle. He ate until he was satisfied, then went to check his weapons. His sword had been carefully cleaned so that the blood that had caked its length the evening before it could tarnish the bright metal. He ran his thumb lightly down the edge, judging the sharpness, and found it to his liking. He hung the sheath from his belt and slipped the sword into it, ready.

By this time the camp nearly hummed with anticipation. Nemir stood and stretched, luxuriating in the knowledge that it was anticipation of following him into battle. While it still grieved slightly him to know that many would die in his name, it was a good death.

The sun was rising higher in the sky. It was nearly time. Nemir lifted his face to the glow and closed his eyes, feeling the warmth seeping into his very bones. He could feel the pressure of many eyes watching him, but he ignored them. Only one eye was important, and it watched him from on high with approval.

Striding purposefully, he made his way to the edge of the camp where the battle lines were already starting to form. He waved a hand and the drums began to beat, drawing the army into place. Across the field he could see the enemy rushing to ready themselves as though they had not expected an attack to come. Had they truly believed that having let them chose the time of the first battle he would let them do so again? Fools!

That foolishness would be their downfall. The moon was hiding deep inside the earth while the sun rode high. This was his time. Did she believe that he would be willing to go back to the way things had been? Did she believe that he would be willing to share? This was his time, his empire, his *world*!

Nemir hesitated for a moment, frowning. Who was 'she'? Where did these thoughts come from? Then the horns blew and there was no time to think of anything but the battle.

The clansmen may have been caught off-guard, but that did not mean they would not fight. Armed quickly and wearing little armor, they rushed to meet his army at the center of the battlefield. The two sides met in a clash that shook the earth and made the air tremble. And Nemir was at the heart of it.

He fought with the fire of the sun in his heart, but also guided by cool reason. He kept his eyes open, searching for the source of the glow that he had seen in the previous battle.

The sun was so bright that if there was any glow, he could not see it, but whatever it had been, he knew that it was important to the enemy, so wherever they fought the fiercest, that was where he pressed the hardest. Step by bloody step he forced his way forward. The ground, which had still been damp with blood from the night before was now churned to red mud beneath their feet. Bodies were strewn, staring blindly up at the sky; the sun the last thing that they would see before they descended into darkness for eternity.

Stinging sweat dripped in his eyes, but it did not deter him. Ahead he could see a shimmer, bright enough to see even in the sunlight, and he knew that his target was close. He swung his sword without pause, striking down those who got in his way until one last man fell and the path before him was suddenly clear.

The scene in front of him was not one he had expected to see. Judas stood, holding a sword of southern design and swinging it with some skill, skill that he had not had before. He was facing a fighter with the features of the men of the southern clans, and while Judas was doing his best, he was outclassed by his opponent. The air rang with the clash of their swords and the sun glinted off the silver metal on Judas's armor. They were a wild and fierce sight, but no one seemed to see them but Nemir and the veiled woman behind the two men. Then the woman stepped forward and plunged a black iron dagger into Judas's side.

"No!" Nemir shouted, rushing forward. The man Judas had been fighting made the mistake of getting in his way and Nemir removed his head from his shoulders with a single swing of his sword. The body fell to the ground, blood gushing from the neck. He did not see where the head landed, having already forgotten the man's presence.

Judas lay on the ground, barely moving, his white and silver armor slowly turning red. The woman backed away from Nemir, her blood-stained hands raised to ward him off, and he bellowed his rage for all to hear. The veil slipped, then fell away from her face, and he recognized her. Nahanna. Traitor. Thief. "Bitch!"

Her eyes flashed. She stopped, her hands held out from her sides, and started to sing.

Nemir had heard her sing before. Had seen her hold an entire room of jaded nobles mesmerized with her voice in Ajantha. Had seen her use it to summon up a storm and the portal that had taken Judas away from him. Her voice had been pure magic.

But no more. The magic was gone. Her voice was simply that, high and thin and not terribly interesting. Nemir snorted and lifted his sword. He reveled in the fear that made her eyes go wide when she realized that her magic had deserted her.

Then her fear faded and she straightened. She dropped her hands to her sides and lifted her chin proudly. Nemir stared into her eyes for a long moment, wanting to demand answers for what she had done, but he knew that she would give him none.

He killed her quickly.

Then he turned to where Judas lay on the ground and stopped. Judas was gone.

In his place was the woman he had seen several nights earlier when he had dreamed of Judas. She lay in a puddle of blood-stained robes, staring up at him with a gentle expression. The expression of a lover. Or perhaps a mother. He lifted his sword, and she smiled. "Where is he?" Nemir demanded. "What have you done with him?"

'She stole him,' a voice said in his ear. 'She will never give him back. You must take him back. Kill her. Kill her!'

The woman was silent, and that silence infuriated him. "Give him back, bitch," Nemir raged. He lifted his sword over his head, ignoring the warm blood that ran down over his hands to drip on his head. "Give him back or I will kill you!"

---------------------------------------- Chapter Seventy-One ----------------------------------------

Judas's side felt as though it were on fire. Blood oozed, bright red, between the fingers of the hand he pressed against the wound.

He fell to his knees, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him up, then to the ground. He lay on his side, breathing heavily, although each breath was a new stabbing pain. Above him, Nahanna sneered, humming softly under her breath. She wore an expression of triumph, not seeming to notice the blood dripping from her hands.

She did notice the bellow of rage from behind her, though, and whirled to face the golden figure striding towards them. The light that haloed him seemed brighter than the sun to Judas's watering eyes. In fact, it almost looked as though white wings curved around him, as if he were a spirit about to take flight.

Hamar stood frozen for a moment, then seeing the man moving towards Nahanna, he stepped in front of the spirit, his sword raised. He snarled his defiance, but he did not stand a chance. The spirit swung, and Hamar's head went flying. Though he and Hamar were not friends, Judas's stomach turned at the senselessness of the young chief's death.

Then the winged spirit's gazed turned on Nahanna, and he yelled something that Judas could not decipher through the roaring in his ears. Moving slowly, Judas pulled the dagger from his side, and amazingly, the flow of blood began to slow and his breathing began to ease. Strength seemed to be returning from a source outside of himself.

He lay there as the spirit attacked Nahanna. Nahanna tried to defend herself, but it seemed as though the magic she'd used to transport them and three men from the trade towns all the way to the southern lands and to cloud his mind when she'd served the poisoned tea had deserted her. She sang, but nothing happened. The richness that had filled her voice when she'd performed for the court of Ajantha was gone.

Much as he hated the woman, he had to admit that she met her death with a measure of dignity. Her chin was lifted, and from his angle, her gaze was defiant as the spirit plunged his sword through her heart, and she fell without a cry.

Then the spirit turned towards Judas, and Judas felt a chill run through him. The glow intensified until he was almost blinded by it, and he fought to keep from cringing, determined to meet his death as bravely as Nahanna. For he now realized that what he was facing was the God-King. How could it be anything else? His hand crept to the hilt of the sword that Chiram had given him, but he doubted that he would have the chance to use it. The clans had taken a chance on the belief that Judas would be able to defeat the God-King, and thanks to the treachery of Hamar and Nahanna, there was no chance left.

The God-King's expression was that of pure fury as he raised his sword over Judas's head. "Give him back, bitch," he snarled at Judas. "Give him back or I will kill you!"

The words made little since, but Judas could see that responding was futile. All he could do was close his eyes and wait for the end.

But the sword did not fall. Instead, the ring of metal against metal was harsh in his ears, and when he opened his eyes he found that a second sword had appeared to deflect the killing blow. A sword wielded by Chiram.

"Out of my way, old man," the God-King said quietly, and Judas shuddered at the poison his voice. He opened his mouth to try to deflect the enemy's attention from Chiram, but his throat seemed to close up and no sound escaped.

"I won't let you kill him," Chiram said, calm and determined, his dignity shining through.

"Him?" the God-King said. For a moment he sounded confused, and something in his voice was familiar to Judas. He frowned, and it almost seemed like the man was wearing a mask. Judas squinted, trying to see through the mask to the man inside, but the moment was gone. "Do you think you can deny me?" the God-King said instead, the hint of confusion vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

"I can but try," Chiram said calmly, even though Judas knew that he did not have a hope of winning against the other man. Judas had sparred with the clan chief as part of his sword training after leaving the temple, and while he knew that the man was a master, he was also older, while the God-King had the look of a man less than half his age. As well, Judas had seen how easily the God-King had dispatched Hamar. He wanted to protest, but his throat closed up again. He felt helpless.

There was flurry of sword strokes, chiming softly compared to the sounds of battle around them, and at first Chiram seemed to have the upper hand. He pushed the God-King back towards the circle of watching clansmen who seemed unable or unwilling to act. Any one of them could have put a blade in the God-King's back, but none even tried.

This also forced them away from Judas, allowing Judas to roll even further away, taking his sword with him, trying to judge how much of his strength he had regained. He was still weak, but improving. However, there was still little that he could do.

Judas struggled to his feet as the two men fought back and forth. Chiram was faring far better than Hamar had, but Judas could not shake the feeling that the God-King was toying with the older man. Or perhaps he was simply biding his time until his army caught up with him. The sounds of battle were growing closer by the moment. Deep in his heart, Judas knew that this was the final battle, and even if the God-King were to be slain, the southern army would be destroyed. The only hope was that if the God-King were dead, the north would be thrown into a state of confusion, and the south would be able to reestablish itself as an independent land.

The bleeding had stopped, and some strength was returning to him. The sun had begun its slow slide towards the horizon, and Judas knew that the moon would be in the sky before the sun had set, although there was still time before that would happen. Too much time. Still, Judas could feel the moon coming, and he drew strength from that knowledge.

Drawing from deep within, he stepped towards the God-King's unguarded back, just as Chiram finally faltered and stumbled, just as the God-King swung his sword.

"No!" Judas cried as fresh blood spilled onto the already soaked ground. Chiram made no sound as he fell, his eyes closing, the light already fading from them.

A red light filled Judas's vision as he swung his own sword. The God-King was turning, his sword coming up to block, but he would be too late.

"Nemir!" a voice shouted from behind Judas. A voice that he had not heard in a long time, but which he knew. A second voice, deeper, but just as familiar, joined it.

The shout threw him off-balance for one crucial moment. Just long enough for him to finally see through the glow to the man behind it. Long enough to see the God-King's true face. A familiar face.

Nemir's face.

Judas gasped and immediately tried to call the blow back, but in vain. All he was able to do was twist his blade just enough so that instead of splitting his beloved's skull, it landed on his shoulder. Judas cried out as though he were the one wounded as he felt flesh part and bones break beneath his blade. Nemir, however, just sighed softly and collapsed.

Judas shielded his eyes as Nemir's form seemed to flare into a bright light that burned his skin the way the sun strangely hadn't that day. In the distance he could hear a melding of shouts of both victory and horror. The God-King had fallen in battle.

But that meant nothing to Judas.

All that he saw was Nemir lying broken on the ground. All that he heard was the pained gasps of his beloved's breath. That Nemir had just tried to kill him mattered little to him. He had sworn an oath to the Prince of Ajantha more than a year ago that he would protect his heir with his life, and he had failed. Even if he had not killed Nemir, he had surely crippled him.

Judas released his sword and dropped to his knees next to Nemir. Any warrior within reach could have struck him down at that moment and he would not have cared. He touched Nemir, but Nemir moaned in pain at even that gentle touch. He was still alive, Judas told himself.

But how long he would remain so in the middle of a battlefield, Judas could not say, and tears of grief and frustration began to roll down his face. "I can't lose you," Judas told the unconscious man, bending over until his forehead touched Nemir's. "Don't die," he whispered.

"Judas," a soft, feminine voice said in his ear. "You will not lose him if you have the courage to keep hold, come what may. Can you do that?" It was the Lady. Judas had not seen her in his dreams since his arrival at the battlefield.

Judas looked towards the distant hills where the moon would be rising. His fingers clenched in Nemir's hair; the only place he could reach that would not cause him pain. "Now that I have found him again, I will never let him go," he said quietly but firmly. "I am his... and he is mine. I will follow him wherever he goes, even into death."

"So be it."

Immediately, Judas's vision began to go dark. It felt as though his wounds had opened up again, and his strength was bleeding away. He collapsed forward, never losing his grip on Nemir. The Lady was giving him his wish: Nemir could not be saved, so he would die with him.

Judas sighed, and though the world slipped away from him, he never let go.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Seventy-Two ----------------------------------------

Nemir woke to a heavy weight on his chest and the sun bright in his eyes. He could hear the sounds of battle all around and wondered if his father's killers had found them.

Except his father had been murdered at night. Many nights ago, he thought, although strangely he could not remember how many nights. He vaguely remembered travel. Travel and loss and rage. And yet, it was all covered in a haze that he had difficulty penetrating.

"Nemir! How badly are you hurt?"

Nemir blinked up at his friend. "Dansen?" he said, his voice cracking. He felt parched, as if he'd been lost in the desert for days. "What happened to me?" He tried to move, but the weight was still there, as was the confusion. He wanted to remember, but he felt an unreasoning fear of those memories.

You were betrayed. Why do you lie there? Are you not a warrior?

"What do you remember?"

Nemir was confused. There had been two distinct responses. As well, Dansen's expression was difficult to read. "I don't know," he said to both the voices.

Markus was there as well, carrying a large sword with fresh blood on the blade. He set the blade on the ground and lifted the weight from Nemir. It had been Judas lying across him, he realized. A silent, still Judas. "Is he...?" He hesitated, not wanting to voice his fears.

If we are fortunate, the silent voice snarled.

"No, but he may be soon if we do not get to safety," Dansen said to Nemir's relief. "Can you stand?"

Nemir took the offered hand and found to his surprise that he could. He looked around and discovered that they seemed to be in the middle of a battlefield. For as far as the eye could see, men were fighting and dying. Why, he had little idea.

For us!

Nemir shook his head, trying to ignore the strange voice speaking in his ear alone. Markus had reclaimed his sword, not bothered by the weight of the unconscious man in his arms. Dansen had picked up two unfamiliar swords from the ground as well, and was looking for a way for them to leave the field without being killed. It was looking to the south and east that he saw something very out of place in a battlefield: Two women.

One was dead, lying on the ground in a pool of blood. She looked familiar, and after a moment he remembered her name. Nahanna. The name came with a flash of rage. She had stolen something from, he knew. Something very precious. The sight of her body inspired a feeling of satisfaction in him.

The other woman, however, was very much alive. Her skirts were of midnight blue, embroidered with silver thread, and reminded him of the night sky. Her overdress was of the palest gray, like the moon. Her dark hair was pulled back in a braid that fell down her back to her knees. The blood and gore that surrounded her seemed unable to even touch her.

She nodded to Nemir, then turned and walked away.

Don't follow! She will betray you. Stay and fight like a man.

The voice was full of fury, but Nemir ignored it. There was something about this woman. Something about her pale eyes. They reminded him of Judas, and he felt the urge to trust her. "This way," he said, and stumbled after her. Both Markus and Dansen looked dubious, but they followed.

Step by step they moved through the battle. Neither army seemed to have any direction that Nemir could see. They simply fought. And died.

But in the midst of the chaos and confusion, no one seemed to notice the small party moving among them. From time to time they had to duck or block the wild swing of a sword, but no one from either army attacked them deliberately.

The sun was setting and the moon just starting to rise as they reached the edge of the battlefield. In the distance the mountains stretched the full length of the horizon, and Nemir wondered if the strange woman intended for them to walk all the way to those distant peaks. Or even beyond.

But she stopped just beyond the edge of the battle and was waiting for them. Nemir, stopped, grateful for the rest. He could not remember feeling so exhausted. His shoulder, especially, ached deeply, all the way down to the bone.

As Markus and Dansen caught up with them, he started to unbuckle the gilded armor he was wearing but did not recognize. The straps that went over the left shoulder looked as though it had been cut through, and both it and the tunic underneath were stained with blood. And yet, despite the ache, the skin underneath was unbroken, without a mark.

"What now?" Markus asked, carefully laying Judas down on the ground. Both he and Dansen had deep lines of fatigue and sun-darkened skin that was at odds with what Nemir remembered.

As for Judas, he was dressed in the robes of the southern clans, which made no sense. And though those robes were liberally splattered with blood, the only wound Nemir could find on him was a shallow slice in his side that looked to already be half-healed. But he did not move and did not wake.

"I don't know," Nemir admitted. He remembered traveling east after his father's death, but could not understand how they had gone from that to being far to the south. Still, some flashes of memory were returning. He remembered the winter in a valley. He remembered the decision to travel to the trade towns. Beyond that, nothing.

Nemir brushed the hair back from Judas's face and marveled. Even though he was lying in direct sunlight, the skin was only lightly burned. Nothing like the time Judas had had demonstrated his weakness by thrusting his hand into a beam of light. "What happened?" he asked, so many questions held in the two worlds. He turned to the mysterious woman. "We were fleeing the God-King's soldiers..."

Dansen glanced at Markus, then back towards the battlefield. "Nemir..." There was a slight hesitation, and Nemir turned to the man. "You *were* the God-King."

Nemir shook his head. That made no sense. "The God-King has been around for centuries. Long before I was born," he said, stroking Judas's shoulder.

Dansen shrugged. "That is true. But after Nahanna and the clansmen took Judas, we rode south after them until we were stopped by the God-King's personal guard. They took us to the capital. There, you disappeared into the temple, and a time later, a man was carried out, dead with a knife through his heart. After that, we saw you rarely, and only from a distance, while everyone hailed you as the God- King." He paused, glancing to Markus. "The armies were raised, and you led them south to this place. This is the second battle of the war, but the first time that we have seen you act as Nemir of Ajantha, not the God-King."

Nemir shook his head again. He could not bring himself to call Dansen a liar, but it seemed so ludicrous. And yet, it also seemed familiar. "How can this be?" he whispered, turning to the woman. He was not sure why, but he was certain that she could answer all his questions.

"Interfering bitch! He is *mine*."

The sun's glow suddenly intensified, and a brightly shining man was standing next to the woman, although neither Dansen nor Markus reacted to the appearance. His handsome face was twisted into an expression of almost feral rage. Instinctively, Nemir reached for his sword to protect her, but it was not within reach, and Nemir could not bring himself to release Judas to look for it.

But the woman did not seem concerned. She reached out to the man, but he flinched away. "They are ours," she said softly, "and they are supposed to be together. Like us."

"I do not need you, and my avatar needs no one!" Nemir recognized the voice now. It was the one that had been speaking in his ear when he had first woke, and it seemed that he could remember hearing it in the past as well.

The woman's expression was so sad that Nemir wanted to comfort her. "Sun and moon, night and day, north and south. We are forever linked, no matter how you resist." She held out her hand. "We are so much less when we are alone."

The sun god -- for what else could he be? -- struck her hand away. "I do not need you," he repeated. "You are soft and weak. Look at what I have accomplished without you," he said, sweeping his hand to the north.

The goddess's eyes turned to Nemir. "Death and pain," she said, looking past them to the field where the battle still raged. "But your avatar will chose for himself. Once the power has been granted, it cannot be taken back. Those are the laws."

The god smiled. "He will make the right choice. The God- King brings peace and stability. Without him, everything will fall into petty squabbling, city against city. He will not turn his back on them."

"And Judas?" the goddess asked.

The glance towards the man still cradled in Nemir's arms was cool and dismissive. "Your avatar is dying. We do not need him."

"No," Nemir whispered, clutching Judas even closer to his chest.

The goddess moved to stand over him. "He made his choice. To save your life, he gave all that he is. But now you must make your own choice: Power or lover, control or balance, the kingdom or Judas."

"You were meant to be king," the god hissed. "It was why I called you to me. Take the throne and crush all that stand in your way.

The god's eyes glowed an intense blue, like the heart of a flame, and it seemed to Nemir that his words had merit. After all, he had been raised to rule. Was ruling a kingdom so different than ruling a city? His father...

But his father was dead at the orders of the God-King, and, it seemed, the God. And now Judas was dying as well. He would lose all that he cared for and gain what in return?

"Power," the god whispered in his ear. "The fate of cities hanging on your word. You would be able to direct the kingdom in the direction *you* want it to go. Without you it will descend into chaos."

Again he was tempted. Truly, before the God-King cities had fought over thin strips of land, while the tribes raided at will. The coming of the God-King had brought order to the lands under his rule.

But he would be alone.

"The God-King needs no one. There would be no shortage of willing bodies to slake your lusts on. But to share your power? That is folly."

Lusts, yes, but he could remember evenings spent sitting with Judas, discussing the day's lessons. Going through his thoughts and receiving considered advice in return. Judas had never pressed his own views on Judas, but that advice had been invaluable in helping him put his own thoughts into words and actions.

"You did not want him. You were furious at your father for forcing him on you."

Perhaps. And yet, in the end he had come to realize how right his father had been. Once he had opened himself up, Judas had become as necessary to him as breathing. And in the end, there could only be one choice.

"I choose Judas."

The Quartz Key - Epilogue

Judas wandered along the edge of the lake, enjoying the warmth of the sun against his face. It was difficult to believe that the light that had once been such a danger to him now embraced him as a lover. Since his reunion with Nemir, all such weaknesses had fallen away for both of them, though Nemir's had been less obvious. The fear and anger that had made him try to drive Judas away time and again was gone, and they had rarely been apart in the days since the battle.

Waking in Nemir's arms on the edge of the battlefield had been unnerving. Having both a God and a Goddess standing over them had been even more so. Judas had been full of joy and fear and confusion, all at the same time. But escaping the war intact had been the most important thing. With the aid of Dansen and Markus, they had reached the nearly deserted campsite of the northern army. There they had retrieved his clan's horses that had born them so faithfully, as well as what supplies they could find, before fleeing into the mountains that bordered the plains. Even as the sun set, the battle had raged on behind them.

Judas's heart ached for those who were fighting and dying in his name and Nemir's, but they were weak from their ordeal and there was little they could have done to end the battle. Generations of anger and hatred had erupted and nothing would stop it until one side or the other was decimated.

In time, the armies would shrink, both from attrition and desertion until neither side had any choice but to retreat. When that time came, then would be the chance to do something about the chaos spreading through what had been the God-King's realm. Unless Nemir decided to seize control, it would probably be years, if not generations, before peace came again to the land along the river, but it would come eventually. Judas trusted in that.

Judas knelt next and skimmed his hand across the lake's surface. Ripples made the water chaotic for a moment before settling down to an image. The city of Ajantha had been spared thus far, being so far to the north. When word had reached the city of the God-King's disappearance -- death, they were calling it -- the guard had risen up against Lord Morlan. They had overthrown him and placed the dead Prince's sister on the city's throne. As for Nemir's perfidious cousin, Layla, blood and the fact that Morlan had never wed her had saved her life, but she would never leave the Harem again. She sat there and painted her pictures, mourning her loss of status. At least she still had her life, and even though there had been a time when he'd wanted her dead, Judas could find it in himself to pity her.

Judas had thought that perhaps Nemir would want to return to Ajantha once they had recovered from their experiences, but when he had asked, Nemir had shook his head and said that he was no longer needed there. Indeed, his father's sister was doing an excellent job, and fearing the worst, she had already adopted an heir. Nemir's return would only create confusion

This was where they were needed.

When they had ridden away from the battle, both Judas and Nemir tied to the backs of their horses to keep them from falling, they'd had little thought except of escape. All of them had been exhausted, and both Nemir and Judas had been near death, but staying where they'd been had not been an option. Markus and Dansen had been nursemaids to them as they rode.

Judas had given all that he was to heal Nemir from the wounds that he'd unwittingly inflicted on the man, and Nemir had returned the favor over the objection of the Sun God, who had promptly abandoned him. Both of them had needed a safe place to rest and heal, but they had little knowledge of the lands around them, and they could not travel great distances.

It was Judas who had remembered the valley of the moon, where the southern armies had gathered. He remembered what he had been told; that only those dedicated to the goddess dared to enter the valley, even though there had been buildings and forage. That made it the ideal place to take refuge.

Strong arms tanned dark by the sun came around him and Judas leaned back against the solid bulk of his beloved. "You need to take care," Nemir murmured in his ear. "You may not be vulnerable to it anymore, but even I will burn if I stay in the midday sun for too long."

He allowed Nemir to pull him to his feet and they started back towards the temple that was home to them. In the distance, a herd of horses ran across the grass fields at the edge of the valley, Karsa at their head. It was very different from the sands the stallion remembered, but he had adapted quickly, establishing himself as herd stallion of the horses that made the valley their home.

The temple that Judas had seen from a distance had turned out to be much more than what he had expected. Large and spacious, it had been a place to live, not just worship. It had been in disrepair, but that had been easy to correct, especially after help had begun to arrive. Around the temple they found the overgrown remains of the gardens and orchards and vineyards that would feed the growing community that made the valley their home.

For they had barely settled into their new home when the first newcomers had arrived. Limon, priest-captain of the God-King's guard, his men, and those priests who had traveled with the army had arrived first. They had been followed soon after by the High Priestess of the Goddess, along with her fellow priestesses and their servants. The two groups, former enemies, had made their homes in the two branches of the temple with surprisingly little discord. And with them they had brought much needed tools and supplies.

While Judas had not been very surprised by the arrival of the priestesses, they had all been surprised by Limon's arrival, but his explanation had revealed much of the hidden politics of the Kingdom.

The previous God-King had sent him to find Nemir, not to bring him back to the capital but to kill him, knowing that he was destined to be the God's next avatar; the same reason why he'd sent soldiers to Ajantha. It was the High Priest of the God who had changed those orders, for his seers had revealed that Nemir would be the God-King who would finally repair the rift between the Sun and the Moon. The High Priest promised, as did the High Priestess, that while the short term would bring chaos, in the long term the rift would have eventually destroyed all. The natural order had been restored for the eventually betterment of the peoples involved.

And now the loyal from both sides were coming, collecting around the avatars of the God and Goddess.

Judas and Nemir passed through the central portion on their way to the rooms that were their home. Along one side of the wide space were statues and carvings of the Goddess, while the other side was devoted to the God. But on the wall opposite the entrance, the two met in loving embrace. It was through that wall that they came to rooms that had obviously been intended for them. The rooms extended into the cliff behind them temple, but were lit by skylights, melding the temple of the sun, light and airy, and the temple of the moon, deep within the earth's embrace.

"What news from the world outside?" Limon asked, appearing from the left, followed by Markus and Dansen. His men were patrolling the edges of the valley, watching for refugee and intruders. There had been few of either. As Chiram had said, the clans did not willingly enter the valley, even though they had to know that it was inhabited again.

Judas glanced briefly to Nemir before answering; despite everything, he still was not sure of the handsome man, but Nemir seemed to trust him. "The last survivors have made their way home," he told the man. "But word has traveled even faster. City soldiers have started fighting in small skirmishes over territory, but little more."

Limon nodded. "It will get worse before things improve, but in a year or two things will begin to balance out once more."

"And then the avatars will return to the lands as teachers, not rulers," the High Priestess said from behind them.

Nemir's arm tightened around Judas's shoulders, but his voice was calm as he answered. "When the time is right," he said, and for a moment his voice seemed to echo in the space.

Then Nemir and Judas continued on to their chamber. It was nothing like the luxury of the temples they had known, but they had made it home. Judas followed willingly as Nemir drew him down onto their bed of a mattress filled with sweet grass and covered with woolen blankets. No silks or linens here, but Judas did not miss them.

Judas opened up willingly to Nemir as his beloved kissed him. With everything that had happened to them, all that they had been through, this was the greatest gift. The chance to be together, to find comfort in each other's arms. To know that whatever was to come, they would face it together.

As they slept away the hottest part of the day, in his dreams Judas traveled deep within the cool embrace of the earth. Once more he found himself standing in front of the gates to the Lady's home. The silver dome of the moon glowed softly above them.

"Where are we?" Nemir asked, and Judas was unsurprised to find his lover by his side.

"Home," Judas said. He pulled the quartz key from its cord around his neck and reached up to press it into place. Nemir reached out and touched the stone lightly with his finger, a expression of confusion on his face.

Immediately, light flared until they both had to shield their eyes. When it was safe to look again, they saw that the key had become a seamless part of the now open gate. There was a low rumble, and stone began to fall from the roof of the cavern far above.

A single beam of sunlight came through the new opening, and the silver dome became colored with shades of gold, and in the distance they heard a woman's voice say, "Come home, my love."

They did not hear if there was an answer, but holding hands, they knew that it would come someday. A warmth filled their hearts. The two halves would be reunited.

How could it be any other way?