05



Lucien trailed along behind the Mara and the Legionnaire, feeling a little dazed. He was so full that the convent road was difficult to climb. His gut hurt. He hadn’t eaten like that in years. Possibly ever. Food had never interested him until it got to be difficult to obtain.

They hadn’t told him anything about what they wanted him for. The Mara had promised him his heart’s desire if he would come, but then, a Mara would.

He didn’t care. For all he knew, they wanted to sacrifice him to some demon-god. Maybe his heart’s desire was death. It wouldn’t surprise him. Somehow, though, he couldn’t believe they meant him any harm. He couldn’t imagine Jennet Tanner being involved in anything shady. But maybe it was all an act, maybe it was possible for people to be so open and friendly on the outside and rotten at the core. Maybe he was letting himself be fooled by her face. It wasn’t a pretty face, it was square and tanned and freckled and past the bloom of youth, but it soothed him to look at it. Watching her walk rested his eyes. She had a light step, as if always on her way somewhere good. However he tried to be suspicious, he kept coming back to the idea that whatever Jennet Tanner was up to, he’d be glad to be involved in it.

Her boss was another story. Cheerful, true, but with that mad sort of cheer that Lucien associated with dissipated, selfish noblemen. He didn’t seem the type to care what happened to his minions. But then again, Jennet seemed to like him. Maybe Lucien was no judge of character.

When they reached the convent’s gates, just preparing to close for the night, Jennet broke off from them. “I’m going to check on the animals. You need anything else tonight, Mikah?”

“No, nor tomorrow until at least midday. I don’t yet know how long a journey to provision for. I must do a bit of research.”

“Sure, have fun. Tell the girls at the gate not to lock me out, I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Mikah forgot to do that, so Lucien hung back to speak to the warrior-nuns. “Our friend is in the stables. Would you wait for her a moment longer?”

They said they would. He saw Mikah’s back disappearing into an arch at the corner of the courtyard. He couldn’t run, he was too full. He hoped the Mara wouldn’t let him get lost. It was very interesting, he thought as he lurched after his new employer, to see one in the flesh. Not much was known about the capricious immortals. Legends spoke of their power, their whims, and their beauty. Naturally they would also wear clothes and eat and so forth, but it was curious to see it for himself.

Mikah neither waited for him or lost him. Lucien came into the arcade in time to see a russet cloak with a golden braid bouncing on it disappear into a door; he entered that door to see the same back going into a room. He slowed as he approached the room, warned by the tone of the voice that came from within it. Not Mikah’s; much deeper, rougher. Not happy.

“Don’t you dare put your goddamn muddy feet up on my bed. Where were you all day? Don’t touch that! Che ghanhar, Mikah, not everything in the world is yours to paw through!”

“A book,” said Mikah’s voice. “A little diary. I wonder what’s --”

“Damn it, Mikah!”

Lucien peeked around the doorframe, just in time to see a tall, dark figure launch itself at Mikah. He thought, for an instant, that his employer was being attacked with lethal intent, but the dark figure only snatched a small book from Mikah’s hands. Mikah seemed to find this funny.

“Calm yourself, my wrathful. Meet your final companion. Do come in, wizardling. Kastor doesn’t bite unless you ask very nicely.”

Lucien crept into the room, frightened of the man who dared to swear at a Mara. He extended a trembling hand. This must be the one Jennet had called a barbarian poet. He was not the giant he’d seemed upon first impression, though certainly not small; maybe three or four inches over six feet, lanky rather than burly despite his broad shoulders. His hair was black and straight and haphazardly cut; his face was very white. He had the luminous pallor of a man in the last stages of a lung disease. His steel-gray eyes were hot with lingering anger. Lucien flinched at the clasp of his hand.

“Kastor,” the man rumbled. “And you are?”

“Lucien. Lucien Farach.”

“Fine.” Kastor sat heavily on the edge of his bed. “Fantastic. Final, you said, Mikah? Now do we get to find out what you’re going to do with us? I know you enjoy watching us wonder, but failing an explanation we’re all going to sit around eating the convent’s food forever.”

“Perhaps tomorrow, my indignation. I have things to do. You may acquaint yourselves, or sleep as perfect strangers, I don’t much care.” With a breezy wave, Mikah left them together.

Lucien didn’t know what to do. He hovered, hugging himself. The Kyri was angrily throwing small objects into a leather satchel. Lucien didn’t think it was a good idea to try to converse just now. Besides, what could you say to a Kyri? Despite his pallor, the man looked like a perfect example of the people that were always described in books as ‘the fierce nomads of the high steppes’ -- they always got that adjective, fierce. Lucien was half sure that if he drew attention to himself, he’d be killed.

At last the Kyri glanced up, the anger mostly faded from his look. “Are you waiting for something?”

“Um... no. You... you speak Semnian very well.”

“Yeah, I do. Go on, sit down. I get the feeling Mikah’s not coming back for a while, so you can have his bed. Might want to flip over the pillow. He stepped on it.”

“Oh. Uh. Thank you.”

Kastor finished packing his satchel, dusted his hands, and sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t make a real good impression, did I? Mikah has a talent for irritating me.”

“It’s all right.”

“You play stones?”

“Um... I’m afraid not.”

“Guess we don’t have the pieces, anyway.” The Kyri examined his hands for a moment, then made an explosive gesture. “Gods, this is so weird! What am I supposed to do? Am I getting ready to move out tomorrow? Am I going to stay here a week, a month? By damn, I hate him! What did he tell you? I don’t suppose he told you anything useful.”

“Not really, no. But, um, he told Jennet -- ah, Sergeant Tanner -- that he needed to do some research. Before he’d know how long a journey to provision for. And that she wouldn’t be needed until tomorrow midday at the earliest.”

This made Kastor thoughtful. “Well, now. That sounds like he actually has a plan.”

“You mean, you didn’t think he did?”

“It would be like him to drag us all out of our paths just to see if he could do it. He likes to play with people. What did he steal you from?”

“I was, er. Begging. Nothing at all pleasant, really.”

“Begging?” Kastor looked him up and down. “Prosperous beggar, then.”

“Jennet got me clothes and a razor. Mikah fed me. Now it seems I’m to sleep in a good bed, indoors. I’m bought. Did he take you from something important?”

“Yes. A life that didn’t contain him.”

“Oh.”

“So what’s your specialty? Not that it’s probably what he wants you for.”

“I’m the world’s worst wizard,” Lucien announced with mock pride.

Kastor burst out laughing. “Perfect! Oh, perfect!”

A little while after that, the Kyri rolled into his blanket and went to sleep. Lucien noted that he didn’t take his knife from his belt. That must have been an uncomfortable way to sleep. Lucien wondered, briefly, whether Kastor was worried about his posessions at all -- the satchel’s contents had looked worthless, but there was a nice suit of leather armor and a pair of long swords standing in a corner, which would be worth a quantity of money if Lucien could get them away without waking their owner. Not that he particularly wanted to steal anything. Not that he thought he could get away with it. Lucien had discovered that he was an unusually lousy thief.

He blew out the lamp. He slept in a bed for the first time in two years.



Voices woke him. He thought, for a moment, that he was home, in his own bed, and that he heard servants quietly at work, trying not to disturb their master. Then he remembered that he was a pauper, and that he was curled in some doorway or under a bridge. Following that came the understanding that it was an oddly soft doorway, and he recognized the deeper of the two voices, and it all came back.

He peered cautiously out from his blanket. He saw Kastor nodding and thanking frantically, as if trying to get rid of someone, with a bunch of black fabric draped over his arm and his hands full of a basin of water. A female voice was instructing in a motherly tone.

“Yes,” Kastor was saying, “I understand, thank you, I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen again. Yes. Thank you. Thank you very -- as soon as I’m done with it, I promise. Thank you.”

He closed the door and set the basin on the cabinet. He stripped to the waist, washed; brought out a razor and shaved. Lucien watched from within his blankets. The Kyri’s cabled torso implied strength and long experience, but his skin was as smooth as a child’s. There was a mark on his wrist like an animal bite, and some scratches on one hand that looked recent, but Lucien saw no other scars. That seemed a little odd; shouldn’t a fighter have scars? After shaving, Kastor stripped the rest of the way to examine the healing of a scabbed wound on his thigh. He pressed at the flesh around it, tapped the scab, winced critically, washed it with soapy water. He dressed himself. He sat on the edge of his bed and produced a needle and thread. He began inexpertly mending a rip in a pair of trousers. The trousers were reinforced with quilted padding in the places where armor would rub.

Lucien cleared his throat, emerging a little from his blanket. Kastor looked up, not surprised. Lucien said, “I can do that for you.”

“Why?”

Lucien considered his answer for a moment. He was too muzzy-headed from finally getting a good night’s sleep to answer diplomatically. “Because you’re making a hash of it.”

Kastor, unexpectedly, grinned. For a moment, he wasn’t scary at all. “Sure, have at it. There are too many layers, I’m getting them all lumpy.”

While Lucien began to mend the quilted fabric, Kastor went on talking.

“I’ve been informed, in an indignant tone, that we are absolutely not to shave in the bath. I didn’t, so I bet Mikah did. Anyway, don’t. This water here’s a bit soapy already, but it should serve.”

“I shaved yesterday.”

“So did I, but dry and without a mirror, so all I succeeded in doing was making sure no one could mistake the incipient beard for intentional. I didn’t think Mikah ever needed to shave. He’s never stubbly. But who knows what he gets up to.”

“Where is he?”

“He never came back last night. I have no idea. Did he give you any instructions?”

“No.”

“Well, as soon as my normal clothes are wearable, I’m going to give these borrowed clothes back and then go into town. You’re welcome to join me if you want.”

“Is Jennet coming?”

“Haven’t asked her. We could see if she and Magda want to go.”

“Who’s Magda?”

“Mikah didn’t tell you? A nun, another of our little crew. Sister Magda Verity. She’s nice. Very smart. I can’t imagine anyone not liking her.”

“How many of us are there?”

“Just us four, and Mikah. So do you want to go?”

“Uh... yes. Just a moment. I’m almost done.”

“Take your time.” Kastor leaned over to have a look at the work in progress. “Hey, you’re pretty good at that. Maybe you were a tailor in a previous life.”

“I’m fairly sure I was a blasphemer or a heretic of some kind. The gods have been unusually creative about punishing me.”

Kastor just raised an eyebrow. He didn’t ask.

When Lucien had finished mending the trousers, Kastor thanked him politely. He was showing no sign of being the angry man he’d been last night. He changed into his ‘normal’ clothes -- quite abnormal, by Lucien’s standards. They were of stiff black linen, closely fitted, closed with ties instead of buttons. At the shoulders, elbows, and so forth, they were thickened with quilted padding. Lucien now knew, from having mended the rip that matched the wound on Kastor’s thigh, that between the linen layers was a sheet of felted wool.

Over these garments, Kastor began fitting on his armor. It was made differently from Semnian armor. The upper piece was like an elaborate skirted jacket, fastened at one shoulder and the waist. Then there were bits for the upper arms and upper thighs, a pair of bracers, and tall boots. On the whole, it seemed much more flexible than armor ought to be. Kastor got this all on in a matter of moments. He settled an odd double baldric over his shoulders, sliding the sheaths of his two swords into it. He had a bit of trouble with the second one.

“Hey, uh -- Lucien, wasn’t it? Give me a hand here. I should’ve put everything back together before I put it on.”

“What am I doing?”

“I can’t get the bottom loop.” He was reaching behind him, trying to fumble the end of the second scabbard into a loop just below where the swords were meant to cross. “Just shove it on there for me.”

Lucien tucked the tip of the scabbard through the loop. Trying to be helpful, meaning to push the sword into position, he reached for the hilt.

There was a sharp popping sound and a bright light. Lucien was thrown back, pain blossoming in his hand. Eyes watering, he whimpered and clutched his wrist. It was several seconds before he could make sense of the deep voice that murmured soothingly at him.

“You’re all right. Let me see. Come on, show it to me, let’s get it taken care of. That’s right. You’re going to be fine.”

Lucien extended his stinging hand. With the back of the other, he wiped his eyes clear. His palm was reddened and beginning to blister. Kastor gave a low whistle.

“Now, how did that happen? Looks burned. They never did that to anyone else who touched them. Did you try to magic them or something?”

“No. They’re enchanted, aren’t they? Your swords.”

“Yeah. So far as I know, they just stay sharp. They’ve never done stuff on their own like that.”

“They didn’t. It was me. It’s why I’m the world’s worst wizard. Any enchantment that comes near enough to me goes horribly awry.”

“Then how the hell did you get to be a wizard at all?”

“It wasn’t always so bad. At first I was just unlucky. But by the time I finished my apprenticeship, I was starting to make things blow up or fizzle just by touching them. It’s apparently gotten worse since I stopped practicing magic. Either that or your swords’ enchantment is especially strong.”

“I think it’s got to be you. They’re not all that special. Here, get up.” Kastor clasped Lucien’s wrist and pulled him to his feet. “Let’s get someone to put a tonic on that or something.” Then, belatedly, a thought seemed to occur to him. He drew the sword that had bitten Lucien and examined it closely. He sheathed it again with a look of relief. Apparently it was unharmed.

On the way to find someone to treat Lucien’s hand, Kastor scrawled a note in his little book and ripped the page out, giving it to one of the warrior-nuns. Lucien gasped in horror at the act of tearing a page from a book. Kastor smiled at this.

“It’s just cheap hemp-paper,” he said. He held up the book so that Lucien could see the binding; a sheet of leather, a couple strips of wood for stiffening, the pages laced in with thongs. It was clearly meant to be re-filled.

“Clever.” Lucien reached for it, but Kastor put it away.

“It’s a travel book. The idea is that you fill it up on the year’s wandering, and then you leave the pages archived at winter camp. Fill it up with new paper and you’re ready for another year’s boring babble about foals and babies and lawsuits.”

“Lawsuits? The Kyri have lawyers?”

“Hell, every Kyri is a lawyer. We love to argue. Keeps us honest. You let a mare in season wander near some other guy’s herd without permission, the foal will be a spavined nag before anyone will agree who owns it.”

“Do you keep a record of your travels?”

“Nah. Not really.” He changed the subject by flagging down a healing sister, identifiable by the red trim on her habit. “Sister, can we get some burn ointment here? Just ointment and a bandage, mind you. Do not use any magic on him.”

“You were asked to leave your weapons in your room.”

“We’re going out. Just as soon as we get his hand looked at.”

The nun examined Lucien’s hand and looked perplexed. “No magic? It’s just a minor burn. A simple charm would heal it in a moment.”

“Trust me. Don’t do it.”

“As you wish,” she said unwillingly. Leaving Kastor in the courtyard, she took Lucien away to the infirmary. It was a frightening place, full of people with horrible diseases and disfiguring injuries, who had come to the convent in hope of a cure. Among the white sheets and the patients’ white robes, the nuns’ blue-and-red habits looked gaudy. As soon as his hand was bandaged, he fled.

When he returned to the courtyard, he was pleased to see Jennet sitting with Kastor. The two were chatting animatedly; they seemed to be on good terms.

“-- just goggling like a fish, going like this,” Jennet was saying as he joined them. She made a fish face, then grinned at him. “Hey, Luce. Just a sec. I’m telling a story.” Turning back to Kastor, she went on, “So after a while of this, the poor girl finally creeps up on me, like she’s trying to catch a rabbit, and she goes --” a mockery of a timid whisper -- “’Excuse me, miss, but did you get that scar from fighting?’ I could hardly answer for laughing.”

At Lucien’s questioning look, Kastor explained. “Adventures in the bath. Apparently Tanner’s got an enormous scar on her middle. What, did you get gutted or something?”

“Or something. Want to head out? Magda’s not coming. She’s nursemaiding Mikah in the library. Trying to keep him from eating the books, I guess.”

“I wish her luck,” said Kastor.

Jennet was wearing a brown shirt today, instead of her official red tunic. It was loose, making her look stocky, but when the wind flattened it the illusion was dispelled. Lucien realized he was staring. He shook himself and followed them.

He noticed, on the way down to Corathy, their attempts to include him in the conversation. Their natural inclination was to talk about matters pertaining to fighting. They discussed the merits of various kinds of armor, compared the utility of Kastor’s two slim swords to the heavy broadsword that rode Jennet’s hip. But periodically they appeared to remember that Lucien knew nothing of these things, and invited him to comment on the weather or the view.

He wasn’t much help. He didn’t have much to say. Nevertheless he appreciated their effort to treat him as a companion.

“Have you two been friends a long time?” he asked them.

“About a week,” Jennet replied.

“Oh.” That wasn’t enough; he summoned a longer sentence. “You act like you’re -- like you really get along.”

“Sure, we’ve got no quarrels,” Kastor said easily. Jennet, though, raised an eyebrow and replied in an arch tone.

“You trying to find out if I’m single, Luce?”

“What? No, of course not!”

She laughed. “Yeah, I wish, right? Cute boys everywhere and not a chance in sight. No worries, friend. I’m just boy-crazy. Comes from being in the army too long. Hey, did Mikah give you any money? I’ll share, if he didn’t. I’ve got way more than I’m going to need for what I want to get.”

“Oh. That’s generous of you. Thank you.”

Kastor snorted. “Great. You get paid. I have to use my own money.”

“Pester Mikah for it. He’s loaded.”

“I’m not asking him for anything. He’d find a way to turn it back on me.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Jennet said with exaggerated patience. “He doesn’t hate you, Kastor.”

“How do you know?”

“He said so. He said, apart from you jumping on his back all the time, he rather likes you. Granted that ‘rather’ isn’t so flattering, but rather’s all you get, the way you’re always yelling at him.”

“Well, he gets on my nerves.”

“Just pretend he’s a little kid.”

Kastor’s look darkened further. “I can’t.”

Jennet threw aside the impending argument with a wave. “Whatever floats your boat, Kas. Let’s make a plan: drinks and lunch, then shopping. Workable?”

“Um...” Lucien glanced at the sun. “Don’t you mean breakfast?”

“Pft. We can do better than that.”

After some inquiry, they found a tavern willing to serve them cold roast beef and hot bread. Kastor and Jennet had chilled ale with their strange breakfast. Lucien drank water. Corathy’s potable water came from snowmelt, quite safe, and he didn’t think he could stomach ale in the morning.

Stomachs full, they went in search of things to buy. Lucien led them to the market square. He wasn’t sure what they wanted. He realized soon enough that they didn’t know either. Corathy’s bazaar was a tiny thing compared to more southern cities, and religious items dominated, but there were a handful of merchants there with exotic wares. Among the icons and prayer beads, they found the occasional seller of jewelry or fancy clothing.

Jennet had to touch everything. Lucien watched her in something approaching awe. The woman was just so... alive. Not overly excited, not out of control in any way, but her eyes were hungry for every color and sparkle, her hands glad as she touched brass and silk and glass. She joked, she pointed things out to them, she made everything more real. She bought a blue kerchief embroidered with yellow flowers, and tied it over her short hair. She bought a strangely printed brown and yellow sash from a foreign merchant, tying it around her waist. She played with the idea of buying necklaces, glass cups, sandalwood boxes, a string of silver bells, but didn’t buy them. She repeatedly asked Lucien if he saw anything he wanted.

Kastor, on the other hand, watched the world as if waiting for it to attack him. He didn’t touch things unless he was about to buy them. Everything he bought was practical. Boot-blacking. Soap. Wool stockings. A heavy double-caped cloak of black wool. When he had to haggle, he did so in a bland, quiet way that implied he found it tedious.

“I expect you’ll want a cloak,” he reminded Jennet. “You might too, Lucien. That coat doesn’t look very warm.”

“It’ll be fine,” Jennet protested. “Mikah will tell us if we’re going anywhere cold. Though I don’t know why we would, there’s nothing up in the mountains worth seeing.”

“For all we know, he’s hunting dragons. Besides, we can’t be sure the market will be open when he tells us. He does things in a hurry. You can’t say I’m biased, you’ve seen that yourself. He didn’t give you time to grab your pack or anything.”

She considered this. She shrugged. “Won’t hurt to have something warm, in any case. Go on, Luce, pick something out. You haven’t gotten anything, and this money’s from your boss, so you’re entitled.”

He timidly approached the racks of cloaks where Kastor had made his latest purchase. The merchant, sensing a sale from what he’d overheard of their conversation, immediately began preaching the virtues of his wares. Lucien ignored him. He touched each cloak and coat in turn, testing for thickness, feeling for burrs in the cloth that would imply cheap wool. At last he chose a double-caped one like Kastor’s.

Jennet wrinkled her nose. “Are you sure?”

“It’s warm,” he said, puzzled.

“Yes, but does it have to be pink?”

Lucien looked at the cloak. It was a kind of pale red, but he wouldn’t call it exactly pink. He put it back. He took his second choice, a simpler cloak in blue-gray. Jennet’s face didn’t betray any distaste at this choice, so he supposed the color was acceptable.

Jennet’s choice was dun-green lined with quilted silk. “Silk’s excellent for warmth,” she explained, “and enough layers of it will stop an arrow. Never been able to afford it before.”

Lucien didn’t think it a good time to mention how he had once dressed in nothing else. It didn’t seem relevant.

At Kastor’s prompting, they each bought a spare set of clothes. Lucien had begun to gather that Jennet disapproved of his taste in colors, so he let her steer him to a cream-colored shirt and slate-blue trousers. She wanted to buy him a better pair of boots, but he wouldn’t let her go that far. “These won’t stay yellow long, if we’re to be travelling. I could stain them. Anyway, they’re comfortable.” He regretted immediately having disagreed with her, waited for her to grow angry, but she just shrugged.

Jennet seemed fond of brown and yellow. She paid an exorbitant sum for a yellow shirt with brown embroidery, a pattern of birds and reeds. It was an oddly feminine item for a soldier to want; but then, she was a woman. Lucien kept trying to get himself to ignore that, but it was difficult. Kastor’s purchases were all black. Lucien dared to ask him about this.

“Black or white,” Kastor clarified. “It’s because I don’t have clan colors. The blacking rubs off my armor and wrecks anything white, so I just get black.”

“Why don’t you have clan colors?”

“Because. I’m an exile.” He said this as if Lucien were very stupid for asking, so Lucien shut up.

Jennet said, “Should we get something for Magda?”

“I think the convent will supply her,” Kastor answered.

“No, I mean a present. Are nuns allowed to have personal posessions?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, I know! Come on, I saw something back this way.” She dragged them back through the bazaar, to a stall which sold sweets. She bought a bag of sugared dates to share with them, and for Magda she got a box of exquisite little marzipan fruits. “It’s not a personal posession, right? It’s food!”

“That’s very nice of you,” Lucien ventured.

“Isn’t it, though? Have some dates.”

They wandered back toward the convent, not bothering to hurry. This time, Lucien found it easier to participate in their conversation. When they reached the top of the winding road, he almost felt as if they were his friends.

Two people and two horses waited for them at the gates, small with distance. Kastor recognized them first, and groaned. “I knew he wouldn’t give us any warning.”

One of the people rushed to meet them. Lucien realized it was Mikah. The animals were not, he saw, two horses, but a horse and a mule, both heavily laden. Holding their bridles was a short, blond nun, wearing a smile of long-suffering indulgence.

“Where have you been all day?” Mikah demanded, throwing Kastor’s words of last night back in his face. “I know where to go, we have to leave!”

“What’s the rush?” Jennet said.

“There’s no point in staying here any longer. What have you been doing? Good, you’ve got warm clothes. Did you think to get Lucien a bedroll?”

“Uh -- no. We’re really not quite ready --”

“Magda! Be a saint and pester someone for some more blankets!”

The nun sighed. “All right. You did make a donation?”

“Yes, yes, a mountain of gold, they can spare some bedding. Go!”

As she went back inside, Jennet took charge of the animals. She instructed Lucien in how to attach his purchases to the bundles already overflowing the saddles. It looked like provisions for a very long journey. He loaded Kastor’s things as well, to let the Kyri have his arms free for wild gesticulations as he argued with Mikah.

He tried not to listen to the argument. He didn’t like to hear people arguing. Kastor was extravagantly angry, Mikah’s mildly mocking replies calculated to goad him. The gist seemed to be that Mikah clearly had no respect for anyone, since he wouldn’t give anyone a chance to plan, and kept them constantly on edge with guessing. Lucien supposed that was true. Mikah thought Kastor was overreacting, and wasting his energy besides, and there was no point to bumbling around the convent any longer when they had many miles to travel, and there was half the day left and good weather. Lucien supposed that was true too.

He liked Kastor. He was grateful to Mikah. He hoped they never expected him to pick sides.

After a time of trying not to eavesdrop, and consequently catching every word, he realized that their points were not actually opposed. He tried to explain this to Jennet, quietly. “They’re not arguing about what they think they’re arguing about.”

She gave him a wry look. “Yeah, I figured that out a few days ago.”

“So it’s always like this?”

“Mostly it’s Kastor. Mikah never gets mad, and he never changes his mind. If Kastor would just ignore him, it would have the same effect, and it would be a lot quieter. But Kastor just can’t open his mouth to the man without something nasty coming out. I get the impression they’ve got history.”

“Oh. Do you know what?”

Magda came up beside them. “A little. Mikah hired him to do some... some work, about a year ago. I think Mikah paid Kastor’s fee in a way that was somehow insulting.”

Lucien shook his head. “It seems like a small thing.”

“To us.” Jennet finished loading what Magda had brought, and slapped the mule’s neck affectionately. “I think it’s more than that, but I don’t know. I’m tempted to suggest they have a fistfight and get it over with.”

Mikah spun around mid-taunt to look at them. “What a marvelous idea! Kastor can’t hurt me, though.”

“I think I could,” Kastor growled, making a fist, but he didn’t use it.

It was funny, what went through Kastor’s face in that half second. Lucien was an expert at guessing when someone was about to hit someone, and the Kyri’s expression made him flinch; Kastor was planning a blow. But in the split moment after that, the resolution to harm was obliterated by a look of shame, remorse for the intention; after that, a helpless look, like a small child left standing in a crowded square, parents nowhere in sight. All this flickered and lost in a moment. Then the customary anger was back, but at a slow smoulder.

Lucien wondered if there might be some kind of geas on Kastor, to prevent him from ever doing Mikah harm. It might explain that funny look.

Whatever the reason, he resolved never to get between them when they were arguing. He felt sure that Kastor’s anger would burn him up on its way to Mikah; a scrap of paper turned to ash before it even touched the coals. He hoped it was possible to keep the Kyri from ever being mad at him.

Mikah clapped his hands together brightly. “So! Who wants to see a glacier?”



They didn’t go through Corathy. They left the convent in the other direction, following a rutted track that clearly existed only for the use of the nuns who tended the vegetable gardens. It switchbacked between terraces to the valley’s floor, where it joined a narrow foot path. They followed this upstream.

As they walked, Sister Magda introduced herself. She was polite, solicitous, with a worried face. Lucien didn’t find her difficult to talk to; she asked unimportant questions, and allowed him his short answers. Sometimes Jennet talked to him as well, small talk that was clearly not intended to elicit much response. Kastor seemed to be sulking, and Mikah was wandering ahead and lagging behind by turns. It was, all in all, very strange to be going somewhere with these people. He didn’t know where. He didn’t really need to know, he supposed. Perhaps there would be something dangerous involved, but life on the street was dangerous too, and he was safer with these people. What Kastor or Mikah would do if Lucien was in danger, there was no telling, but he was sure Jennet would protect him.

The sky was still bright when they reached the foot of the pass, but the sun had been hidden by the mountains for hours, and it was cold. Lucien and Magda unpacked their outer clothes. Jennet’s only concession to the cold was to roll down her sleeves. Kastor didn’t seem to notice.

It seemed odd that this pass had a name. It was the Wind’s Eye Pass, an extravagant name, a name that sounded as if it ought to signify a long and perilous road carved into the living granite by races lost in ancientry. Something high, snow-choked, something that would take them across the entire range to a land wholly different from this one. Instead, it was barely high enough to make Lucien feel short of breath, not nearly up to the snowline. Pines overhung the path, wildflowers grew beside it. The ground was spongy with the water that trickled down moss-thick cliffs at their left hand. At their right, the mountain fell away in a slope that, while it would have been difficult to climb from the bottom, would not harm anyone who fell down it. The valley varied in width; sometimes a knife-cut with the path at the bottom, picking amongst stones in the river; sometimes so broad that the far side was shrouded in mist.

That mist grew thicker as they climbed. Rags and blots of it drifted among the trees. The river dropped below them, the sound of its foaming cataracts receding into faintness. Aside from the sounds the travellers made, there was only a constant, gentle dripping, and the rushing of the wind. Whatever animals lived up here, they didn’t make much noise.

Around the time the sky began to yellow, they came across a three-sided log shack, a travellers’ rest. There was a dry-stone fireplace in the back wall. Beside it, a stack of cut wood leaned precariously. The cobbled floor of the shack was seamed with moss. Everything was damp.

Magda set about making a fire. She whispered to the wet wood, looked puzzled, whispered again.

Mikah laughed. “Lucien, go wait outside.”

Ashamed, Lucien went a little way down the path. He stood looking out through the trees at the far side of the valley. It was all purple shadow now. He could see his breath. He thought about the mist of his breath and the mist of the mountains joining into one mist, the breath of man and mountain all one thing, and his sense of shame faded. When a dark shape loomed beside him, he jumped a little, but he didn’t cry out.

“Sorry,” Kastor murmured. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s all right.”

“You can go in now if you want. Magda got her charm off.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Lucien began to move toward the shack, toward the growing yellow light and sound of voices, but paused when Kastor didn’t follow. “What are you going to do?”

“Watch the stars come out.”

“Oh.” Lucien considered. “May I... may I watch with you?”

The look that Kastor gave him was a strange one; unreadable, but there was definitely something in it if he could have read it. “Yeah. Sure.”

Kastor hooked his thumbs into his belt and stared across the valley. Lucien did the same. They stood unspeaking as the sky’s colors faded into darkness, as the darkness was gradually peopled with specks of light. The mist obscured all but the brightest. He had to search for some time before he found any constellations he recognized.

“There,” he said softly. “I see the Ferryman.”

“Which one’s that?”

Lucien pointed. “Those three make up the hood, and that suggests his back, and those four in a sort of trapezoid make up the boat. The lantern in the prow of the boat is Gillel, the Gate Star. It governs openings and transitions.”

“Didn’t know that.” Kastor bent to sight along Lucien’s arm. His cheek brushed Lucien’s ear, and he startled away. “Interesting,” he said, suddenly gruff.

Lucien looked at him curiously. His first impression was that there was something shamed in Kastor’s manner, but that couldn’t be right, could it? He must really not like to be touched, he concluded. When Kastor started off back to camp, no longer interested in stars, Lucien followed more slowly. He didn’t want to make the Kyri feel crowded.

The smell of food welcomed him in. Before he could do more than draw breath to ask after it, though, Mikah stepped up to give him an appraising look that stopped him in his tracks. Then the Mara glanced at Kastor with a sickly-clever sneer.

“What took you so long, my ruin? Pissing together?”

Lucien flinched at the vulgarity. “W-we were w-watching the, the stars --”

“Oh, stargazing. How delicious. What a lovely way to nurture a budding friendship.”

Cringing back from him, Lucien shook his head meaninglessly. He didn’t understand why Mikah was getting sarcastic. He only knew he’d apparently done something wrong. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” That was Kastor, sharp and warning. “Mikah. Don’t take it out on him. If you’re going to fly into a jealous rage, at least fly in the right face.”

Jealous? thought Lucien. And then: Ah. I understand.

Mikah sniffed. “Jealous? I can’t imagine where you get these fancies.”

“Then you’ve got little frogs hopping around in your skull where your brains should be, like I’ve always suspected. Leave Lucien alone.”

Mikah opened his sneer for some retort, but all at once the nasty look smoothed away. “My goodness, I am rude, aren’t I? Do accept my apologies, lad. Magda, pretty doll, that smells lovely, is it ready?” He flitted away to join Magda at the fire.

Kastor wouldn’t meet Lucien’s eyes, or anyone’s. He went outside again.

Lucien went to kneel on the damp floor beside Jennet. He whispered, “I think I understand why they argue all the time.”

Jennet nodded, grinning crookedly. “Uh-huh.”

“They’re... in love.”

“Yeah, that would explain why they hate each other so much.” She rubbed her nose, gave him a sideways glance. “So, ah, were you and Kastor up to anything?”

He shook his head vehemently. “No! I’m not like that. Did you know he was, before now? A --” he groped for a polite word -- “an androphile?”

“I had a theory. When he said Mikah was jealous it all just snapped into perspective.”

He nodded, and let the subject lapse. It was really none of his business. He would just have to be careful not to give the appearance of impropriety. He sensed that it could be very dangerous to interfere with the passions of two such powerful people. The thought made his stomach knot; after a time, he spoke. “Jennet... we haven’t known each other long, but I feel I can confide in you.”

Jennet looked startled, then nodded. “You’re right, Luce, you can.”

“I’m frightened. I wasn’t, until now, but having seen -- they’re unpredictable, and they’re dangerous. I’m just along for the ride. Where are we riding to? Oh, I know you don’t know, none of us do. It’s just that -- well, you’re so good at keeping the peace, and I’m so terrible at everything, and I was wondering if you would sort of -- look out for me. Kind of thing. Tell me when I’m about to misstep.”

She looked at him for a few moments, appraising, as if trying to decide whether it was worth the trouble. A lopsided smile crooked her mouth. She clapped him on the shoulder. “Sure thing. Don’t know how good I’ll be at giving you warning, but I can at least smooth it out if you bungle. One thing, though -- don’t worry so much. Granted I don’t know the lads all that well, but I’m pretty sure neither of them’s the type to get violent with someone who’s on their side. You know what I think? I think one good fight would clear out all this rancor and leave us feeling fresher. Maybe I can hunt up a cave bear or something, throw it in Mikah’s lap, let Kastor rescue him. Bet that would give us all some peace.”

Lucien smiled at her fancy. His shoulder still felt the warm weight of her hand.

Magda joined them, bringing bowls of bean-and-bacon stew. Lucien accepted the food with effusive thanks. It took some effort to eat politely. All that excercise in the cold mountain air had made him ravenous.

“This isn’t a good way to begin,” Magda said, with her customary gentle anxiety. “Yelling and whispering. You ought not to whisper. I could see that Mikah was listening.”

“No worries,” said Jennet. “We weren’t passing secrets. Did Mikah go to get Kastor?”

At that moment, the Kyri stomped in, face hard-set, with Mikah trailing him, which answered the question. Jennet shook her head, smiling. “Kastor, you look like six kinds of nasty. Try some of Magda’s cooking, that should settle your soul. It’s salvation in a bowl.”

Kastor tried to stay angry, but after a bit of a struggle he broke into a grin. “Save me, Sister Magda,” he said, holding out his hands for his portion, and he laughed.



They reached the glacier the next day. Rather, they came within sight of it, but made no effort to approach it. The lake at its foot prevented them. They skirted it in silence, awestruck.

Lucien was shaken to realize that he’d lived only two days’ walk from something like this for years and never known it was there. The pass had finally broken the treeline, and they hunched against a scouring wind, halfway down a hillside yellow with tundra vegetation. Spring’s green had not reached these heights. Below them, the glacial lake spread across the valley’s floor, milky blue, the source of the Crane River. A barren slope made up the far side of the valley. It was strewn with boulders, gray and forbidding. Above that, high above them, the wall of the glacier loomed. The sun turned it to dirty diamond, hard to look at. Between seams of darker matter, fortress-sized slabs of ice shone green and blue and blinding. For all its hugeness, the shape of the glacier was like a spill of molasses, pouring through a gap between two peaks at a speed too slow to witness.

Lucien made a mental note, if he survived whatever adventure he’d signed on for, to come back and spend several days here, looking until his eyes were full.

They saw a bear that day, far across the hillside, its brown fur silver-sheened. It was digging up flowers and eating the roots. It ignored them. Later, a flock of tiny goats bounded away at the sound of their approach. Jennet commented on these things with cheerful astonishment. Lucien produced only breathy little noises of agreement. He could feel the weight of the mountains beneath his feet. He felt that his own passage was an intended thing, that the land was pleased to be seen by sapient eyes.

Having ascended most of the day, the pass tilted downward. It had occasional relapses, one lifting them through a narrow saddle where snow clung on the shadow sides of the stones. By evening, the descending trend was unmistakable. They camped in the lee of a boulder the size of two houses stacked, a great jagged knife cutting into the sky. They had nothing to burn; they ate biscuits and cheese. For thirst, they ate snow. The mule and the horse formed the sides of their tent; it was roofless. The four mortals huddled together in sleep, the women with their arms around each other like sisters, the men backed against them, all sharing blankets. No one took their boots off. Somewhere beyond their clutch of warmth, Mikah stalked, unperturbed by the cold. Lucien didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, so loud was the whining of the wind, but the day’s walking demanded rest, and he did not notice himself falling into oblivion.

Pain in his burned hand woke him just before dawn. It crept up on his dreams first; he was looking for the nun who’d bandaged it, to complain that she’d left a number of wasps inside the bandage. Gradually he rejected this unlikely explanation for the pain, his growing clarity becoming wakefulness. With awareness, the pain increased. It did feel like wasps, stabbing and stinging, pins and needles tickling swollen flesh.

He extracted himself from the blanket he shared with Magda’s back, tucking it around her. The cold of morning took his breath away. He staggered out into the wind, around the other side of the boulder, to relieve himself. Then, seeking better light, he climbed toward the top of the nearest ridge.

A glint and flutter there warned him. The Mara had undone his braid, and was allowing the wind to comb his hair. Lucien had never sensed any invert tendencies in himself, but he still caught his breath at the immortal’s beauty. All milky gold, hair and skin the same color, as if cast whole out of some unknown metal, the material of stars. Lucien froze, unwilling to approach further. His reaction was one of mortal to immortal, witness to event, but he had caught a glimpse of what Kastor must see when he looked at Mikah. It was no wonder the Kyri was angry. His fury was his only defense against helpless worship.

Lucien took a step back, meaning to creep away unobserved. He should have known he’d been observed from the moment he woke. Mikah turned with a smile, a languid beckoning.

“Watch the sunrise with me. It is nearly as beautiful as the stars.”

Lucien obeyed. He sensed that if he’d declined, Mikah would have made a joke and let him go, but he still didn’t feel it was safe to defy the Mara. He sat at arm’s length from Mikah and fixed his gaze on the east. The mountains there were jagged and black, their edges seeming oddly feathered, as if they were made of ripped paper.

“Does your hand pain you?”

Lucien realized he was clutching it tight to his chest. He unfurled it. The way it felt, he expected to see the bandages scorched and smoking. “It woke me.”

“Isn’t it healing? Let me see.”

He unknotted the bandage. The flesh beneath was red, taut, the larger blisters burst and drained. Lucien wrinkled his nose in disgust. There were smaller blisters still bulging, around and underneath the others, which seemed to grow as he watched.

“This is perilous,” Mikah said softly. “It’s burning anew. Something is groping at you, something I can’t sense. Only your tenderest flesh can sense it.”

“Burning -- again?” Lucien’s eyes widened. “How?”

“As I said, some subtle magic is near.”

Lucien looked around.

“Not in the place. You would have burned last night.”

“Then --?”

“You must thrust it away. Otherwise...” Mikah glanced meaningfully at the new blisters.

“Thrust what away? I don’t -- I’m sorry, I’m trying to understand, but I’m stupid. You know I can’t do magic, so you can’t be saying --”

“The absence of magic, the opposite of magic, the deadening of it -- or you may explode it, if you like, if that’s all you can do. Quickly now, my wizardling, before you’re scarred beyond healing.”

Lucien didn’t understand what Mikah wanted. Weak with despair, distracted by the pain in his hand, he began to whisper the words of a warding. The first syllables increased the pain to blinding; he could not finish. Through watering eyes, he saw Mikah shake his head.

“Not that way, Lucien Farach. There is something in you that hates sorcery. Do not let slip the leash, not now, but give it a little more rope, let it guard you. You’re clenching it so tightly, all the time. Let it go, just a little.”

He shook his head in denial, but closed his eyes, groping inside his mind for anything that resembled the force Mikah described. Some power, some opposition to the pain that was now shooting up his arm and pounding in his head --

“Pretend you are a fish, and use the water,” Mikah murmured in his ear. “A bird; command the air. It is greater than you are, but without will. Look outside.”

At that, he saw it. It resolved into focus; he’d been seeing it all along. Not something lurking in his mind, but a color that permeated it, surrounded him. His awareness of it extended a few inches past the boundaries of his skin, but he sensed that it was not contained in him; rather, it flowed massively in some other place, and something about him allowed this small eddy of it to surface into the world. He was not its source. He was only an imperfect patch in the dam.

Suddenly, he was terrified. He began to tremble.

Mikah touched his shoulder soothingly, stroked his arm, abruptly pounced on his palm and pounded a yell out of him. The pain and sound broke his trance.

“Stop it!” he cried, and the words -- not in any thaumaturgical language, just mundane, powerless Semnian -- vibrated in the aether like the deepest spell. Something outside him shivered, shattered, and was gone.

The pain in his hand eased to a dull throbbing. When he looked down, he found the swollen skin mottled, the new blisters vanished.

Mikah was holding his fingertips delicately to his head, wincing. “Well done, my watchdog, but next time perhaps you could apply just a little less force.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And your choice of words -- ‘go away’ would have sufficed. I hope he’s not hurt.”

“I’m sor -- who?”

“Why, whoever was spying on us,” Mikah said innocently. “Curiosity is not necessarily hostile.” Then he straightened, looking ahead at the reddening east, with an odd smile on his face.

The Kyri’s deep voice growled behind them. “What are you doing to him?”

“Nothing, my disorder. Go back to sleep.”

“Everyone’s awake. Lucien’s hollering woke them. I’ll ask again: what --”

“My hand,” Lucien said suddenly. He held it out for inspection, and the wad of used bandage gripped in the other. “It was hurting.”

“So much you yelled?” said Kastor suspiciously. “You yelled ‘stop’. What was he doing?”

“He grabbed it.” That was true, at least. Lucien wasn’t sure why he was prevaricating. He just knew he didn’t want to talk about the strange flow that leaked out past him from somewhere else. He didn’t know how to describe it, and he didn’t want to think about it.

Fortunately, Kastor took him at his word. The pale man made a disgusted sound. “Typical. Mikah is always hurting people by accident. I doubt he cares whether he does.”

Now Mikah turned, the wind choosing this moment to lift his hair around him like a glittering cloud of power, as if on cue. His voice was as teasing as ever, but something in his eyes belied it. “Are you referring, my dissolution, to the gossiping of our companions? They say you are in love with me. Is it true?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Kastor snapped.

“That’s what I thought.” The Mara turned away, smoothing down his hair. “Gather yourselves, my fragile ones. We have miles before us.”