08



Elirny came at Mikah cautiously, spear low, thrusting it in testing jabs. In the very first moments, though, it became clear that Mikah wasn’t going to play by any rules she knew. He simply stood there, flat-footed, until her jabs came into range. Then he slid sideways, blink-fast.

He jumped high in the air, and nearly came down with his foot on the spear, but Elirny swished it aside just fast enough. She changed her strategy, slashing at his face, trying to make him blink so he couldn’t see properly. He backed away, as expected -- then, with an odd twisting forward dart, got inside the range of a thrust, trapped the spearhead in the crook of his arm, and broke the shaft with his baton.

Elirny didn’t consider herself done; she ran at him, slashing with the jagged stump of the spear shaft. Mikah spun aside and hit her in the back of the head with both batons -- thunk, thunk. Elirny Calaon sprawled on her face in the dirt.

“Next,” said Mikah blandly.

He removed the next two challengers by the same method: disarm them, then bash them in the head. Even with the pauses between fights, it took less than half an hour.

The fourth challenger was the mountain mercenary. He was heavily armored, and his weapon was a heavy-shafted hammer that Mikah couldn’t even block, let alone break. The Mara was far faster than he was, but that only made it a war of attrition; who would get tired first, the burly man swinging the heavy weapon or the slim man dancing and darting to avoid being smashed?

Kastor was sure Mikah would win. He didn’t think the Mara would tire as easily as a mortal. But Seamus turned out to have a strategy; his slowness was very slightly exaggerated. When Mikah made a mistake, ducking under a swing and then coming up a bit too leisurely, the mercenary let the momentum of his missed swing pull him around in a circle for a second, faster blow. It caught Mikah on the upper arm, throwing him rolling across the ring.

The Mara got up immediately, but his right arm was hanging limp. He glanced to Kastor, grinning, shaking his head. Kastor was standing, had yelled -- how embarrassing. He sat down.

Seamus moved in for the kill. Mikah still dodged, but he was slowed, and certain movements made him wince. He wouldn’t last. The mercenary was attacking Mikah’s right side, which was even more defenseless than the left, where he could use his baton to break the force of a blow. Mikah’s evasions were getting slower and slower. He looked dazed.

Tanner grabbed Kastor’s wrist, hard, and Kastor aborted another motion to stand.

Seamus whirled his hammer in one hand, high over his head, and stepped into his swing; the hammer descended from heaven like thunder.

Then, suddenly, Seamus was doubled over and staggering, the hammer clattering across the ground, and Mikah came across the back of the man’s neck in his finishing blow, one-two.

Kastor dissected the attack in afterimage. Seamus had overcomitted. Mikah had gotten inside his range and driven his right-hand baton into the gap between armor plates under the mercenary’s arm. Mikah’s whole weight had been behind his right arm, the one that had been faking lame. Kastor knew how it could hurt to get hit there, if the blow was aimed right. Seamus would be sore for days. But it had relied on a deception, and now everyone had seen it.

The rules allowed a short water break after the fourth and eighth fights. Kastor took the water cup from the attendant and brought it to Mikah himself.

“That’s not going to work twice,” he said while Mikah drank.

Mikah handed him the empty cup. “I know. But hopefully they’ll think I was faking, and not realize that I heal fast. I might get off one more trick on that account.”

Kastor had thought so, in fact, so no doubt the others were fooled as well. He nodded. “What did you mean, saying you’re no fighter? I certainly wouldn’t want to face you.”

“Does that mean you’re going to stop threatening me, my fury? I think I’ll miss it. Anyway, you must’ve seen there’s no skill in me. I’m making it up as I go.”

“Well, it’s working.”

“I think my luck’s dried out. Freshen it up for me.”

“You don’t need to get any fresher.” Kastor went back to his seat, followed by the sound of the Mara’s laughter.

Lucien said, “Didn’t he tell us he was no warrior?”

“He says he’s making it up as he goes.”

Tanner made a thoughtful sound. “That might be the best strategy, actually. An unpredictable opponent is tough to beat.”

“There are eight more fights,” Kastor said bleakly.

The fifth challenger entered the ring, and there was no more time for talking.

Mikah had little trouble with the fifth and sixth, saber fighters who were fairly predictable despite their skill. The seventh was almost as light and quick as he was, and she ran him around in circles for a long time, trying to exhaust him. It backfired, though, and the challenger was exhausted first. One-two.

The eighth was Ardi Splitface. Kastor realized that the seventh fighter had only been preparing the way for Ardi, like a beater driving prey into his master’s nets. Ardi had a butterfly spear with a spike on its butt, the shaft sheathed in iron -- a weapon for hunting wyr, protected against its teeth and its venomous spittle. Mikah wouldn’t be able to break this one.

The Mara fought as he had all along, opportunistically, allowing his opponent to tire himself before darting in to attempt an attack. In this case, however, his attacks did him no good. He couldn’t affect the spear, and notched one of his batons deflecting it. He couldn’t get at Ardi, who kept his body too low and compact to leave any openings. He landed a good one on Ardi’s knuckles, splitting the skin and perhaps breaking a finger or two, but the hunter still kept his grip. Ardi was less able to twirl and dart the spear after that, but his defense was solid.

After half an hour of this, both were panting. The crowd had grown; children were being held on their parents’ shoulders, and at the far edges some people had defied the rules of camp enough to come mounted, for a higher seat. Their attention was rapt. It was impossible to say which fighter would win. Mikah had shown incredible endurance, but he was tired now, and he had to move more than his opponent. Kastor kept having to remove his fist from his teeth; it didn’t look right, for him to be melodramatic with anxiety for his champion.

Then Ardi’s nerve broke, or so it seemed, and he raised the spear over his shoulder as if for a wide sweep. Kastor saw the ruse instantly, cried a warning -- but it was too late. Mikah darted in to take advantage of the opening, and found that it wasn’t an opening after all. The spike on the spear-butt punched a hole in his breastplate, catching him, twisting him aside.

But Mikah thrust with his baton anyway, and at full reach punched it solidly into the middle of Ardi’s face. The distraction this afforded, as the hunter’s eyes watered and his nose gushed blood, allowed Mikah to pry himself off the spike without any further lacerations. He evaded a less controlled swing, bashing his shoulder into Ardi’s body, bowling him over, and jumped sharply on the hunter’s arms. His face was twisted into savagery as he stomped the broken bones once more for good measure.

Holding his side, he lurched toward the ropes. Kastor was waiting with water.

Alys called out to them: “No healing is allowed!”

Kastor muttered, “I know.” He gave Mikah the water. “How bad is it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t seem to be dead. I’ll heal soon enough, if I don’t take worse. They’re wearing me down. Have you anything you want to tell me before I die? Any final words?”

“Yeah. Don’t die.”

“Oh, all right, since you insist.” Mikah took his hand away, wincing at the torn hole in the armor, the smear of crimson on his hand. He looked up at Kastor, and his expression was full of undisguised anxiety. “Can you cheer for me, a bit? You only shout when I get hurt.”

“Do I? I’m sorry. I’ll cheer for you.”

“Thanks.” He turned away, fingering his beringed ear, stumbling a bit.

Kastor had seen that look on Mikah’s face before, and that time, he’d been faking. What did he have to gain by it now? Or was he really afraid? Either way, Kastor was afraid for him, and didn’t like the feeling.

The ninth challenger entered the ring; another saber fighter. Mikah shook himself, raised his head and weapons, and charged.

Kastor made a point of yelling his head off.

Mikah seemed to have a resurgence of energy, despite the blood that ran strongly enough from his side to soak his trouser leg below the armor. He was fighting wild, though. It seemed there was a bit of berserker in him. He attacked the saber, battering it aside again and again until a blow luckier or harder than the rest knocked it from his opponent’s hand. He cracked the poor woman so hard across the face that the notched baton shattered; the saber fencer fell like a sack of onions, blood gushing from a dented temple. She was alive, breath rasping regularly in her throat as the wardens carried her from the ring, but it wasn’t likely she’d ever fully recover.

Mikah looked back to Kastor. “I’m sorry,” he called. He looked gray, and it wasn’t just dust and sweat. He was swaying on his feet.

“Just survive,” Kastor called back. When Mikah kept giving him that look, as if he’d forgotten what he was supposed to be doing, Kastor did something he knew he wouldn’t be able to explain later: he touched his fingertips to his chest over his heart, then unfurled them toward Mikah. He didn’t know what he meant by it. Encouragement. I give you my strength. He would, if he could.

Mikah’s eyes went round. He looked back just in time to see the tenth champion begin a headlong charge. This was a big man with a two-handed sword, heavily armored, and it looked for a moment like Mikah was doomed. In that moment Kastor felt a stab of horror, the beginning of the thought that if he hadn’t wasted time with gesturing, Mikah would have seen it coming.

But Mikah planted his feet, ducked under a swing, got his shoulder into the other’s stomach, and heaved him head-over-heels, armor and all. Kastor remembered how solid Mikah had seemed the other night, absolutely immovable. Apparently it wasn’t sorcery. The wardens didn’t call foul, anyway. Mikah kept the man on the ground with savage kicks until he knocked his helmet off, then gave him a few sharp raps with the remaining baton.

Blood was soaking his leg all the way down the side of his boot now. He was leaving little wet crescents in the dust with every step.

Tamiris entered the ring. Unlike the others, he spoke a challenge aloud: “I fight for humanity against the forces of hell.”

“Get your monsters straight,” Mikah grunted. He managed to give his baton a jaunty twirl. Then Tamiris was upon him.

Kastor was on his feet instantly, and no amount of tugging from Tanner and Nhedra could make him sit down again. He barely felt their efforts. He had no idea what he was yelling. His hands were making the motions he wanted Mikah’s hands to make. He was half inside the blood madness even though he wasn’t the one fighting. He was a moment from jumping into the ring.

And all the time, as Mikah’s baton and Tamiris’s saber flickered faster and faster, his heart was ringing with fury. It’s not fair. It’s unjust. You can’t do that to him, he can’t be bleeding into the dust, and sweating, he’s an immortal, a thing a thousand times more fine than you, it’s not fair, I want to be the one killing you now!

Mikah had no strategy any longer, no finesse. He was relying entirely on agility and reflex. And his agility and reflexes were incredible, but he’d been worn away until they were merely human for all that. Tamiris matched him. Chips flew from the baton. Red welts appeared on Mikah’s skin; welts that, on a mortal, would have been gashes, smashed bones, limbs removed. Then some of the red lines were cuts, and blood began to patter on the ground.

The way Mikah ended the fight was nothing Kastor had seen anyone do before. He was struck -- anyone else would have been decapitated -- under the chin, the force of the strike knocking him back off his feet. He bent like a stem of grass, dropping his baton -- planted his hands on the ground and backflipped like an acrobat -- kicked Tamiris in the jaw from beneath, one-two. Tamiris went down. Mikah followed, sprawling on his face.

The cheers of the crowd were so loud that Kastor only knew he was shouting because he could feel it in his throat. He knew he was yelling Mikah’s name, and get up, get up! -- and Mikah did get up. Slowly, uncertainly. Wobbling. But he stood.

The cheers swelled. People had forgotten who they were supposed to be cheering for. They only knew they were seeing some incredible fighting.

Alys was not one to let her entrance be hidden in the tail of someone else’s glory. She waited until the crowd calmed. Then she stood from the throne. She unfastened her mantle and let it pool on the platform. A handmaiden offered two swords; slim, slightly curved sabers of watered steel, their hilts wrapped with silk cord and wyr-skin. She looked down on Mikah with distaste. In a voice that somehow sounded private despite being loud enough to hear over the murmuring of the crowd, she said, “This is almost not worth doing.”

Mikah’s breath rasped in his throat. His milk-gold skin was barely visible under spilled blood -- apple flesh under torn peel. But he grinned like nothing in the world could please him more than to fight with her. “Are you trying to tell me you forfeit?”

Alys snarled and stepped down from the platform.

Kastor wanted to cry warnings to him -- She’s good, she’s better than I am, your tricks won’t work on her, she’s been watching you all this time to see how to beat you! But Mikah knew that already. Instead he yelled encouragement. “You can do it, Mikah! You can win!”

“I know that,” said Mikah easily. “I’ll have your name cleared in just a moment, my bittersweet. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“You.” Alys took up an offense stance. “How dare you exchange pet names with him, you -- creature.”

They began to circle. “Don’t tell me you still want him. Don’t tell me all this is about your jealousy.”

“This is about justice.”

“It’s possible you even believe that.”

“That demonspawn poisoned us all. I will clear my people’s honor.”

“You’ll stain it anew. I know why you want him dead.”

She feinted, but couldn’t draw him into a parry that would leave him off guard. “I am the servant of the Kyri, and their protector.”

“You hate him because he couldn’t love you back.”

“You --” She broke off, going momentarily to a more guarded stance. “You’re trying to make me angry. I suppose that’s the only strategy left to you. It’s time to finish this.”

As she deciphered Mikah’s gambit, Kastor groaned in despair; by some trick of the wind, his groan fell into an empty moment, sounding alone. The next moment, Alys attacked.

It wasn’t possible to see her swords move. Their passage could be traced only by the spatters that flew from Mikah’s skin in their wake. Chips sprayed from his baton as he blocked fully half the blows, but half was not enough. In seconds, he looked as if he’d been dragged through a nest of thorns, and then as if he’d been whipped with razors.

His baton flew away. Alys battered down his arms; the bracers were shredded, his forearms laid open to the bone, and he could hold them up no longer. Alys tossed one of her swords aside in order to use both hands on the other. She raised it like a headsman’s axe.

“STOP!”

Kastor’s shout was the loudest sound he’d ever heard. He deafened himself with it. Later he’d wonder how he’d done it. Alys stopped. Everyone stopped. The whole world stared at him, open-mouthed. He became aware of Tanner’s freckled arms around him from behind, holding him back. He almost panicked, almost couldn’t understand his own intentions. A glance at Mikah resolved him.

“Let me take his place!” he shouted; not as loudly, but he didn’t need to be as loud. Everyone was silent, watching him.

And no one answered. He could hear Mikah’s blood spattering the ground.

“Let me take his place,” he repeated. “I can’t let him die for me. Let me trade places with him.”

Alys stepped back one pace, wary lest this be a ruse. “It’s late to consider that now.”

“I know -- there were reasons -- please!”

A warden said, uncertainly, “The law prohibits changing combatants during the ordeal.”

“Not as a combatant! As a kind of -- a kind of place marker. I’ll stand where he stands, you can mark up my arms the same way if you want, bleed me until I’m as tired, anything -- please! Just let me take the blow that was about to fall. It was meant for me.”

Mikah was sagging, on the verge of falling, but he dragged his eyes up to look at Kastor. “You can’t,” he said raggedly. “If you die, there’s no damn point in any of this.”

“Ha.” Alys’s face twisted in a sneer. “So sweet. Vying for the honor of sacrificing yourselves for each other. You’ve learned sacrifice late in life, Kastor. Take your devil paramour’s place, then. With the wounds I’ve given him, he’ll join you in hell shortly.”

Kastor had vaulted the ropes sometime during this; he didn’t remember doing it. He caught Mikah as he swayed, steered him back toward the platform, and the waiting arms of his friends. “You’re out of the match now. Healing is allowed.”

Magda was horrified by the volume of blood. “I don’t know if I can keep up --”

“Try,” Kastor said. And to Mikah: “I would have forgiven you soon, I think.”

“I might have been worthy of it in time,” Mikah returned.

There was no more to say. Kastor went to stand before his waiting wife. He stood straight, arms at his sides, unarmored. He waited.

She looked disgusted. “What are you crying for?”

“Oh, am I?” He hadn’t noticed.

“A demon, weeping. I’m supposed to believe that.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know, Alys. You’re doing a very wrong thing. But I can’t convince you. I have to convince you -- but I can’t.” He was just now beginning to be afraid. He squeezed his eyes shut. His voice was a whisper: “Do it.”

There was a long, long moment in the dark. He had time to think: She’s cruel to make me wait. Then: She’s not cruel, only angry. She doesn’t know if she should. At last: Has the blow fallen, and I didn’t feel it? Am I dead now? He felt light enough, numb enough, but still terrified. To make sure, he had to open his eyes again.

Her sword was no longer raised. It rang on the ground just as he looked. She drew back her hand and slapped him across the face.

“You are not my husband. I divorce you.”

Shock made him sway more with the blows than their force merited, as she repeated it the requisite three times. Three slaps. Three repudiations. She wasn’t even hitting hard enough to hurt; it was ritual.

He was too stupid with surprise to answer immediately. She waited for his response. It crossed his mind that he had the option of refusing the divorce, and then the council would be arguing about it for years -- the thought almost made him laugh, but he was able to keep the impending hysterical grin from reaching his face.

He swallowed the dryness from his mouth. “I accept the divorce. Return to your family, and I will return to mine.”

She prompted him with an impatient look. Hastily, he repeated it twice more.

“It’s done,” Alys said. “I leave the field. Kastor is cleared by forfeit. He may resume his exile, and live in peace so long as he does not return. We have spoken.” She gathered her swords and strode from the ring.

Kastor stood swaying for a moment longer. He whispered, “Thank you.” No one heard him.



Mikah had fainted; it was half an hour before he came around. Kastor knelt beside him the whole time, watching Magda pray and whisper charms, watching the bandages on his arms turn red. The first thing Mikah did when he woke was try to sit up, gasping, “Kastor, dammit --”

“I’m here.”

Mikah flailed, found Kastor’s hand ready to grasp his, but let his arm fall. The bandages were already soaked through; they made a wet sound hitting the platform. He closed his eyes, but he still looked angry. “How, by all the gods, did you get out of that one? Are you determined to drive me mad? Didn’t I tell you I’d survive? Even if she took my head off --”

“I don’t know,” Kastor said, and something in his tone made Mikah open his eyes again. “I don’t know why I did that. I don’t think I had any choice. Mikah, no one died. Can we just be glad about that for now?”

The Mara sighed. He looked sullen. “Oh, all right,” he allowed.

Magda gave Kastor a stern look. “He’s nearly bled out. Immortal or not, he’s in no condition. Ask your admirers if they can arrange a litter, and somewhere out of the cold to put him.”

“My --?”

“Admirers,” she repeated. She looked pointedly past him.

He turned, and saw with astonishment that a large portion of the crowd had remained, and were clustered around the platform, and did not look like they hated him. When they saw him looking, a few offered shouts of congratulation.

Several were relatives he barely knew. He saw his cousin Shehan, not one of those congratulating him -- probably not pleased that none of the Gethanein’s faction had been killed -- but not hostile either. Shehan’s father Gedthenhoc, Nhedra’s older brother, shoved forward to clasp Kastor’s hand.

“We were always behind you, son,” he said. “We never believed that superstitious trash about you being a demon.”

You didn’t take in my mother when she was alone; you didn’t speak for me when I was exiled. But he didn’t say that. “I’m glad of it. Alys can’t seem to keep her immortals straight. Mikah’s no demon. He bleeds red like the rest of us -- rather a lot, at the moment. Can I impose on you for somewhere to tend him? That is, unless Mother’s got a new wagon since I was last here.”

“No, she’s still in that little box. No room in there, you’re right. Shehan, help your cousin.”

“Yes, Father,” Shehan said, a little sullenly.

They laid Mikah on Kastor’s cloak and carried him to Gedthenoc’s tent. It was one of the larger pavilion-clusters in the Auberlane quarter, not silk like the Gethanein’s but good oiled canvas, a dozen rooms altogether. The furnishings inside were likewise good without being rich. Gedthenoc’s wife, a birdlike Calaon woman named Kita, got her handmaidens scrambling with a cloud of chirped orders, and in moments the Mara was settled on a thick pallet with braziers at head and foot to keep him warm. Kita and Magda bent to tending him, communicating quite effectively by gestures and tones. They shooed the others away across the central room.

Kastor, Lucien, and Tanner had trouble concentrating on conversation, but Gedthenoc insisted on talking. He was clearly trying to be diplomatic, aiming the occasional solicitous question at his sister as if he and Nhedra were as close as they should have been. Shehan wasn’t talking. He was, Kastor judged, one of those handsome people who thought handsome should be enough. Shehan’s little sister Shebun was more sensible, stealing away the least busy of her mother’s servants to bring refreshments for the guests. Over thick, sweet coffee and bowls of buckwheat noodles, they dissected the fight, and the politics behind it.

Kastor tried to answer when questions were asked of him. He was able to say that he had evidence now that his father hadn’t been a demon, but beyond that knew no more than anyone else. Except, of course, Nhedra, who could not answer any question about the mystery. She was under some kind of oath, and everyone knew better than to ask. He was able to explain a little of what Mikah was -- closer kin to angels than demons, but not really close to either, an immortal for whom sorcery was natural as breathing, tougher than a human. Otherwise little different from the young man he appeared to be.

“How old is he?” Shebun asked. “He looks to be your age, Cousin. Twenty-five?”

“He’s about four thousand. He’s lost track.”

“Oh. Imagine being so old.” She didn’t seem perturbed by it. “More coffee?”

Tanner and Lucien were left out, since the conversation was in Kyri. Kastor translated bits of it for them. What they most wanted to understand was what had happened at the end of the fight, when it looked like the queen was going to kill Kastor, and then just slapped him instead. He explained, unable to keep from sounding bewildered.

“Is that all it took?” Tanner was indignant. “Why didn’t she just do that in the first place?”

“She had to humiliate me, I think,” he answered. “I had to beg. What I begged her for wasn’t what she wanted me to ask, maybe, but maybe it was better. I was begging for the chance to die at her sword -- or that’s how she would see it. She denied my request. Established power over me. Maybe now she’s satisfied.”

Tanner shook her head, grinning. “Girl’s not used to losing. I could teach her a few life lessons.”

“What are you talking about, Tanner? She’d kick your ass.”

“No, not at fighting. Stones. Cards maybe. Being a good loser is more important than winning, in the long run. Done good by me, anyway. Say, you think it’s safe for me and Luce to go get our baggage?”

“I’ll ask.”

Gedthenoc considered seriously how to answer. At last he nodded. “Nhedra should go with them, to translate. But be careful, sister. Not everyone is so pleased by today’s outcome as we are.”

“First I wish to speak to my son alone.”

“Oh -- of course. There are empty rooms around, everyone’s in here.” He gestured vaguely.

Nhedra took Kastor into a side room. She leaned close, conspiratorial. “What hold does he have on you?” she demanded in a whisper.

“What do you mean?” He didn’t have to ask who.

“The golden leash he drags you by. I watched it become a slave collar today. It strengthened every time he bled. Yet the wardens didn’t cry sorcery. What has he done to you?”

Suddenly he understood her metaphor. “First answer me this: have you looked to see whether I hold a similar leash on him?”

Startled, she glanced back toward the central room. Then she appraised Kastor head to toe, eyes narrowed. “Not so strong. Not golden. It is like a line of ants, a cloud of bees, questing, returning.” She parted the curtain to see Mikah, then came back, seeming a bit surprised. “And when the holy woman touches a wound, so that he clenches his teeth together, there is a hobble of braided night which lashes between you, and looks near to pulling his heart from his chest.” She took a step back from Kastor as if suspicious of him. “What have you done?”

“Relax, Mother. It’s only love. Nothing will come of it. We won’t speak it, and it will break when we part ways, because we don’t like each other very much.”

She stared a moment longer, then laughed. She had a beautiful laugh, more beautiful for its rarity. “Oh, child, my foolish child. You don’t like each other very much. Oh Kastor. Would you believe I know exactly what you mean?”

“Yeah. I would.”

“Don’t be so careful of your heart. It grows stronger the more it breaks. Like ice. Or do you still believe in forever?”

“No, I think I’ve gotten over that.”

“Good.” She swept away, collecting Tanner and Lucien, out into the chill spring daylight. Kastor realized it was barely after noon. The day had seemed so long already, it surprised him.

Magda allowed Kastor to kneel at the head of Mikah’s pallet, now that they’d finally stopped the bleeding. She asked, “Do you want to be the one to feed him?”

“If you want me to.”

“He needs liquids. Anything but wine or beer. He’s lost so much blood. Ask her for more pillows.” She tapped Mikah’s pillow, looking to Kita, gesturing more. “Pillows.”

“We’d like to prop him up,” Kastor told his aunt in Kyri. To Shebun he said, “Can we have some broth? Even tea would do, I gather. Or milk, that wouldn’t be bad.”

“Certainly,” the sensible girl said, and rushed off.

He wondered what that would be like, to be known as the sensible one. Comforting? Frustrating? When the pillows came, he slid his arm under Mikah’s shoulders and lifted him. The Mara was surprisingly heavy, as if made of something denser than flesh. Mikah lolled between wakefulness and sleep, murmuring in a language none of them knew. Magda handed Kastor a bowl of warm broth and turned away.

“Magda,” he called after her. “Am I supposed to tend him now? I don’t know what to do.”

“Be kind,” she said. “That’s all. He’ll recover no matter what we do, but faster is better, isn’t it? So be kind. I’m very tired.” She got Kita to lead her away, presumably to somewhere she could sleep. She had been murmuring charms for hours, Kastor realized. She must be exhausted.

He reached to tap Mikah’s shoulder, to wake him enough to eat, but the spot he reached for was bandaged; both shoulders, the arms, the hands, much of the chest, the poor creature was entirely swaddled. His face was cut up as well, but because he’d protected it most he’d taken the least damage there. There were only a few scratches, scabbed over and not needing to be bandaged. Kastor touched the edge of Mikah’s jaw, ran his knuckle down the line of it, the only skin clear of cuts that he could see. Mikah opened his eyes, struggling to focus.

“Soup,” Kastor explained.

Mikah tried to raise a hand for the spoon, but gave up after a couple tries; he couldn’t get either hand more than a few inches above the blanket. He surrendered and let Kastor feed him.

When that was finished, he said quietly, “When will we start being enemies again, Kastor? You’re being too nice to me now. It confuses me.”

“I’m surprised you care enough to ask. I was under the impression it makes no difference what I think of you.”

“You still think that?”

“Tell me I’m wrong, then.”

“You’re wrong. I’m too vain to enjoy being disliked.”

“You just did me a very big favor. Suffered a lot of pain on my behalf. I can’t very well start pointing up your faults while you’re still bleeding from that.”

“So are we even now? Have I paid whatever debt you think I owe?”

Kastor shook his head. “Wrong coin.”

“I suspected as much.”

“If you ever want to pay that debt correctly, let me know. I’ve figured out that you have no idea what you did wrong.”

“No, I have a clue.”

“Do you?” That was a surprise. “Then why...?”

“Why haven’t I apologized? Made it right? Well -- how the hell would I? You keep expecting me to act like a human, my ruin. You keep acting human yourself. It makes everything so much more difficult. Imagine that we have a hundred years to figure this out. Or, if you will, imagine we have only a handful of days, and then all chances will be gone.”

Kastor considered this. “I wish you would just say what you mean.”

“I will, then. And this is a favor to you, because I hate speaking so plain. It’s dangerous. To speak a vision of the future is to risk changing it, invalidating it -- you can see why that’s true, can’t you? But the two clearest futures are these: one, you and I may take all the time we want to discover whether we wish to forgive each other, because we are immortal --”

“We?”

“-- and have nothing much better to do. Two: one of us, or both, will end before this quest is finished, and then -- what does reconciliation matter? Who will remember whether we were angry or wary or hopeful or happy as doves? If we’re to die, I won’t go to my end with falsehood on my conscience, or send you to yours with a lie in your heart. So I’m telling you, I think I understand why you’re angry, and I think you’re at least partly wrong. So let it be anger between us. At least that’s something true.”

Mikah waited for a reply, but didn’t get one. He closed his eyes. Kastor watched him, empty bowl cradled in his hands. He thought about what he’d told his mother, so flippantly that he didn’t have to consider whether he believed it: It’s only love. Hearing Mikah speak that way told him it was true. It was what he’d known when they’d parted last summer, but the way he’d thought of it then had been distorted. He understood better now. Mikah was crucial to him, the center of the world, but that didn’t mandate any particular action. It was a dark center, an uncertain thing, and nowhere he wanted to open himself.

“You’re right,” he murmured, not sure whether Mikah was asleep or listening. “It’s unfortunate, this gravity.”

Without opening his eyes, Mikah said, “Write for me. It will make me heal faster.”

And that was another thing: the way Mikah seemed to read the parts of his mind he wanted most to hide. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Poetry is a kind of blood. Give me yours.”

“It’s terrible, I’m no good at it. Besides, how did you know I --”

“I read your book.” Mikah’s lips curled a little. “I don’t sleep much.”

“Dammit, Mikah --”

“Dammit, Kastor,” Mikah mocked. “Just do it.”

“Why should I?”

“Because it’s magic.”

“It is not.”

“Because we have to leave tomorrow and I’m broken. Because I say so. Wait -- I’m doing this wrong. Let me try again.” He opened his eyes. “Please? I liked that line about the unfortunate gravity.”

Kastor rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. Fine.”

Mikah smiled. “Ah, I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

So when Nhedra and the others came back with the baggage, the second thing he did -- right after checking to make sure his swords were all right -- was get out his battered book and sit down by Mikah to compose a poem. His inspiration of the previous night was completely gone. The old poems in the beginning of the book were no use, they were awful. Most embarrassing, a number of them were from last year, when he’d been pining himself sick over Mikah, and the subject was pretty obvious. Mikah would surely have recognized himself, and laughed. That made more anger, and anger wasn’t what he needed now. He couldn’t write from anger -- could he?

“What kind of poems would these be, that you want?” he asked. “These healing poems?”

“Honest ones.”

“They might be harsh, though. That wouldn’t help, would it?”

“Skill, subject, no matter. Just write for me. I can’t explain. It’s like a kind of sacrifice.”

Kastor shook his head, though Mikah wasn’t looking. He sharpened a grease-pencil. The paper was stiff and wrinkled from having been damp. He would be like a child scribbling with a chunk of charcoal. Nothing like his carefully constructed sonnets, ballads of a theatrically broken heart, the mincing rhymes that made him sick to remember now. If he was going to be primitive, by damn he’d be primitive. If it didn’t matter what he was going to say, he’d say whatever he damn well pleased. He wrote in Semnian, a language ill-suited to poetry:

It’s unfortunate, this gravity

that drags me back to you, unfortunate

that I’m the kind of coward who keeps looking down.

You shouldn’t have to teach me

that there are no rules, that there are rules

you didn’t tell me, that my rules are wrong.

I had the chance to guess that everything

is too complex for my simple methods.

And like a simpleton I can only stand here,

hand to heart, expecting that to mean something,

confused again and again when it does not.

Don’t smile at me like that -- I know it’s funny.

I won’t laugh with you.

My time to laugh will come

when you have gone.

The poem spilled out of him onto the page without pause; he wasn’t even aware of deciding which words to use. It was a lot like fighting, in fact. That was interesting. It didn’t have to be a good poem -- and he didn’t think it was good -- it served its purpose. He tore it out of the book and pressed it into one of Mikah’s curled hands where it rested on the blanket.

“There.”

“I don’t need the page,” Mikah said. “Just the energy. Thank you.”

“You’re not going to read it?”

“I don’t need to.”

“Go to hell.” Kastor’s voice was calm. He got up and walked away.

He went out to the family’s picket, where his group’s pack animals were. People stared as he passed, but he didn’t notice much. He soothed himself by grooming the horse and the mule. The mule was a sad little being, but the horse was actually rather fine now that it had recovered from Nevbelis’s mistreatment of it. He didn’t think it was right that the animal had no name. He thought of a name, whispered it into its ear: “Luwedd.” Patience.

Gedthenoc’s family had two grooms, outcaste boys who slept in the feed wagon. One of these boys was hiding, visible only as a pair of eyes under the wagon. The other perched boldly on a cask of oats and watched Kastor for a while, and eventually came up to talk to him.

“That’s a big ol’ horse, ain’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s it from?”

“Semnia.”

“I heard they got big horses there. Heard they ain’t so good as ours though.”

“Depends on what you want from them. I think this one was bred to pull a plow. He’d be better at pulling wagons than our kind of horses, I think.”

“Maybe so. You going to put him to stud?”

“No. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Oh.” The boy seemed disappointed.

“I don’t think anyone would want a Semnian plowhorse bred into their line.”

“Not if they’re thinking first generation, maybe, but the vigor would spread. You’re the fella did the ordeal today, ain’t you?”

“It was my ordeal, yes, but I wasn’t fighting.”

“Thought you didn’t look beat up enough. Heard they had to carry the guy off, but they called he won anyway. How’s that?”

“It’s complicated. We won by forfeit. Basically, the Gethanein was merciful.”

“That’s a new one from her. She’s a wolf bitch, that one.” He said it admiringly. “Heard you and the other fellow are married, like if one of you was a girl. How’s that?”

“Not true.”

“Figured. Can’t have no kids.”

“Any more personal questions?”

“Sure. How come you’re so white?”

“I was caught in a snowstorm when I was about your age, got frozen solid. They thawed me out, but I’ve been white as snow ever since.”

“Law’s teeth! Is that true?”

“No, I made it up just now.”

“Figured.” The groom grinned. “You gonna brush the life out of that horse, or you plan on stopping sometime?”

“I was hoping to get a little peace.”

“Not here in camp, uncle. You’re too interesting.”

Kastor arched an eyebrow at the boy. He handed over the brush. “Figured,” he echoed mockingly. He went back to the tent, with the boy’s laughter following him.

The family had dispersed to their various lairs, leaving the common room to their guests. He found his mother, spoke to her quietly. She frowned at his request, but nodded. She went away. He sat down by Tanner and Lucien, who were watching Mikah sleep.

“If he’s not ready to ride tomorrow,” he muttered to them, “I don’t know what we’re going to do. We can’t stay. We shouldn’t even be here now.”

“These folks seem friendly enough,” Tanner said.

Lucien said, “What did you send your mother to do?”

Kastor looked at him sharply. “You’re inconveniently observant.”

“Family intrigues make me nervous.”

“I told her I need an audience with the Gethanein before I go. I hope she’ll grant it. No one seems to know why the clans have gathered at this season, but I’m betting it’s something to do with the demons.”

“You think they’ve had trouble with them as well?”

“If so, they’re keeping it quiet. Which makes sense. We’re past the season for raiding, and the young people are needed for work now, but if they heard there were hell-kin running around -- you get it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“They’d be getting up spontaneous raid-revels out of season, defying clan authorities. The work wouldn’t get done. The ones who didn’t find anything to fight would go looking for something to fight, to justify their trouble. Semnian farmers, probably. In a Herder-ascendant cycle, that’s bad news.”

“You mean, when the Kyri are ruled by a woman, they can’t start a war?”

“They could, I guess. But Tanner could tell you how women fight.”

“You trying to piss me off, Kas?” Tanner faked a frown.

“No, I’m serious. Tell him. I’m sure you’ve noticed the difference.”

“Oh, I see what you’re getting at. I’m not so much like that, but yeah.” She turned to Lucien, explaining. “Men fight to find out who wins. Women fight to end a threat. You’ve seen how Kas fights? No, that’s right, you haven’t. Well, he fights like a woman -- crazy-mean. Once you’ve got no choice but fighting, you give it everything you’ve got, and you turn your enemy into a little greasy smear that can never get in your way again. No prisoners, no quarter. Like a mama bear.”

“Ah.” Lucien’s eyes were jade saucers. “That’s what I saw today. That’s how the queen fights.”

“That’s why I’m scared of her,” Kastor explained. “And one of the many reasons why it would be very, very bad if a bunch of overexcited boys and girls started stealing Semnian cattle and burning barns. So I’m not going to be able to find out what’s got the council gathered, is my point, and I’m just going to have to assume our information is relevant.”

“What’s our information?”

They’d thought Mikah was sleeping, but he answered. “If we fail to change my brother’s behavior, someone else will have to do it. I’m afraid you’re right, my murderling. Tell her his name. Tell her he lairs in the high north beyond the mountains, where the ground never thaws. I would rather bleed a thousand more times like I did today than do him any harm -- but if it’s the only way left, let her turn him into a little greasy smear, if she can. I have never met anyone better suited.”

Nhedra returned shortly after that. Kastor stood to meet her, expectant, but her answer wasn’t either of the ones he’d expected: she turned to hold the tent flap open, and Alys herself ducked inside, followed by Charis on his little crutch.

Kastor froze. He forgot to bow or greet her. He could see that Charis knew who he was. The boy was looking at him intently. Judging him.

Alys was wearing neither armor nor her chain of office. She looked as she had that day she’d found him beside his mother’s fire. Just a woman, strong-faced, cold-eyed. She said, “We are told you have something to tell us.” She was using the royal ‘we’ again -- she was speaking for the council now.

Kastor gulped. “Yes.” He took a long breath to steady himself. This isn’t about you, you idiot. Forget your stupid drama. “I understand that you probably can’t answer if I ask what this out-of-season council is about. But if you happen to have trouble with demons, or with Mara running amok, I have information that might be of use.”

“Go on,” she said neutrally.

“My friends and I are engaged on a quest which, if we succeed, should solve the problem at its source. I’m unclear on whether that will stop the rogues that are already out there -- Mikah? Are you awake?”

The Mara rolled his head on his pile of pillows. “It won’t. Those will have to be dealt with individually.”

“All right. But what you should know, Revered Lady, is that if we fail, someone will have to go deal with it, or it’ll get worse. The source of the problem is a Mara named Stiaan. He lives on the tundra north of the mountains. He seems to be releasing -- correct me if I’m confused, Mikah -- releasing new-made Mara into the world, powerful enough to make a lot of trouble, with all the conscience of an infant. Also demons, I don’t know how this is related. I don’t know what his purpose is, in doing this, but he’ll keep on doing it until he’s stopped.”

“And you’re going to stop him?” Alys was deliberately skeptical. Kastor didn’t rise to the bait.

“That’s the plan.”

“We are curious why you didn’t see fit to tell us before.”

“You would’ve thought I was lying to get myself off the hook. Also I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

The ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “Excessive clarity of thought was never an affliction of yours, Kastor. Is that all you wished to tell us?”

“That’s all. I don’t know how you’ll know whether we succeeded. I hope we’ll be able to send some message, if we do.”

Mikah said, “If we don’t do it before winter, I expect it won’t get done. Should you see new Mara or new demons after that, assume we were unsuccessful.”

“And Alys -- I mean, Revered Lady -- there’s a big difference. Between Mara and demons, I mean. Plan your strategy accordingly.”

She smiled narrowly. “I think that’s enough advice from you. You will leave in the morning. A litter will be provided if your Mara cannot walk. Come, Charis.” She turned, but paused as the boy didn’t follow.

Charis’s gaze was fixed on Kastor. His eyes were intense, frightening to see on a child, silver-gray and full of anger. It was like looking in a mirror. He came laboriously forward. Belatedly, Kastor realized that he meant to move in his painfully slow manner across the whole length of the common room. He went to meet his son halfway. He went down on one knee so the child wouldn’t have to crane his neck. He didn’t know what to say, so he waited.

The boy studied him for a long moment. “You’re my father,” he said. He made it sound like an accusation.

“Yes.” Kastor couldn’t get anything else out of his throat; it had closed.

“Why did you leave?”

Explanations flashed through his head; all were kinds of blame. He could blame Alys, blame the law, blame himself. But he didn’t want to add to the atmosphere of blaming that Charis lived in. “My being here caused trouble,” he said at last. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to stay for you.”

“You’re leaving again.”

“Yes. I must.”

“To do this thing. To fight the monster.”

That was one way to put it. “Yes.”

“After that, will you come back?”

Alys put her hand on Charis’s shoulder. “Charis --”

He shook her off. “Will you come back?” he repeated.

“Someday,” Kastor promised, and realized it was true. “It may be a long time. Many years. I can send you messages, if you want. Through your grandmother.”

“Grandma Nhedra is a witch. She says you’re the ghost of a storm, and that’s why you can’t stay.”

Kastor couldn’t help smiling. “That’s the sort of thing she’d say, all right.”

Charis nodded as if this counted as an answer. He reached out his good hand to touch Kastor’s cheek. The warmth of that small hand was more than Kastor could bear; his eyes squeezed shut of their own accord. He forced them open, forced his smile to stay.

“Good-bye,” Charis said, and let his mother lead him away. He looked back once at the doorway, but his face held no expression.

Kastor remained where he was for several minutes, kneeling on the piled carpets of the floor. He was overwhelmed, but he wasn’t sure what he was overwhelmed by. He didn’t know if it was joy or regret or something he had no name for. That was fine; he didn’t need to decide.

Tanner put a hand on his shoulder. “Kas? You all right?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, I think I finally am.”