02



Kastor dozed a little as the sun rose. He was too confused to really sleep, too worried. Too aware of the child whose hair was so soft under his hand. A gift, a responsibility, an obligation -- a person. Real. Not just an element in his life’s story, to be told or concealed. It was too much. He was dizzy with it.

When it was still early, Charis woke. All at once, like a Mara. He blinked, rubbed his eyes. Rubbed his nose, not delicately like an adult might, but squishing his button of a nose from side to side. He wiped his hand on the blanket.

Then he looked up at Kastor and gave a smile that made the world bigger and brighter than it had ever been before. “Good morning, Father.”

“Morning,” Kastor said, and immediately wondered if he’d said the right thing. He didn’t know how it could’ve been wrong, but it was so important to get everything right. It was paralyzing.

Charis got up, kicking free of the bed as if it had bound him and he was glad to get loose. He limped in an erratic arc around the room, looking at everything. Kastor watched him in wonder. After touching everything but the warm stove -- and testing the heat of that by bringing his hand dangerously close -- he turned expectantly. He was about to ask some question, Kastor thought, some difficult question. But all he did was clap his hands. After a moment he clapped them again.

Kastor said, “What’s that for?”

“It sounds different here.” He clapped some more.

After a while, Kastor dared to say, “That’s going to get annoying pretty soon.”

“All right.” Charis found his shoes and put them on.

“Hungry?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“You don’t have a change of clothes, do you?”

“Oh. I guess not.”

“Let’s get clothes first, then a bath, and then eat. All right?”

Shrugging, Charis tried the lock on the trunk. “What’s in here?”

“Stuff.” Kastor considered whether to lie. Decided not to. “Weapons and armor.”

Charis beamed. “Really? Can I see?”

“Not just now.”

Kastor went to the other trunk, found a comb, and put his hair up in a tail. The shorter bits hung messily around his face, but somehow it seemed like a good idea to look like a Kyri today. He gathered a change of clothes. Checked in his purse to make sure he had enough for meal and clothes and bath house, having forgotten that there was a fat pile of gold in there from his advance on the demon. While he did this, Charis watched him intently.

“Ready?”

Charis nodded. He glanced around; then he looked more seriously; then his face began to look a little panicked.

“What are you looking for?”

“My cane.”

Kastor helped him look. They found it hidden in the blankets; he’d taken it to bed with him. It was a polished length of knotted maple, with etched silver bands and an ivory head. “It’s nice,” Kastor told him. When he saw his son lean on it, fitting his stunted hand around it, a pang of guilt went through him. He hadn’t forgotten what Mikah had said about the selfishness of that guilt, but that hadn’t erased it. How could it not be his fault? He had made this, somehow.

“Let’s eat first,” Charis said. “I’m really hungry.”



If he hadn’t gotten an advance from the Silver Circle, he would’ve been in trouble. He took Charis to a cheap little noodle shop on the bay, thinking he ought not to be extravagant when he wasn’t sure what he’d need later, but the cheapness of the food was overcome by the enormous volumes Charis put away. Wheat noodles with shrimp. Rice noodles with beef. Dumpling noodles with vegetables and eel. The fact that he didn’t know how to use the provided chopsticks didn’t slow him down; he used them alternately as a shovel and a spear. Kastor was too astonished, at first, to begin on his own bowl.

When the inhaling slowed a little, he bent to his meal. He was interrupted by Charis tugging his sleeve. When he turned, Charis said mushily, “Can oo do iss?” and showed him a mouthful of half-chewed food.

“Usually I don’t,” Kastor told him seriously. “Not much demand for it.”

Charis swallowed, giggled. “Do it.”

Kastor filled his mouth with noodles and then gaped. “Gaaaah.”

More giggles. Peals of them. Kastor found his mouth too full to swallow, because his throat had closed. He’d made his son laugh. He told himself sternly that a little clowning wouldn’t make the difficulty of the situation go away. But for the moment... the noodles were so good.

The shopkeeper laughed at them both. “On holiday? You two look cheerful.”

“I came to visit!” Charis explained between too-large bites. Though accented, his Nestrian was surprisingly good. “I lived far away. I’m here now, though. We’re going to live together. But I want my own bed.”

“Um...” Kastor decided that now was not the time to tell him he couldn’t stay.

The shopkeeper looked between them. She said, “Why, you’re identical. Are you brothers?”

“This is my father,” Charis announced. “He’s my Da.” Trying it on.

She turned to Kastor. “Aren’t you a little young to have a boy so big?”

Kastor didn’t think she needed to hear how he’d been pretty much a child himself when Charis was born. “I’m older than I look.”

“So am I,” said Charis.

“Really? How old are you?”

“Eight!”

“My, you’re so grown-up. Here -- on the house.” She offered some sweet dumplings.

When they were walking away, with Charis still licking sticky dough and honey from his fingers, Kastor said, “When did you learn to speak Nestrian?”

“Dunno. I have a tutor. I know Semnian too. Wanna hear?”

“Sure.”

“My house is in the woods,” he said in near-perfect Semnian. “My sister wears a yellow ribbon.” He switched to Kyri. “Only I don’t have a sister. Why didn’t you and Mother stay together?”

Kastor winced. He’d expected that question sooner or later; he hadn’t expected it to drop out of the blue like that. “I was bad luck.” He hoped that would be enough, but from Charis’s look, it wasn’t. “After we got married, I changed. I was wild, before, but I settled down. She didn’t think I was a very good Arthane, because I wasn’t much like the Hunter anymore.”

“Uncle Tamiris is Arthane now.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like him much. He talks about me like I’m not there. And he says nasty things to me when there’s no one else around.”

Kastor’s voice came out tight: “Like what?”

“Like I should’ve been culled when I was foaled. And I’m a quarter demon, and what do we do with demons.” Then he brightened -- looked, in fact, delighted. “Are you mad? You look scary!”

“Tamiris is a brainless little gamecock, and if I had him in my hands right now he’d find out whose shoes he’s trying to fill. He doesn’t get to say those things to you. If Alys knew --”

“She does.” Charis shrugged. “She says be a man about it. She says words don’t matter.”

“Maybe not. But respect does.” Kastor cracked his knuckles. “I ought to adjust his outlook for him.” Then he caught himself. “But that’s really your mother’s job. Anyway, you’re not part demon. You’re part Mara.”

“Mara? You mean... like Stiaan?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh.” Charis sucked his sticky fingers thoughtfully. He looked gradually more and more pleased. “Hm.”

“Alys wouldn’t believe that; she doesn’t like to change her mind. But it’s true.”

“All right.” Charis had abruptly lost interest, distracted by the shop windows. They were going through a nice part of town, where the window panes were clear instead of bullseyed, and there was merchandise displayed to tempt passersby. Charis seemed pulled to anything brightly colored, whether it was any use to him or not. Ladies’ hats. Painted porcelain. A taxidermist’s with a peacock in the window.

When they reached their destination, though, he lost interest in shopping. While Kastor pestered the tailor -- who had only a limited stock of child-sized clothing made up -- Charis sat on a chair and picked at his cane with his thumbnail. Whatever he was shown, he shrugged, disinterested.

Finally, Kastor lost patience. “Come on, Charis, let’s get it done. The point is to have something clean after the bath. Just pick something.”

“Don’t like it.” Charis made a face at the blue trousers the despairing tailor was holding up. “It’s all too -- too colored.”

“You’re wearing blue now,” Kastor pointed out.

“Mother made me.”

“Well, what do you want?”

Charis hesitated, then looked him in the eye. “Black. Like yours.”

“Oh.” Taken aback, Kastor glanced down at himself, reminded suddenly how he must look; he never thought about it anymore. “Charis, the reason I don’t wear colors is because I’m exiled. You have clan colors. Blue and scarlet. Those are brave colors.”

“No. You’re my clan.”

Kastor had to turn away and take a deep breath before he was sure he could speak without sounding like he was about to weep. You’re my clan. Not true -- but --

“Do you have anything in black?” he asked the tailor.



The bath house terrified Charis at first, though the boy did his best not to show it. The Kyri way of bathing was with a basin of water by the fire, unless it was warm enough for swimming. The idea of getting into a big steaming pool with a crowd of other men and boys clearly alarmed him. He winced at the echoing din. Kastor wasn’t sure what to do to reassure him, so he just pretended not to see his fear. It seemed to work. Charis’s pretense at bravery became genuine unconcern, and he chattered and splashed with the other children as if he’d known them since infancy.

A Nestrian bath house was a social center. Kastor knew most of the men there, people from his neighborhood. Masons, cart drivers, minor craftsmen. They tended to be a little wary of him, to allow him his silence, because they knew he was basically a thug by profession. The presence of his son, though, opened up a fount of fellowship. They told him what a fine boy Charis was, how much he looked like his old man, wanted to know why Kastor had never brought him by before. He simply said Charis had been living with his mother. They didn’t press it. Working-class men knew all about that kind of misfortune. When the children were particularly loud, a carter leaned over and asked quietly what was wrong with Charis’s arm.

“Born that way,” Kastor said. “He gets around all right.”

The man nodded too much. “Fine boy.”

“Spunky,” another added, with a pointed look at the knot of children. Kastor had to look hard at the chaos before he realized that their play had turned ugly. Charis was dunking one of the other boys, pounding on the top of the submerged child’s head, howling in Kyri:

“There you go, you ass-head, now who’s a cripple? Now who’s a sissy? Awk --!” This last noise was the result of Kastor’s intervention.

Kastor tucked Charis under his arm and hauled him away, back to where he’d been soaking. “You’re sitting with me now.”

“Leggo!”

“Nope. What were you going to do, drown him?”

“No.” Charis went suddenly from furious to sullen. “He called me a cripple.”

“And you called him an ass-head. So what was the violence for?”

“But he -- but you said --”

“Oh, hell.” Kastor groaned. “All right. Look. There’s a time and place. There are situations -- the thing is -- damn. Fine. You kicked his ass. Let it go.”

Charis sank down in the water and blew bubbles.

A bricklayer said, “What was that all about?”

“The kid with the fat lip called my boy a cripple.”

“Is that so.” The man shook his head in disapproval.

“By the way, Charis,” Kastor said, “you were insulting him in Kyri. He didn’t understand a word of it.”

Charis straightened, alarmed by the oversight. He cupped his hands to his mouth and hollered in Nestrian: “Ass-head!”

“There you go. Now you’re done.”

“Yep,” said Charis, satisfied. He returned to blowing bubbles, watching them skim away over the water, listening to the men’s talk around him.



Clean and dressed in his new clothes of black wool and silk, Charis beamed proudly at everyone as they walked. He managed to strut with a cane; Kastor had never seen that done before. After a bit of this, though, Charis noticed something that made him turn to Kastor with a concerned look.

“Da,” he said, “you forgot your sword.”

“What?”

He gestured around. “Those men are all wearing swords.”

“Those are gentlemen. Highborn.”

“But -- but so are you! You’re an Auberlane! You were Arthane!”

“Not anymore.” Kastor caught the hurt in Charis’s eyes and realized how the insult to himself transferred to his child. He said quickly, “Sure, I could wear a sword here if I wanted. But since they don’t know the story, I’d have to be explaining all the time. It gets to be a chore. Besides, it’d give me an unfair advantage,” he added with a grin. He patted the sawbacked skinning knife that hung at his belt. “I could answer ‘em with this, if I had to.”

“Oh.” Somewhat mollified, Charis tried putting his cane through his sash like the Nestrian nobles did their swords. He limped along like that for a block or so before becoming tired of the dragging weight and returning the cane to its original purpose. He said sagely, “It makes you walk funny.”

“I always thought so. I wear mine across my back.”

“Will you show me?”

“You’ll see when we go. I’ll want to be armed on the road.”

“On the road,” Charis echoed blankly.

Kastor mentally kicked himself for trying to be casual. You don’t drop hints like that, not with a little kid, not when it’s something important to him. He sighed, steeling himself for a tantrum. “Charis, you can’t stay. I have to take you home.”

Charis trotted ahead to get in front of him, and stopped. “No you don’t!”

“I do. Your mother will come get you if I don’t. With an army.”

“I’m not going back!” The child’s eyes flashed with an adult’s anger. “Do you know how hard it was to get here?”

“I know. If it were up to me...”

“It is! I’m here, you’re here, Mother’s not!”

“She will be, if...” Kastor sighed again. “We can talk about this later. We don’t have to leave today.”

Charis hesitated, then nodded, conceding. As they continued on their way, he was silent, thinking hard. Kastor’s chest ached for having hurt the boy. He was thinking as well, trying to find some way he could keep Charis, but there were no holes in his logic.

He knew what would cheer them both. Jos’s place wasn’t too far from here, and Kastor was full of an urge to show Charis off to someone.

Jos was on the porch, bleary and unshaven; since he worked nights, this was early for him. He had the remains of a cart lunch beside him, greasy fish-smelling brown paper, and set down a bottle of beer as he saw them coming. He stood up to give them a big smile. “Kas, how you doing? And Little Kas!”

“My name is Charis,” the boy said with great dignity. “Charis Auberlane. I’m very pleased to meet you.” He stuck his hand out.

Jos chuckled as he enfolded the little hand in his huge one. “The pleasure’s mine, little man. Name’s Jos Carter. You look so much like your Da, if he wasn’t here I’d think you were him but farther off. You gonna be sticking around awhile?”

Charis lifted his chin stubbornly, took a breath -- then paused, looking at Kastor. His chin sank. “No. I have to go back to my mother.” With another glance at Kastor, he added, “It’s not fair.”

Kastor tried not to show his relief and sadness at this surrrender. “It’s not. Jos, his mother’s got men under her command who’d burn this town to the ground just to make it easier to ride over. I have to take him back to her before she starts something. It could take me a month. So I guess I’m here to say goodbye.”

“Whoa.” Jos set his shoulders against the wall and whistled low. “What is she, a bandit chief?”

Charis piped up, “Gethanein of the Kyri!” before Kastor could stop him.

“You serious?” Jos looked to Kastor. “He serious?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How the hell’d that happen? I mean, you don’t even like girls!”

“Well, the short version is, she’s the Queen. What she wants, she gets. Right now she wants her boy back.”

Jos nodded. “You want me to keep an eye on your place for you?”

Kastor shook his head slowly. “No... I think it was about time to move on anyway. I’ve been here long enough.”

“You mean -- that’s it? Goodbye, buddy, see you never?” Jos was incredulous. “That stinks.”

Kastor was warmed by the knowlege that Jos considered him a real friend, enough to be angered by his departure. That wasn’t enough to change the fact that he didn’t like Rilleine enough to come back. “Jos, man, that means a lot to me. No, not see you never. I’ll swing by sometimes. I’ll for sure look you up on my way back south, wherever I’m headed after that. But you might have noticed I’m a Kyri. We’re nomads.”

“Yeah, I get it.” Jos slapped his shoulder with a sudden grin. “Good luck, man.” He gave Kastor a spine-crushing hug, thumped his back a couple times, and let go. He offered his hand to Charis. “You take good care of your old man, all right?”

“I will,” Charis promised solemnly.

They both turned back to wave a few times as they left. After they’d turned a corner, Charis asked him where they were going now.

“Back to my room. I have to tell the landlord he’ll need a new tenant.”

“But --” Charis looked away, scowling. “I don’t want to go back.”

“I know, Charis. I don’t want you to go back either.”

The boy’s scowl faded a bit. “But then, why?”

“You heard what I told Jos.”

“That she’ll come to get me. With raiders.”

“Right.”

Charis snorted. “She won’t. She doesn’t want me. I bet she’s relieved I’m gone.”

Kastor couldn’t answer, shocked beyond all reason at the flat tone of these words. Who could make a child feel like that? What kind of monster mother would --?

Then he remembered himself at the same age. Watching his mother occupied by an endless stream of petitioners, too busy being a shaman to do more than feed and clothe him. Her preoccupation, her late nights, her absences for herb-gathering and dream-walking, the times when she was spirit-ridden and couldn’t speak a coherent word to him... and so he’d decided he wasn’t wanted. He’d taken his toy bow and his eating knife, and gone to fend for himself. He’d learned what true hunger was, true cold, the real fear of real death. And somehow he’d survived. Until the day he’d captured food good enough to make an apology of it, and gone back home, and she had cried to see him. Raw, racking sobs; crushing embraces. Crying: my boy, my boy...

But he’d discovered that the wild had infected him. Once he knew he could make his own way, he had to. The loneliest life on earth. He didn’t want Charis coming to that. The boy wasn’t fit for it.

He took a deep breath. “Charis, I’ll make a deal with you.”

“What.” Sullen.

“If we get there and find she hasn’t missed you, I’ll take you away with me again. But if she’s been searching for you, if she’s grateful to see you, then you’ll stay with her. All right?”

Charis narrowed his eyes. He thought it over. He nodded. “It’s a deal.”

Kastor wondered what he’d gotten himself into. If he knew Alys, she would conceal any sign of emotion, no matter how strong. He might have just agreed to raise his son alone. The prospect both frightened and pleased him. The idea of declaring that prospect to Alys’s face, though, in front of all her raiders, didn’t please him at all.

Well, he’d ford that stream when he reached it. He’d faced her down and survived before.

When they came around the side of the house, he was concerned to see a man he didn’t know standing impatiently at the bottom of his stairs, frozen by their appearance in mid-fidget. The fellow was well-dressed, but unarmed, with a receding hairline and rabbity eyes.

“Here now,” Kastor barked. “What do you mean, lurking around my stairway?”

“Lurking?” the man said in something close to a yelp. “I’ll have you know --” He paused, swallowing his indignation. “Don’t you think you should be more courteous, after having tried to cheat us?”

“Us?” Kastor echoed. Then something clicked into place. Well-dressed and arrogant, but unarmed... “You’re from the Silver Circle?” The mages whom he’d met when he’d taken the bounty had worn ecclesiastic-style robes, but they no doubt owned street clothes as well.

The man confirmed it. “Well, I’m glad to see you don’t have so long a list of unhappy employers that you can’t venture a guess. Now, would you like to explain your behavior, or are you simply a rogue and a coward?”

As Kastor opened his mouth for an angry reply, Charis shoved between them, waving his cane at the mage like a sword. “You take that back!” He remembered to speak Nestrian this time. “My Da is no coward! And he’s not a cheater either! You take it back or I’ll make you sorry!”

The mage took a step back, startled, alarm warring with amusement in his eyes. Kastor put a hand on Charis’s shoulder. His own anger was draining away, drowned by disproportionate pleasure that his son would defend him. He said quietly, “Thank you, Charis, but I think I’ll handle this one.”

“But I wanna thrash him for you, Da!”

“He might not need thrashing. Step back, son.”

At the word ‘son’, Charis blushed. He stepped back, clearly trying to retain his fury against an urge to glow with pride. Kastor gave the mage an unintenionally genuine smile. “Now, friend wizard, tell me what I’ve done that constitutes cheating you.”

“When you took our gold, it was on the understanding that you would do your best to slay the demon. Yet, after a suspiciously short absence, you returned, unhurt -- conspicuously bandaged, to be sure, but where are those bandages today? A routine divination told us you plan to leave Rilleine, with no intention of returning. What are we to think, mister sellsword, but that you’ve duped us? I truly wish to believe otherwise, because I loathe meting out punishments.”

“You look here --” Charis began, but fell silent when Kastor cleared his throat.

“Short absence: I hired a horse. Wounds: magical healing. There’s a bit still left, if that will ease you.” He shoved back a sleeve to show the remnants of his hurts. The stuff on his face must, he supposed, be faded to scars already. “I fought the demon, and it kicked my ass. I had to run for it. You’ve had a hundred ten estas worth of my blood, man, what else do you want from me? Oh, and by the way --” He flicked his wrist, and his knife thunked into the stair support beside the mage’s head. “For your insults, I demand satisfaction. Apologize, or take up that knife and answer me.”

The mage was silent for a moment. Then he carefully stepped away from the knife. “I apologize, and gladly. Of course, you must intend to make another attempt, if what you say is true.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the mage faked a smile.

Charis piped up, “He’ll get that demon next time! Right, Da?”

“Yep. Only, it won’t be for a while yet. I have to take my boy home to his mother. It could be a good month before I get back to it. So if you feel like hiring someone else in the meantime, I won’t begrudge them the rest of the fee.” As the mage was about to reply, he added, “You wouldn’t, of course, ask for the advance back. No gentleman would be so petty.”

The mage gave a slight laugh. “Naturally. Keep it, for good faith. Betray that faith, though, and the world isn’t big enough for you to run from us. Bear that in mind.” With a word and a gesture, the mage vanished. The resulting clap of small thunder stirred Kastor’s hair and popped his ears. Charis yipped in surprise.

“Showoff,” Kastor muttered. He wrenched his knife out of the wood.

Charis looked up at him. “You fought a demon?”

“Sure. Want a hand with the stairs?”

“I’m all right. But why did you run away?”

“Because it had me on a platter. There was no way I could take it.”

“You were scared?” Charis was scornful.

“Hell yes, I was scared. The thing was eight feet tall, with an extra set of arms.”

“So... what that man said... he said you were a coward.”

“And you think it’s true? Think a little harder. What good would it have done to stay and fight, once I knew I’d lose? I’d be dead, and the demon would still be there.” He unlocked the door and held it for Charis. “Going to need to rethink my strategy. It would be nice if I could get the jump on it. It saw me first, this time. That didn’t help. I kinda wish I’d found a way to test how good a climber it is, but I was in no shape for climbing myself. Couple cracked ribs, and I was leaving a blood trail a mile wide.”

“You were bleeding?” Charis was unaccountably delighted.

“Like a midwinter sacrifice.”

“So you’re going to go back.”

“Sure. I owe that demon a whupping.” Actually, he hadn’t necessarily planned on it, but he couldn’t get out of it now.

Charis thumped down on the mattress. “You only ran away so you could come back and kill it later.”

“That’s right.”

“I knew he was lying. I knew you’re not a coward.”

“Thank you for your faith.”

Kastor relit the stove to warm the room, gave Charis a book -- in Nestrian, but with lots of block-prints of sea monsters and dragons -- and went to talk to his landlord. When he returned, Charis was sitting on the mattress with guilty stiffness, and the padlock on Kastor’s weapons trunk was swinging slightly. Kastor laughed.

“Thought you might pick the lock?”

“I didn’t -- I mean -- I don’t know what you mean.”

“Right.” Kastor went to the trunk. There was a shiny new scratch beside the keyhole. “What were you using, a bread knife?”

After being stared down for a long moment, Charis bowed his head. “Pen.”

“Won’t work. Wrong shape. Did you bend the nib?”

“No.” Charis produced Kastor’s steel pen. The nib was, in fact, a little bent.

After straightening it, Kastor emptied his belt pouch and pried up the square of hard leather that stiffened the bottom. Beneath this was a thin, flat package wrapped in black canvas, about the size of his palm. He tossed it to Charis.

Suspicious, Charis unrolled it. His eyes widened when he saw the array of thieves’ picks and tiny saws inside. He looked up, questioning.

“Handy skill to have,” Kastor said. “Come here. I’ll show you how to do it.”

Charis whooped and came scrambling.

His right hand was useless for anything this fine, but after a bit of experimenting, he worked out a way to use that hand to brace a turned tumbler while his more nimble left hand felt for the next. Kastor was impressed, and said so. It was intoxicating, how Charis glowed under his praise.

When the boy had absorbed the principles, Kastor did the lock quickly so he could see it done, then gave it to him. “Practice on it, if you want. You can hang on to the tools for a few days.”

Charis took the padlock and tools back to the bed, prepared to start fiddling, but forgot his intention when Kastor started taking things out of the trunk.

Double baldric with loops for two scabbards. Two throwing knives. Pieces of leather armor: leg plates, bracers, jacket. Composite shortbow, quiver of slim-headed fowling arrows. A heavy wool cloak, somewhat tattered, which he unrolled to reveal a pair of long, narrow swords, their metal black as soot. Folded clothing, black linen, stiffened with quilted patches where the armor would rest.

“Whoa,” breathed Charis.

Kastor held up the cloak, made a face. “I should’ve had this mended today. Well, I’ll do it on the way.”

“Did the demon rip it up like that?”

“Yeah. Ruined a good shirt, too. Let’s see if my armor...” He paused, nonplussed. He ran his fingers over the smooth, black leather, which needed nothing more than a bit of oil. “Healed itself,” he finished. He shook his head. “I should’ve known.”

“Healed itself? Really?” Charis tentatively touched the armor, then spread his palm on it. “It’s magic.”

“You can tell?”

“It feels kind of crawly. Like squishing a cat.”

“Squishing,” Kastor echoed blankly.

“You know how if you hold down a cat, so it can’t get away, it’s still kind of twitchy underneath. Only this is twitchy inside my head.”

“Yeah, I guess you could describe it that way. I always felt it as warm, or prickly.”

“Sometimes it’s like that too.”

“Did your grandma teach you any charms?”

“She says I’m too young.”

“I’ll teach you a couple, once we’re on the road.”

“Teach me now!”

“Right now I have to pack.”

“Oh.” Charis deflated with a theatrical sigh. Within moments, though, he was absorbed in his padlock.

Kastor emptied both his trunks, finding his pack in the bottom of the clothes chest. He was surprised to see how much junk he’d accumulated. It wouldn’t all go in the pack. He considered getting a horse, decided against it, decided in favor again, saw his son’s cane leaning by the door and resolved on two horses. How could he have even thought of making Charis walk all the way to the Sei? Even irresponsible Stiaan hadn’t done that.

Remembering Stiaan made his hands suddenly clumsy. Questions flooded his mind. Their conversation of last night was blurry to him now. He recalled that he’d talked too much, and that they’d declared a truce. Stiaan had feared being pulled into some plan the gods had for Kastor -- feared it, or hoped for it maybe, Kastor couldn’t remember. They hadn’t made any agreement to meet again, though. It was quite possible that Stiaan had now vanished from his world.

With a deliberate act of will, he forced his mind to let go of all things Stiaan-related. He focused on his packing.

“Da,” Charis said after a time. “Is this you?”

He had in his hands the ivory miniature Rei Azan had painted. It depicted Kastor and Mikah; brought back with painful accuracy the quiet hope that he’d felt that night, watching Mikah listen to music, knowing they’d soon be able to speak honestly at last... Kastor winced. He took the painting gently from Charis and put it in the pack. “Yes,” he said, “it’s me.”

“And the other person is Mikah.”

“Yes.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he? Stiaan told me.”

“Yes.”

“He’s Stiaan’s brother.”

“That’s right.”

“Stiaan misses him. I made him tell me all about Mikah, and he cried.”

Kastor hesitated with a shirt half-folded. “He did, huh?”

“I felt bad for making him talk. So I gave him a braid bracelet. Was that right?”

“I think so. Did it make him feel better?”

“He stopped crying, but he looked even sadder.”

“It was right. Don’t worry about it.”

“Wanna see a bracelet I made?” Without waiting for an answer, Charis rooted among his other clothes until he found a little loop of cord. He thrust it at Kastor.

Kastor examined the braided leather cord and gave it back. “Very handsome.”

“Do you want one?”

“Sure, if you want to make one.”

“I’ll make you one. Wait. Damn. I don’t have any string.”

“We’ll have to get some before we go. Help me remember. Hand me that box?”

“This one?” Charis held up the tiny wooden box to his ear and shook it. “What’s in there?”

“An acorn.” Kastor took it away from him.

“A magic acorn?”

“No. A normal one.”

Charis wrinkled his nose, laughing. “Why do you have that?”

“It reminds me of something.”

“Oh.” After a few minutes, Charis said, “You’re sad too. Like Stiaan is. Was Mikah your brother too? That would make Stiaan my uncle.”

“No. We’re not related. He was...” He stopped. Was he about to tell Charis the truth? Ought he to shield the boy from that? Was Charis old enough to understand? What had he heard from Alys? And what kind of man was Kastor, if he lied about something so basic? He took a deep breath and told the truth. “Mikah was my lover. My -- my mate, do you understand?”

Charis tilted his head. “Like if you were married?”

“Right.”

“But you’re both guys.”

“Some guys are like that. Mara are all like that, because there aren’t any girl Mara.”

“Weird.” Some serious thought. “Am I like that?”

“Probably not, Charis. But you’re too young for it to matter.”

“That’s the real reason you left,” Charis accused. “Because Mother’s not a man.”

“Uh... no. Not really. Well, maybe part of the reason. But I would’ve stayed, if she’d let me.” Kastor waved his hand, desperate to back out of this conversation. “We have to plan our trip. We’re leaving tomorrow. I need to know if you can ride.”

“Ride?” Charis perked up. “A horse?”

“Yes.”

“My own horse?”

“That’s the plan.”

Charis whooped his delight, all uncomfortable subjects forgotten.



The next morning, while the sun still rode the horizon, Kastor discovered that Charis’s claim to horsemanship was exaggerated. The horse dealer had caught a glimpse of Kastor’s gold, and thus looked on indulgently while Kastor repeatedly propped his son back into the saddle, but at intervals he quietly suggested a pony.

“It’s not the size of the animal,” Kastor said; his third refusal. “His grip is lopsided.”

“I can do it,” Charis said stubbornly.

“Trying harder’s not going to help, Charis. One leg is holding on better than the other, so you keep sliding sideways. See, every time --” He reached to catch his boy again, as the patient horse paced in a circle. “Every time you give a knee command, you pull yourself off balance.”

“I didn’t at home. On my pony.”

“A pony,” the horse dealer seconded smugly.

“Did you have a special saddle?”

“No.” Charis frowned in thought. “Maybe. It felt different from this one.”

Kastor turned to the dealer. “I don’t suppose you have a quick way of altering a saddle to fit him.”

Frowning in consternation, the dealer shook his head. He seemed to sense his sale slipping away. “It would have to be custom made, sir, and that takes time.”

Kastor watched Charis’s repeated attempts to control the horse without slipping off. The best he could do was hitch himself back upright every few moments, which seemed to make the horse nervous. The horse would stop, and Charis would nudge it to a walk, and then -- hitch -- and the horse stopped again.

An idea came to Kastor, and he brightened. “Do you have any horses trained to reins? I’ve seen ladies riding sidesaddle, they can’t be giving knee commands.”

The dealer perked up. “I do indeed! I’ll have one brought out immediately!”

Once seated on the delicate palfrey and concentrating on using the reins to steer the animal, Charis had no more trouble. He looked very small, on a full-sized horse, but so happy he could barely keep from shouting. And the black mare looked extremely patient.

“Good,” said Kastor. “And for me...”

The dealer rubbed his hands in delight. Two sales!

“I came to you,” Kastor explained, “because I heard you provide cavalry mounts, as well as riding horses. I need something that won’t shy at noise or the smell of blood.”

“That, sir, I can provide. I’ve just the animal. A black, like your son’s. Won’t you make a fine pair!”

“Color’s not the point.”

“Of course, of course.” The dealer had a stablehand bring out the beast and walk it before them.

Kastor couldn’t hide his pleasure, though he supposed he should have, to aid in bargaining. Since leaving the Sei, he’d grown familiar with southern horses, and this was a prime animal. A black Sanerine stallion, with white socks and an oddly stern look in its eye. It had a dignified gait, but didn’t strut like a show horse, and its mane was cropped short as a warhorse’s should be. It was brought out saddled, so Kastor gave it a moment to inspect his hand, then mounted.

“I want to test his wind. Charis, you stay right there. If you go running around while I’m gone, I’ll -- do horrible things.”

“Yes, Da.”

Kastor dug his heels into the stallion’s flanks, and they flew.

A few minutes later, after a solid gallop around the outside of the dealer’s pens, the horse was as fresh as if their run had been a gentle stroll. Kastor tried to keep from grinning, and couldn’t. “I’ll take him.”

The bargaining took only moments. Thirty-seven estas poorer, they rode to their next point of business.

Charis didn’t protest at being lifted out of the saddle. He was too busy goggling at the place they’d stopped at. His jaw hung open as he scanned the ornate, bejeweled swords and daggers behind the glass window. He went up to press his nose against the glass while Kastor secured their horses. When Kastor opened the door and beckoned him, he looked as if he couldn’t believe his luck.

Kastor had never had occasion to come into one of these places. This weaponsmith catered to the nobility. Kastor had browsed other smiths’ wares before, just for pleasure, but he disliked the fancy type. Only a gentles’ swordsmith, though, would have blades sized for children.

There was a wooden counter at the far end of the room, and the fellow behind it didn’t look like a smith. He took in his customers with a skeptical look. Kastor smiled a little, knowing what he looked like. A mercenary and a foreigner -- could be astonishingly wealthy, could be a thief, but in any case not a gentleman. Kastor didn’t give the man time to say anything insulting, lest he have to answer it.

“Do you have children’s swords?”

“We have a large stock of them, sir.” The clerk looked as if that sir hurt his mouth. “What kind shall I show you?”

“Are they all toys, or do you have any that can stand a fight?”

The clerk raised an eyebrow. “A practice sword, sir?”

“No. Let me be specific. Good steel, with an edge, about half length, and none of your girly flourishes. Do you have that, or should I look elsewhere?”

“I -- well. I’m not quite certain the smith has anticipated...”

“Don’t waste my time.”

“I’ll look, sir.” The clerk rushed out through a back door. Kastor heard murmuring voices. After a few moments, the man was back, holding a perfect replica of a dueling rapier, about three-quarters length. He half drew it to show a vine pattern etched into the blade. He said, “It’s not a child’s sword, I’m afraid. It was made for a lady. She changed her mind, so it’s for sale. But sir, surely it’s dangerous to --”

“Charis is a sensible boy. Right?”

Charis nodded intensely. He reached eagerly for the weapon. After a confirming nod from Kastor, the clerk gave it to him. He staggered, surprised by its weight, but recovered and drew it; left-handed, of course. He held it, Kastor noted, with infinite care, doing nothing that could look like horseplay, or give anyone the idea he wasn’t mature enough to have it. Shortly he sheathed it again.

“It’s good, Da. It’s heavy, but I can get stronger.”

“That’s the idea.” Kastor set his purse on the counter, gratified by the clerk’s chagrin at its heavy clank. “How much?”

And there went another twelve estas. Well, it was worth it. He helped Charis buckle the weapon on, helped him into the saddle, and avoided his adoring stare. He was spoiling the boy terribly. But when would he get another chance? Besides, he told himself, the road could be dangerous, and there was a chance -- a slim one -- that they might get into trouble that Kastor couldn’t completely guard Charis against. And he could give the boy a few lessons.

“Thank you, Father,” Charis said with formal crispness and intense emphasis. “I never had a sword before. Not even a wood one.”

“What, never? You haven’t been taught how to fight?”

Charis shook his head furiously, so his hair fell in his face. “They don’t think I can learn. But I can. Will you teach me?”

“Definitely.”

The child’s excitement made the horse dance, and Kastor had to grab the mare’s bridle to still it.



After a few routine stops for supplies -- including several rolls of leather thong in various colors, so Charis could play at braid-work -- there was one last place Kastor wanted to go. Charis gave him an odd look as he dismounted in the High Temple courtyard.

“What are you doing now, Da?”

“Praying. Watch the horses; I’ll only be a minute.”

“But -- Da --”

“Watch from the ground, son. I don’t want you on that mare if she shies, and me not there to catch you.”

“But Da, this is a foreign temple.” As he dismounted, Charis frowned up at the tall, white marble edifice with its stained glass windows depicting the Pantheonist gods. The Hunter and Herder were, of course, not among them.

“I know. But I’ve grown rather fond of Kaleya in recent years. Are you afraid I’ve gone apostate?”

Charis frowned. “I don’t know what that means. But Mother says only the Kyri gods care for Kyri. She says foreign gods have nothing to do with us.”

“Don’t they? We pray to Yranthis at funerals, don’t we? He’s not a Kyri god. His southern name is Telar.” Kastor patted Charis’s shoulder reassuringly. “I’ll only be a moment.”

When he mounted the steps into the central chapel, he found it nearly deserted. No service was going on at the moment. He hadn’t been sure; he couldn’t keep track of all the Pantheonist feast days, there were too many of them. Today there were only a few old women kneeling before the gilded altar. He went as silently as he could through one of the side doors that led to the wings containing individual gods’ chapels.

He’d never been in here before. He only knew the layout because he’d been to the one in Ytris, which was built on a similar plan. The little chapels were arranged differently here, though, and their symbols were strange. The Warrior Twins, for instance, had been a sword and a shield in Ytris, but here they were a spear and a torch. He guessed that a lamb symbolized the Mother of Mercy, and entered the door it graced, but found himself mistaken.

Within, among a profusion of wilting funeral wreaths, an old woman in widow’s gray knelt, praying to an icon of... Kastor with a beard.

He took a half step back, staring in perplexity. The painted icon showed a god in scholar’s robes, seated on a black throne, with a lamb at his right hand and a wyr at his left, two ravens perched behind his shoulders. With his pale skin, black hair, and silver-gray eyes, he looked very much like Kastor would if he grew a goatee. Despite the god’s gentle expression, there was something menacing about him.

Death, of course. Telar, Yranthis; King of the Crossroads. Kastor had never seen him in human form before. In Kyri symbology, he was given the form of a raven.

As he backed another step, preparatory to leaving, the old woman turned, and he saw her eyes widen behind her veil. She quickly made a protective sign over her heart. Kastor fled.

He found Kaleya’s shrine in the other wing. Her symbols here were ivy and roses. The chapel was unoccupied. Kastor knelt a little self-consciously before the porcelain statue of a plump, smiling, motherly nun. He’d brought the wrong sacrifice; in Semnia, she was given sweets, but this altar was covered with paper flowers and little candles. He emptied his pockets of sugarplums nevertheless. He bowed his head.

“Mother of Mercy,” he began, and realized he had no idea how to proceed. When he’d heard Sister Magda pray, it had been in murmurs, and he hadn’t bothered to listen. “I hear you watch over children. Well, my son’s come to me -- maybe your doing? -- and I have to take him back home. And I’m scared. The roads are so dangerous these days. If anything happened to him -- could you sort of keep an eye on him? And maybe you could help me be a decent father, while I’ve got the chance. I really have no clue how to go about it. Um. That’s all. Thanks.” Feeling a bit sheepish, he stood up.

He heard a scuff behind him, and turned to see a white-robed priest retreating from the doorway, as if to keep from interrupting.

Kastor cleared his throat. “I’m done now. You don’t have to go.”

The priest turned back. He was a slight, elderly man with a fringe of short white hair, and though his eyes were full of questions at what he saw, he offered a kindly smile. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“No. I was finished.” Kastor gave a slight laugh. “I don’t know how to pray to southern gods. I hope Kaleya’s not too particular.”

“She is known for being forgiving,” the priest said with a twinkle. “Pardon my curiosity, but from your topknot and your armor I’d guess you’re one of those horse nomads -- Kyri? Do I have that right?”

“Yes.” Kastor glanced past him, concerned to get back to Charis.

“I was under the impression your people don’t acknowlege the Pantheon.”

“Not officially. Look, I’d love to talk, but I left my boy watching the horses. He’s only eight, and --”

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” The priest stood aside. As Kastor went past, though, he added, “I couldn’t help overhearing some of your prayer. If you’re concerned enough about your son to pray for guidance, I’m certain you’re a fine father.”

“Um. Thanks.” Kastor hurried away. Weird, these southern priests. Magda had been the same way. Nice, but nosy.

To his relief, no accident had befallen Charis while he was away. Rather, the boy had attracted the attention of a handful of matrons, no doubt on their way to or from the temple, who were pestering him with sweets and compliments and questions. Charis fastened on Kastor’s return with visible relief.

“Da! You took a long time!”

“I got lost.” Kastor gave a slight bow. “Ladies. Mind if I borrow my son back?”

The women chuckled and left, fluttering waves and blown kisses at Charis as they went. Kastor grinned at him.

“You charmer, you. Don’t be eating all those sweets at once, now. It’ll make your stomach sour.”

Charis frowned down at his bulging pockets. He fished out a square wrapped in white rice paper. “This one’s cherry. I don’t like cherry. You can have it.”

“Think I’ll save it.” Kastor put it away. He didn’t like sweets at all, cherry or otherwise, but he supposed he’d have to eat it eventually. He undid the looped reins from the hitching rail. When he offered a hand to help Charis mount, Charis scorned it, clambering into the saddle unassisted.

Not to be outdone, Kastor vaulted up without using the stirrup. Charis made a face at him. He laughed.

“That was the last stop. Now it’s the open road for us. Ready?”

Charis responded with a whoop, and a slap of the reins. His palfrey sped to a canter, then to a smooth gallop, and Kastor had to ride carefully to stay beside him.