04



In the gray of a rainy dawn, Kastor named his horse.

“Aunethan,” he told it. Night’s fire -- the northern lights. “Because you move like a dark flame. Whoever trained you was a genius, old boy.” It was important to look a horse in the eye when you named it. He repeated the name a few times. “Aunethan. That’s you.”

The horse took a mouthful of his hair, spiking it up with slobber. Whether this counted as acknowlegement or not, he wasn’t sure.

“Good morning, Sir Kastor.”

He turned to see the matron’s son in the doorway, a rolled bundle over his shoulder and a shovel in his hand. Kastor gave a bit of a smile and a wave. “Morning -- sorry, I’ve lost your name.”

“Randan, sir.”

“Look, I don’t remember if I told you this, but you really don’t have to call me ‘sir’. I’m not a knight or an army officer. Just use my name.”

“Can I ask what is your title?”

“Don’t have one. If you want to be formal with a Kyri warrior, you can call him Sionh, but you don’t have to.”

“Sheeyone.”

“Close enough. Or Sionhin, if it’s a woman. You can tell a warrior by the tail.” He touched his own by way of illustration, then made a face and wiped his hand on his shirt. “Which is not supposed to be full of horse drool.”

Randan chuckled a little, as if not certain he was allowed. “I’ll remember. Sheeyone.”

“So what are you up to? Rotten weather for it, whatever you’re doing.”

The young man sobered instantly. “I’m going to look for... um, what’s left of Della. If anything’s left. So we can bury her.”

“Della? Is that the shepherd girl --?”

“Yeah. I probably won’t find anything. It’s been nearly a week.” He was pale, and studying the ground. “Where the beast took her, there was -- well, there was no chance she was alive. So nobody went to look. But I might find a bit of clothing, something the priest can say words over.” He looked up, forcing a smile, and patted the roll over his shoulder. “But I’ve got a tarp. Optimistic, huh?”

“Was she a friend of yours? A relative?”

“Not my sweetheart or my sister, if that’s what you mean. But we all know each other around here. It’s... pretty awful, finding bits of someone you used to make daisy chains for. She was such a lively kid. But I’ll be boss of this vill when my mum goes, so it falls to me.” He shrugged, hitching the tarp into a better grip.

“Want some company?”

“I wouldn’t mind.” Randan tried to sound casual, but his face betrayed his hope. He didn’t want to do this alone. “You don’t want to bring your boy, though, I bet.”

“No. Give me a second to tell him. I’m sure your mother can keep him busy.”

When Charis heard the nature of the errand, he quickly found a thousand urgent things he had to do in the house, and Kastor left him in the matron’s care. On foot, since much of the way was too swampy for horses, Kastor and Randan set out. Kastor offered to carry the tarp, and was given the shovel instead.

They talked a little as they went, but not about anything important. They discussed the unusually wet weather, and how long it was likely to keep drizzling like this, and what other winters were like. They talked about the terrain, and the hunting hereabouts, and compared tracking techniques. They found the carcasses of the wyr, well preserved by the cold despite their acidic nature, and spared a moment to talk about the right way to tan a wyrskin so it wouldn’t rot itself. Then they followed the beasts’ backtrail, looking for the lair.

It was obvious enough, when they found it. Long before they reached the cave of tangled roots at the bog’s edge, they smelled the reek of decaying meat. Bones were scattered a hundred yards out. Most were old, mossy, and clearly animal, but they had to examine all the fresh ones lest they be human. Their boots squelched in mud littered with scraps of fur. Due to the nature of their task, they had to watch the ground closely, lest they step on Della. Or whatever the wyr had left of her.

Suddenly Randan gave out a groan of mingled grief and disgust. He bent to pick something out of the mud. “Cloth,” he said, holding it out. “Bloody.”

Kastor took the shred, sluicing it free of mud with his fingers. “It’s not bloody. It’s red.” He frowned. “Was she wearing her temple best or something?”

“No.” Randan was puzzled. He leaned closer.

“It’s silk brocade. I don’t think it’s Della’s.”

“It’s not. No one in the vill has anything like --” He broke off, eyes flashing wide. “Did you hear that?”

Kastor shook his head, but held his hand up to indicate that they should be silent and listen. After a long moment filled only with the pattering of dripping branches, the rustle of dead leaves, he heard the thing that had startled Randan. A voice, just a faint rasp, half a word, incoherent -- very near.

Without wasting time on speculation, they launched into searching. They crunched bones underfoot uncaring as they scoured the tangled, weedy verge of the swamp. Della would surely forgive any insult to her hypothetical remains. There was someone alive in there.

Kastor was the one who found him. He hollered for Randan, then dropped to his knees, reaching but not touching, suddenly sure he was dreaming, because only in a nightmare could someone be so badly maimed and live. The boy was half submerged in icy swamp-water, kept from sinking in by the way his one mangled arm was wedged between two saplings. His other arm was missing, and the bones of his shoulder were showing. The wyr had gnawed on his head; scraps of torn scalp dangled among matted dark hair, and there were pale, swollen furrows in the blue-white flesh of his cheek. His eyes had been spared, though, and they were -- impossibly, horribly -- alert, staring up at Kastor, strained open so that whites showed all around the violet irises.

True violet, not blue. Purple. Kastor suddenly understood why the poor fellow was still alive. He was a Mara.

“Oh gods.” That was Randan, sounding as if he was fighting not to vomit.

“Lay out the tarp. I’ll go in and get him.”

“Thank you,” Randan gulped. Probably terrified to touch the mangled man. He hurried to make ready.

Kastor stripped off his cloak and climbed down into the water, wincing at the numbing cold. He kept his eyes on the Mara’s, tried to look calm, reassuring. In the gentlest voice he could summon, he kept murmuring, “You’re going to be all right now, we’re going to take care of you, it’s going to be fine.”

The Mara’s eyes rolled wildly, trying to focus on Kastor. His lips moved, but all that came out was a whimper.

“It’s all right. I’m going to get you out of this cold water, and we’ll carry you to where it’s warm. Now, this will probably hurt some, but you have to stay still. All right?”

The poor creature managed one word, with desperate emphasis: “Real?”

“Yes. I’m real. The wyr are dead, there’s no more danger. I’m going to lift you now so I can get your arm free. Ready?”

A wan nod. But when Kastor lifted him, he screamed. To make matters worse, the arm wouldn’t come clear right away, so Kastor had to go on hurting him for three interminable seconds. At last the wretched length of swollen meat and broken bone came free, and the Mara subsided to panting and whimpers.

“All right. Good. Just breathe, now. Take a deep breath. That’s good. You’re going to be just fine. My name is Kastor. He’s Randan. What’s your name?”

“Um?” The Mara gulped, eyes rolling.

“Focus. Stay with me. Deep breaths. What’s your name?”

“Name.” A deliberate long breath, let out in shudders. “Serifar.”

“I’m going to lift you now, Serifar. Try not to scream this time, all right? You just about made me deaf.”

There was the faintest hint of a smile at that. “I’ll try.”

“Good man. Here we go.” Kastor scooped him up; shocked by how little he weighed, horrified at the squishy, shredded mess of his legs. The Mara gasped and clenched his teeth together.

“Can you get out?” Randan offered a hand, realized Kastor couldn’t grab it, and took fistfuls of Kastor’s shirt instead. By this handle he helped haul Kastor and his burden out of the bog. He had the square of oilcloth folded in half and laid flat. Kastor knelt to set the Mara carefully down.

“Breathe. Look at me, Serifar. Take a deep breath.”

The Mara looked for a moment as if he were unable to unlock his jaw, and his nostrils sucked in and out as he began to hyperventilate. If these injuries hadn’t killed him, neither would shock -- probably -- but Kastor didn’t want to take chances. He spread his cloak over the mangled form, tucking it close, murmuring all the while. At last Serifar gasped, and breathed deeply. He began to cry like a frightened child.

When Kastor and Randan burst into the matron’s house with their burden slung between them, they found the place full of old folks and children. They were too winded from running to explain anything, but the matron took one look at the situation and started giving orders. By the time the two men had set Serifar beside the fire and unkinked their cramped hands, she had sent out everyone but the village herbwife and Charis. Charis, she tried to send away, but he wouldn’t go.

Kastor didn’t know whether he ought to shield Charis from this sight or not, and he was too wracked by it himself to make quick decisions. He looked at his son, trying to make up his mind, and his son looked back, trying to make sense of things. Suddenly Charis rushed at him, grabbing him around the neck.

“Da, what happened?” he wailed. Then the herbwife began to peel back the cloak, and Charis gasped. He eeled around to hug from behind, hiding from the sight. “Da!” Pleading.

“He’ll live, Charis. He’s a Mara.”

The herbwife looked up at him. Her face was pale. “What did you say, sir?”

“He’s a Mara. Immortal. That’s how he’s survived these injuries. But they feel pain, the same as mortal men -- for mercy’s sake, woman!” This last was sharp, as the herbwife drew back from the wounded man with dawning fear. “Are you afraid of him now? Look at him!”

The woman stood, backing away, slowly shaking her head. “I know nothing of such creatures. I can’t...”

The matron looked as if she wanted to flee as well, but put on a brave face and stayed. “Mistress Tetha. The man is injured.”

“Man,” the herbwife echoed hollowly. She continued to back away. “That’s no man. It’s not human.” She backed right out the door.

The matron gave Kastor a bleak look. “Can you promise you haven’t brought doom on us?”

Randan exploded in outrage. “What would you have us do, leave him there? Don’t you have a soul in you?”

“Does this thing?”

“Yes,” Kastor said quietly. “I know for a fact that Mara have souls, and can be good and worthy people. They can also be terribly dangerous. Now quit bickering and either help the poor bastard or rig a litter so I can take him away. Because I sure as hell won’t ditch anyone in this condition, human or not.”

The matron took a sharp breath, but didn’t speak. She got up to put a kettle on, avoiding his eyes.

Kastor had thought Serifar had lapsed unconscious, but the Mara gave a weak, sniffling laugh. “Sorry,” he croaked. “All the trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” said Randan with false heartiness. He was a little green about the mouth. He stood up. “I’ll be back. I just --” He made the mistake of looking down at Serifar, and clapped his hand to his mouth. He ran.

Serifar looked distressed. He muttered, “Sorry.”

“Well, you’re in pretty bad shape, friend,” Kastor told him. “I’m feeling a little ill myself, looking at you. It’s amazing what you folks can live through. I knew a Mara who got his arms flayed to the bone, and a week later he was good as new, but this takes the prize.”

The Mara dared to smile a little. “You... know another...”

“Yeah. I’m not too scared to help you. Just try not to throw me out the window or explode my head or anything.”

“Can’t. Bound. Otherwise... see?”

“No. Or -- wait. Your power’s bound? So you can’t use it?”

“Un.” This seemed to be an affirmative.

“Of course. If you had your powers, the wyr wouldn’t have got you. I saw someone get bound once. Fellow by the name of Nevbelis.”

Serifar’s eyes widened. “Know him. He’s. Stiaan. Made him.”

“Yes! How --?”

“Made me.” The eagerness at shared acquaintance gave way to pain. “Bound me.”

“Stiaan bound you?”

“Uh.” A slight nod.

The matron cleared her throat, hiding her bleak look from the patient, but not from Kastor. She pulled him aside. “I can give you bandages, needle and thread. But I’ve no medicines. I don’t know if Tetha will spare any. She certainly won’t come back. And I know nothing of physicking.”

“Oh. Hell.” Kastor chewed his lip for a moment, thinking. “Well, I watched my mother do it enough times. I’ve patched myself up once or twice. Be nice if he didn’t have to feel it, though.” An idea crossed his mind, and he beckoned to his son. Charis came reluctantly, unwilling to take his eyes off Serifar. Kastor took him by the shoulders. “Charis, I want you to go find that woman who got scared and ran out of here. Get her to give you something to numb this man, or put him to sleep, or something. Wheedle it out of her. Beg if you have to.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re such a ladies’ man. Go on, make it quick, the poor fellow’s in a lot of pain.”

Charis jerked back at the thought, eyes huge. “Yes, Da!” He pelted away at his fastest limp, nearly using his cane as a vaulting pole. Kastor was instantly sorry to have laid such a heavy burden on the boy. But it was the truth, the Mara must be in agony, and Charis stood a better chance of getting anything out of that cowardly herbwife than an adult would.

It wouldn’t do to wait around, though. Kastor was already rolling his sleeves up. “Hot water and a cloth, please, and I’ll need some shears to get his clothes off.” He settled on his knees beside Serifar. The Mara looked frightened, so he tried on a reassuring smile. “Don’t panic. I’m just going to get some of this mud off you. The water’s nice and warm. I can’t help hitting some sore spots, though.”

Serifar made a brave attempt to return the smile. With great care, he enunciated, “On my left side, between... my ribs and... my hip... there is a place which... doesn’t... hurt.” He wheezed a little laugh. “Just that... one spot.”

“Well, I can solemnly promise you I won’t make it any worse.” Kastor took up the wet cloth and set to work.

As he removed mud and sodden clothing, the full extent of Serifar’s injuries became clear. Besides what Kastor had already noted, he had punctures and venom-burns on his right side, and his legs were gnawed; the left only bitten, the right stripped deep into the meat from hip to knee. A lot of these wounds couldn’t be sewn shut; there wasn’t skin enough to cover them. They were all ragged, most seared by wyr-spit, gone bloodless and puffy from soaking in the swamp. Kastor couldn’t guess how long ago he’d been hurt, but he must’ve been lying there like that overnight at the very least. Probably several days. A skin of ice would have formed around him, barely thawing in the morning... it was a wonder he was sane enough to speak at all, let alone smile and make jokes. Kastor wondered where he’d gotten his manners. Not from Stiaan, certainly. That one hadn’t bothered teaching his creations anything, just turned them loose to fend for themselves.

And now, apparently, he was going around binding them from their powers, leaving them -- by Mara standards -- helpless, and not sticking around to guard or guide them. That idiot. Kastor made a silent oath to bloody his nose for it, if they ever met again.

He had just finished slicing away the tattered remains of the Mara’s silk trousers when Charis came clattering back, triumphant. He thrust a twist of paper at Kastor. “I got it! I got the medicine!”

“Well done!” Kastor opened the paper to reveal a few little brown pellets, like rabbit droppings. Opium. He quailed for a moment, remembering one of his mother’s lectures about how delicate the dosage was, and how too much would surely kill, but reflected that Serifar might not even be able to die, which left a certain margin for error. He had the Mara chew one of the little pills, wait a minute, and chew another.

Serifar mumbled something, numb-mouthed. Shortly his eyelids sagged closed. His face relaxed, lines of pain easing away, until the characteristic Mara beauty emerged at last. He looked very young, very small; it made his injuries seem more terrible.

Charis did a quiet shuffle-step of joy. He whispered, “It worked! I got the right medicine!”

Kastor checked that Serifar was breathing before he rejoiced. Then he gave Charis a proud nod. “That you did. Now I can patch him up without hurting him. You want to help more? All right. You’re bandage-man. Take the shears and measure out lengths of bandage for me when I ask.”

“Right!” Puffing his matchbox chest with the importance of his task, Charis went to hover by the roll of bandaging, shears ready.

After that it was only a matter of long, difficult, meticulous work. Any of these wounds, on a mortal, would have defeated Kastor’s secondhand skill. It was only because he knew the patient was nearly impossible to kill that he had the courage to try. The injuries had ceased to be a horror sometime while he was cleaning off the mud, and had become a sequence of tasks to complete. What could be sewn, he sewed; the rest, he just cleaned and bandaged. The hardest part was setting the bones of the broken arm. At a guess, the wyr had caught Serifar by that arm and shaken him; there were rows of tooth-punctures, and Kastor counted by feel eight separate fractures. He lined the bones up as best he could, splinted the arm, and hoped an immortal’s special healing extended to straightening a crooked break.

Randan had returned toward the beginning, and had helped his mother fetch and boil water. Now he helped Kastor lift Serifar a few inches so that the matron could fetch out the tarp and slide a mattress into its place. She seemed to have lost her fear of the inhuman during Kastor’s doctoring of him. She brought a generous stack of blankets and laid them tenderly over him, as if he were her own child.

Kastor ached from kneeling so long. He sat with his sore back against the warm wall beside the hearth, legs stretched out in front of him. Charis came and sat beside him, leaning on him. Together they looked at their patient, wax-faced and full of stitches.

Charis whispered, “He looks dead.”

“He isn’t.”

“Is he going to be all right?”

“Yeah. He’ll be fine. It’s possible he would’ve survived even if we hadn’t found him. Mara are -- well, they’re immortal. Even if he died, he would’ve come back. I’m thinking it would’ve been pretty horrible for him, though.”

“I’m glad we helped.”

“Me too.” He rolled his head to look up at the matron, who was busy at the fire. “Madam, I apologize for bringing strays into your house. If there were any other way...”

“You have our gratitude for your killing of the wyr. Ask what you will of us.”

Kastor winced. “That’s not what I meant.”

She didn’t answer.

Randan gave a rude snort. “Mum doesn’t like surprises, that’s all. She knows we had to help. What kind of people would we be, otherwise? You don’t help folks when you can, you won’t get help when you need it. Right, Mum?”

“That’s what the scriptures teach us.” After a moment, though, she softened a little, looking at Charis before addressing Kastor. “It’s just that... an extra mouth to feed, in the middle of winter...”

“And the two of us already eating you out of your house,” Kastor finished for her. “That had crossed my mind. Mara eat like pigs, too, if the one I knew was typical. I wonder -- how far is it to the nearest place you could buy food? Where around here has surplus for sale?”

The matron glanced at her son. Randan said, “Arivell, I suppose. Day’s walk.”

“Could you spare someone to go?”

“Not a lot of work this season. I could go myself,” said Randan.

Kastor took four estas from his thinning purse and held them out. “Will that help?”

The look on Randan’s face was priceless. Not greed, nor gratitude; just pure disbelief. “If you’ve got this, why did you need us to hire you?”

“Job needed doing.” Kastor shrugged. “I’m not used to having money. Never quite clear on what it’s worth. If that’ll make a lean winter any fatter, you’re welcome to it. If it’s too much, get other supplies as well. Something nice, I don’t know. Hothouse strawberries.”

“Won’t get those in Arivell,” the matron said. “But we thank you from the bottom of our hearts. We bless the chance that led you here.”

Kastor looked away, feeling his ears go hot. “No problem,” he mumbled.



Charis got bored with resting long before Kastor did, and wandered off to find some amusement. The matron busied herself with composing a list of things to buy in Arivell; she had a sort of shorthand, little symbols that weren’t quite words, as if she’d been taught to read long ago and since forgotten. Kastor reflected that perhaps this was how writing had begun -- with shopping lists. The Mara emerged from his opium sleep a little while later, so Kastor set about the task of getting some nourishment into him. The matron brewed up something she called ‘linen tea’, sweetened milk thinned with hot water. Serifar took it in tiny sips at first, then more greedily, seeming to gain strength by the moment, and a bit of his color began to come back.

“Is there more?” he said when he’d drained the bowl. His voice was clearer now, though still weak. “I’m sorry. I’m just so hungry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kastor told him as he gave the matron the bowl for refilling. “I’ve got it covered. You can eat as much as you want. If you want to be nitpicky about it, you can owe me money, but I really don’t care.”

The matron said, “We should let that settle a bit, lest it come back up.”

“Oh. Didn’t think of that. Let’s give that a few moments, Serifar. Your stomach might be out of the habit of digesting.”

“Perhaps. I don’t know. There’s so much I don’t know about myself. I wanted Stiaan to tell me, but I understand why he couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“He had others to bind, some very dangerous. There was no time to waste on instructing me.”

Kastor scowled. “Still. He should’ve taken you along or something. It was pure luck we found you. If I ever see him again, I’m going to break his nose.”

“Dare you?” Serifar’s purple eyes went round.

“If he were going to kill me, he would’ve done it already. How’s that milk sitting with you?”

“I feel much stronger.”

“Not queasy at all?”

“No more than before.”

Kastor fed him another bowl. The Mara’s pleasure in the sweet warmth was like a small child’s, like a baby animal’s. As was his trust in Stiaan’s motives and competence. Kastor had encountered one other new-made Mara, a terrifyingly amoral creature named Nevbelis, who had tried to kill him just to find out what would happen. This one seemed like a completely different order of being.

But then, some kittens would purr for anyone, and some would bite and scratch whatever came near. Serifar was apparently of the former type.

“Do you want to rest?”

“I’m resting.” Serifar smiled sweetly. “You’re so kind. What are you? You speak as if my kind is other, but I think you’re not human either. Are you an angel?”

Kastor laughed. “The angel of rats.”

“I see.”

“No, that’s a joke, it’s something my mother called me. I’m half Mara, or so I’ve been told.” He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the old woman’s back stiffen, but ignored that. “Functionally more human than not, though. I heal fast, but I’m mortal. You didn’t know Mara could interbreed with humans?”

“No. How? Is this something I shouldn’t do?”

“Uh... yeah, you should probably not do that.”

“All right. Is there anything else I shouldn’t do?”

Kastor chuckled. “You want the full list right now? This might not be the time for it. Anyway, you’re not in any shape to cause trouble, so you needn’t worry for a while.” He glanced at the matron, and an idea came to him. “I gather they’ve got a priest around here, you could ask him. They’ve got all sorts of ideas for how to live a good life.”

“I will, then!” Serifar gave a brilliant, simpleminded smile. “Is there more food?”

“I’m working on it,” the matron said.

“How old are you, anyway?” Kastor asked. “How long ago were you made?”

“What’s the date?”

Kastor had to think a bit before he could answer. “Second week of Denan. About the tenth, I think.”

“Four years, two months.”

“Oh man. You’re just a baby. No wonder you’re confused. What were you up to before Stiaan bound you?”

“I’ve been in this land some months. Before that, I don’t remember. Since I came here, just looking at things, watching.” Serifar’s smile faded a bit. “Trying to stay away from the others. Some of them are really mean.”

“Yeah. I met Nevbelis.”

“I don’t like him. I’m glad he’s bound.”

“How long are you bound for?”

“Fifty years.” Serifar frowned; the expression tugged at the wounds on his face, and became a wince. “Maybe it’s a blessing. Mortals don’t get so long a childhood.”

“That’s true enough.”

The Mara couldn’t stay thoughtful for long; his bright smile was back. “You’re very nice to me. I feel so warm now, maybe I will sleep a little after all.”

“You do that.”

And so he did. It was weird, the way Mara could just close their eyes and be asleep; weirder than how rarely they had to do it.

The matron beckoned Kastor aside. She said in a low voice, “I don’t wish to be rude, but I have to ask you a few questions. I’ll be calling a town meeting this evening, you see, and I’ll need to put everyone’s fears to rest. You can understand, can’t you, that we’re not used to... your kind.” She scratched her nose thoughtfully. “Not even sure what your kind is, really. Mara. Fairytales. Not that we doubt it’s true,” she said hastily, “not with the evidence right there. Besides, we only know of dragons from tales, but no one doubts they’re real. If a real live dragon appeared in your town, though, wouldn’t you be a little nervous about it?”

“Sure, I understand. It’s not so scary as all that. I’m only half, and Serifar is bound, so neither of us has any power. You know, that power they have in the stories, granting wishes and turning people into trees and so forth -- that’s not going to happen.”

“Bound -- what does that mean?”

“I’m not sure how it works, exactly. There’s a sort of contest of wills, and the stronger one lays a geas --” he groped for an equivalent Nestrian word -- “a limit on the weaker one. He can’t use his magic for a certain period of time. In this case, fifty years. The one other binding I know about, the fellow was also constrained against killing any living thing, even animals. Not sure what conditions Stiaan placed on Serifar, but obviously he’s got no magic, or the wyr wouldn’t have been able to do that to him.”

“And you say you’ve no magic either.”

“Just human magic, and not much of that. Woodsmen’s charms and the like. I can’t throw lightning or anything, but if your tinder is too wet to start, I’m your man.” He gave her a grin; to his relief, she smiled back.

“I just can’t believe you’d do any harm. Maybe I’m too trusting, but I think your son wouldn’t be such a good boy if you were a bad example to him.” She turned back to the fire, checking the simmering porridge. “I’ll reassure everyone that you’re no threat. And I can feed the -- the -- Serifar. You run along.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Run along?”

She pointed. He followed her gesture, and saw Charis peeking in the door, trying to be quiet while the grownups were talking, but jittering with impatience. Kastor laughed.

“All right, Charis, I’m done here. What’s got you so worked up?”

Charis brought something out from behind his back: his miniature sword. “Lessons?”

“In the rain?”

“We can use the barn.”

“It’d scare the animals. Besides, there’s liable to be some falling down involved, and I’d rather fall in mud than horse... dung.”

“All right!” Charis agreed cheerfully, as if they’d made a plan. He disappeared, leaving the door ajar behind him.

Shaking his head slowly, grinning, Kastor gathered up his swords. “Madam? Where shall we do this so as not to alarm your neighbors?”

“Why, do it in the square so everyone can watch, of course.”

“Of course,” he said dryly. He just knew he’d end up coated head to toe in mud by the time this was done.



Apparently Charis had told all his new friends what was about to happen; the square was full of children, despite the icy drizzle. Kastor had to shoo them out of the way. They giggled and squeaked when he growled at them.

“You stay back,” he told them vehemently. “Otherwise you’re going to get skewered by accident. Which would be a very stupid way to die. That means you, kid,” he added with an extra scowl for the girl who was trying to examine Charis’s sword. When he had enough clear ground, he stood back from his son, considering his options.

Charis looked back questioningly, waiting for instructions. No doubt he thought he’d be miraculously turned into a fighter in one easy lesson. Kastor thought out loud by way of explaining why that wasn’t true.

“If I had the time to do it right, I’d start you off with swing practice. Weighted wooden sword. Work you up to two hundred of each type in the form. But you know, that takes months. Besides which, forms are crap. When it comes down to a fight, you never actually use them. Hmm... how mobile are you without the cane?”

“Without it?” Charis lifted it off the ground, took a few steps. “I guess not so good.”

“Maybe I can come up with a variation on double-sword. Use the cane for defense. Let me think.” He drew his own swords and mimicked Charis’s posture. He tried a few strokes and lunges, taking careful note of how much his right leg had to move. He nodded. “Might work. Worth a try. All right, go ahead and draw. Put the scabbard -- no, damn it, don’t throw it on the ground!”

“Sorry.” Charis sheepishly collected his scabbard and leaned it against a house wall. When he returned to his place, he held his sword very carefully. Its tip sagged and bobbed; it was much too heavy for him. This was going to be a short lesson.

Kastor took up a stance he rarely used: one sword in an offense position, the other held for blocking. It was awkward at first, but he was sure it would come back to him; it was, after all, the first form in the style, officially, and the most useful if one wasn’t ambidextrous. Kastor had grown accustomed to a much looser, more balanced posture, one where he could attack or defend with either sword, and easily flip either to lay the blade back along his arm for stopping a heavy blow. He itched to teach Charis to do it that way, but that would only frustrate both of them.

Charis studied him and copied him. “Like this?”

“I’d say... let’s have you hold the cane a little lower, and more vertical.” He demonstrated with his right-hand sword. “Since it doesn’t have a point, your opponent won’t be as wary of it, so there’s no advantage in threatening with it.”

“I see.”

“Good. Hold the sword a little more forward. You can put your finger over the guard, that’ll help balance it.”

Charis hooked his forefinger over the crossguard, making the unsharpened first few inches of the blade into an extension of the grip. He nodded. “That’s easier.”

“It’s still going to be tough. That sword’s too heavy for you. It’ll be just right in four years or so. All right, I’m going to do parries today. Don’t try to hit me. You could stick me by accident.”

“I won’t!” Charis yelped, horrified by this possibility.

“Just don’t get carried away. Now, when I thrust at you like this...” He began a slow-motion strike, and Charis -- after wavering for a moment -- brought his cane out to block it. Kastor nodded. “Close. But you can’t just push it aside. You have to turn it. Otherwise -- do the same thing again --” He demonstrated how the thrust would slide past the cane and strike Charis’s shoulder. “Get under it. Here, you thrust at me.” He demonstrated a block that would deflect the blade entirely from his body, then gave Charis something else to parry.

The boy did it perfectly this time.

Kastor stepped back, raising an eyebrow. “You sure you never had a lesson?”

Charis grinned proudly. “I watched people practicing. And I’m a quick learner.”

“That’s an understatement. Took me hours to get the angle of that right when I learned it, and then I kept forgetting. And my teacher was using a wooden sword, full force, which stung like a bastard. I had little black-and-blue spots all up my side for weeks. But you didn’t even have to get smacked once to learn it. I’m thinking this’ll go better than I expected.”

“Teach me something else!”

“Let’s do this for a while today, get your arms used to the exercise. You’re going to be sore tomorrow, I promise you, so don’t get fancy. Here we go -- block. Good. Block. Good. Block high, yes, low, yes, now your off side -- well done! -- and block --”

Charis lasted longer than he’d expected. Even after his arms were quivering with the strain, he doggedly went on blocking Kastor’s slow strikes, and his form barely suffered at all. His expression became set, mouth thinned and eyes sharp, refusing to miss anything. Kastor caught himself thinking: If he weren’t crippled -- lords of light, what a fighter he’d make! But then, if he hadn’t had to fight against his own lopsidedness every day, perhaps he wouldn’t have been so uncommonly focused.

At last, the cane fell from Charis’s clumsy right hand. Even then, the boy tried to twist aside and finish the block with his sword, but he was too slow, and didn’t know the form for a cross-block like that; Kastor’s point tapped his ribs.

“That’s enough for today,” Kastor said. “Your arms aren’t used to the weight yet. You did a good job, though.”

“I’m not tired,” Charis lied.

“Just wait ‘til you find out how sore you’re going to be. You’ll be glad you stopped now.”

“Can we do more tomorrow, Da?”

“Sure.” Privately, Kastor doubted Charis would feel like it, if his muscles were anything like as sore as Kastor’s had been after his first sword lesson. But then, the kid was determined -- more so than most adults -- and just might surprise him.

As the children swarmed Charis, all wanting to see the sword before he put it away, an adult voice said, “Is this a private game, or can anyone play?”

Kastor turned, and saw one of the men of the village, a grizzled fellow with muscles like knotted roots -- the smith, as he recalled. The man was carrying a handful of wooden staves. More men, and a few women, had filtered into the square during the lesson, and watched with something a little warier than curiosity. Kastor said, “I guess I could give another quick lesson.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a sparring match. Did some time in the army when I was younger. Figure I know which end to hold.”

“Sounds like fun.” Usually, Kastor tried to avoid practice matches; there was a chance, however slim, that he’d get cornered and go feahar on his opponent. In this case, though, he doubted the village smith was good enough to panic him. Besides, his bloodlust seemed to be on holiday lately. It hadn’t surfaced with the demon or the wyr, and it had been easy to fight it down with the thieves. He judged a match now safe enough. He put his swords away and held out his hands for sticks.

The smith tossed him one, kept one, and set the others aside. “All right if we try it my way first? Never trained in that fancy two-sword stuff.”

Kastor shrugged. “Whatever you like.” They began to circle.

The smith held his wooden sword as if he knew what to do with a real one. He wasn’t overconfident, though, and appraised Kastor carefully. Kastor, for his part, had taken the man’s measure with the first look. Kastor had the greater reach, and was probably faster, but not as much faster as one might expect; while muscle would make the smith heavier, it was its own compensation, and the stick was lighter than steel would be.

As they circled each other, under the watchful eyes of a dozen spectators, the smith said, “Me and some of the boys were wondering how you do it. On account of you’re so skinny. Mind, you look a lot bigger with that armor on, but now...” He gestured with the point of his stick.

Kastor glanced down at himself, noting that he did look rather thin with his clothes flattened to him by rain. The smith chose that moment to launch an attack. He put his weight behind it, driving down hard, trying to smash Kastor’s weapon aside and get a clear blow. It was the kind of thing that would only work on an amateur. Kastor knew better than to stand behind his block when fighting a stronger man; he slipped the other’s ‘blade’ and danced aside.

“The word is ‘wiry’, I think,” he said with a grin. “’Skinny’ sounds like I don’t eat enough.”

The smith chuckled and tried him again, this time with an overhand swing that turned out to be a feint for a lunge. Kastor caught it, spun, and smacked the man in the small of the back.

“Light,” he said, before the smith had to call it.

“Not so light as all that. We can call that a point.”

“Nah. Wouldn’t have touched you through armor. No point.”

“Fair enough. You’re pretty fast.”

“Have to be, since I can’t compete with fellows like you in cross-country ox-tossing. I’d say you were more than some infantry grunt, am I right?”

“Yep.” The smith gave a mischevious half-smile and darted in, raining a rapid-fire series of heavy strikes on Kastor’s guard.

Kastor had to give ground. He went reluctantly at first, then suddenly gave way, causing the other man to overbalance just enough, and they both froze in tableau as Kastor’s point pressed under the other’s chin.

“And you’re dead,” said Kastor. He lowered his stick and offered his hand; the smith shook it.

“Nicely done. Don’t figure I’ll try you with two sticks; it’d go too fast for me to watch. Thanks for the lesson.” He clapped Kastor on the shoulder, making him stagger. “And you’re right, I wasn’t just a grunt. Drill instructor. Ten years of it, until I blew out my knee and had to retire. So are the rest of your folk as good as you are?”

“To my knowlege, the only person better -- at least in my style -- is the queen herself.”

The smith made a skeptical face. “The queen.”

“I know, I don’t sound real modest, but I’m pretty sure it’s true.”

“No, I’ll believe you’re the second best, but you’re telling me a woman’s better?”

Kastor gave him a wry smile. “Believe it, friend. She could wipe the floor with me.” A thought occurred to him that made his smile go skewed. “Although I’ve had a lot more combat experience. I might even be as good as she is now.”

“That’s got to be a good story. But not one for standing around in the rain. Come on down the smithy, I’ve got a keg of bock that needs finishing.”

Kastor didn’t feel like telling any stories about himself, but neither did he want to decline such a good-natured invitation. He collected Charis and followed the smith. A handful of other men joined them, and Charis was trailing a comet tail of enthralled youngsters, so they filled the smithy in short order.

It turned out not to be so difficult as he’d feared to avoid telling too much. The townsmen were more interested in hearing about Kyri life in general than in the details of Kastor’s past. Apparently they’d heard plenty of interesting rumors about what plainsmen were like, but were too far south to have been raided. They were astonished by how much of what they’d heard turned out to be true. He assured them that, yes, Kyri lived in tents or wagons all the time, that only a few of them ever went into a real building and then only in winter, that they slept on mats on the ground instead of in beds, and that everyone moved with the herds, shifting camp every few weeks. He confirmed that children were taught to ride at the age of three or four, that most had a pony of their own before they were six, and that this wasn’t uncommon wealth.

The smith, former soldier that he was, expressed an interest in tales of martial prowess. “I’ve heard you fellows are the best archers on earth. I have to admit my jaw was bouncing off my boots when I saw you pincushion that wyr.”

“That was some pretty good shooting,” Kastor admitted. “I surprised myself. I’m usually not that accurate.”

“But are you always that fast?” said someone else. “I mean, damn, boy, you emptied the quiver in ten seconds!”

“Can’t have been that fast.”

“Damn near.”

“Maybe I’m better than most,” Kastor said. “I’ve been living off what I can hunt since I was my son’s age, so, you know. It gets so your hands do it without involving your head. Enough practice, and you look at what you want to hit, and the arrow just goes there.”

“Since you were that little? You folks make your kids hunt their supper?”

“No, no. That’s not normal. I was weird that way. Ran off to fend for myself, didn’t like to be around people. Drove my mother nuts.”

One of the men gave a low whistle. “Wild man. Raised by beasts.”

Kastor laughed. “I smelled like it, anyway.”

“You’re civilized enough now,” someone ventured, as if hoping it was true.

“A bit too civilized, according to some folks’ opinions,” Kastor agreed. “I’ve grown addicted to hot baths, and I’m told I fuss with my hair way too much. Well, not so much since I cut it.” He flicked at his short tail. “This time last year, it was down to my ass. I got sick and had to chop it, though.”

“So how come you wear all black? Does that mean something?”

Kastor skirted the issue: “The polish rubs off my armor. Anything else would get stained.”

“Is it true,” someone said, “that Kyri women fight alongside the men?”

“Sure. Everybody has to be a generalist, on the Sei. No room for housewives.”

“Yeah, the queen fights better than he does,” the smith put in.

“The Kyri Queen,” said a younger man, a bit dreamily. “I hear she’s beautiful.”

Several replies ran through Kastor’s head. All he said was, “She’s a handsome woman.”

“Handsome? Not beautiful?” The man seemed disappointed.

“She’s...” Kastor hunted for a word. “How would you describe a wolf, or a dragon? You can’t look at her and see a pretty woman. You’re too busy thinking how to make her proud of you.” He said this a little sourly; he’d never been able to please her, when she’d been his wife. Not that torture could drag that tale out of him right now. As for her looks, he wasn’t the best judge of female attractions, but he knew how she’d affected others. Even before she’d claimed him as her toy -- her child-husband, her half-tame pet -- he’d never heard anyone speak of her as they spoke of other females. Even when she’d been a girl, which she was not now. “She’s in her thirties. About nose high on me, but she always seems taller. And yes, she’s better with a pair of blades than I am, and ten times better than anyone else. So it’s not real safe to pay too much attention to her looks.”

“Are all Kyri girls that fierce?” the young man asked.

“Nobody’s that fierce,” Kastor told him lightly. “As for friendly, let a handsome lad like you get in the way of a raid-revel with girls in it, and you’ll find out in short order. It’s not all about cattle-thieving, you know.”

The man hesitated, then laughed. “Think I’ll pass. Violent girls aren’t my type.”

“Ever done any raiding yourself?” and older man asked, and Kastor sensed that it was a test. He wasn’t sure exactly what the fellow was testing, though, so he told the truth.

“Just once. I thought it was dull.”

“Dull?” the man said warningly. “Stealing folks’ livelihood and burning their houses was dull?”

“There was no burning. I wouldn’t have allowed it.” He realized that the fact that he’d had the authority to stop it tread a little too close to his history, and went on quickly. “Burning’s not common, anyway, it’s just that it gets told about because it’s dramatic. Sometimes a revel will fire an outbuilding as a distraction, but mostly the idea is to steal some animals and get away clean. As I recall, we took five sheep and a cow, and no one even tried to stop us. Then we had to drive the damn things home. I just didn’t see what the thrill was supposed to be. Like you said, stealing folks’ livelihood -- and to tell the truth, the animals weren’t as good as our own herds. So what’s the point?” He shrugged.

“I think the people who lost livestock to you took it a bit more seriously, friend.”

“No doubt they did. But I’m being honest, that’s how I saw it at the time.” He met the speaker’s eyes levelly. “How many sixteen-year-old boys do you know who can see that kind of thing as clearly as you do now?”

“There’s a point,” someone else said, and the older man gave a reluctant nod and let the subject drop.

Delicate subjects were avoided after that; the day passed in cheerful chatter. The smith’s wife brought out the noon meal, feeding everyone without complaint -- everyone knew by now that Kastor had given Randan a great deal of money to spend in Arivell, and a feast was expected on the boy’s return. All but the tiniest wariness seemed to have vanished, and the holiday atmosphere of the previous night was back.

Kastor got to meet the priest a couple hours later. He was surprisingly young for his post, with a fat, pink, earnest face. His white wool robe was mud-stained at the hem, and he wore trousers and work boots underneath. He came to inform the gathered men that the village matron would be holding the town meeting at the temple, so as not to disturb the injured man in her house -- he hesitated a bit before saying ‘man’, but he said it. Then he touched Kastor’s sleeve in a gesture more supplicating than chummy.

“If you don’t mind, sir, could you watch the injured fellow while we meet? I don’t mean to say you wouldn’t be welcome at the meeting, but someone should watch him, and, ah...”

“And you’re going to be talking about me, so it would be weird if I was there. I understand. I doubt you’re going to vote to heave me out, anyway.” He gave the priest a grin, which seemed to relax the fellow a little.

“We would never do something like that,” said the priest. “It’s just that --” His voice went hushed. “A Mara. I never thought I’d see one with my own eyes.”

“Did you get to talk to him? He was going to ask you some philosophical questions.”

The priest nodded, with an echo of astonishment at the circumstance. “He seemed eager to learn -- I’d been told such creatures had no souls, but I doubt that now. He’s like a child.” Then his brow furrowed. “Nevertheless, I don’t know that it would be right for him to stay here too long.”

Kastor looked hard at the man until he colored with shame. “How exactly is he going to leave?”

“We thought... perhaps you could take him.”

“I’ve already been delayed too much by the weather. We have to move on as soon as the rain stops.”

“Hm.” The priest frowned. “Well, I’m sure someone will think of something. You’d best go see to him now.”

It wasn’t the politest dismissal, but Kastor didn’t call him on it. He thanked the smith, detached his son from the other children, and left the villagers to their business.



He started on mending his cloak. Charis worked on a leather braid. Serifar slept. It was about three hours before the matron came to tell them the villagers’ verdict.

“We’ll care for him until he can be safely moved. Then we’d like you to take him away. To a larger town, perhaps, where he can be better cared for.” She told him this with the chin-high firmness of someone who expected an argument.

He was as courteous as he could be about giving her one. “I can see your position, but what if the weather clears tomorrow and he’s not ready to move yet? We really can’t wait around. And I’ve no idea how long it’ll take him to heal.”

“You said that Mara are immortal. Being moved won’t kill him, if that’s true.”

“But it’ll cause him pain.”

She winced a little, but held her point. “Mistress Tetha will give you medicine for his pain. You have horses.”

“That money I gave you was on the assumption that you’d be caring for him. It was to cover the cost of keeping him.”

“I’d give it back, but Randan’s in Arivell with it already.”

“Are you people seriously scared of him? He’s harmless!”

“We can’t be certain of that!” She took a deep breath, being reasonable at him. “You can afford to take risks, strong as you are. But we’re helpless. We can’t be taking in wounded monsters.”

Kastor sucked in his breath. “Monsters. I see.” He glanced at Charis, but the boy only looked concerned because the grownups were arguing; he didn’t seem to realize that he had just been told he had the blood of monsters in his veins. “Well, I can’t force you.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

He just shrugged. He understood, all right -- that they were cowards, and that they had essentially robbed him. He returned to his mending to let her know he didn’t want to talk to her anymore. After a while she turned to preparing supper and let him be.

When he woke the next morning, he could see his breath inside the house. A look outside confirmed his guess: the ground had frozen iron-hard. It was time to leave. He was glad; he just wished he’d gone before he’d seen through the illusion of the villagers’ generosity.