08



The world was a wasteland of blood. His rage was on him, and he couldn’t stop killing. Then Mikah was there, murmuring Enough, love, it’s all right, you’re finished now, but the killing madness wouldn’t let him go. It brought him nearer and nearer to Mikah, who never lost his smile even when his head tumbled from his shoulders.

Kastor woke with a strangled cry, trying to fight free of the blankets, the hand on his chest pressing him down. Soothing voice, with an edge of frustration. For a moment he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop struggling, that he was beyond help as he’d been in the dream, but when he willed himself still his body obeyed. He blinked until he could see again. Serifar’s face swam into focus. Serifar again. How many times had this happened? Or was this just some stupid looping dream, and he’d be waking to Serifar’s too-sweet face over and over -- he groaned, and Serifar mopped at him with a damp towel.

“Quit it.” He shoved the towel away. Everything hurt like hell, but he was damned if he was going to be an invalid. Besides, it was a different kind of hurt this time, more ache than ripping. And his head was clear. Throbbing, but not clouded with fever. “Help me up.”

“No. Not yet.” The way Serifar said it, he must’ve said it a lot of times already. He sounded tired of saying it.

“This time for real. I’m on the mend, I can feel it.”

“No.”

“How long has it been? How long have I been in this damn bed? Gods, I reek! I need a bath. Tell them to draw a bath.”

“Three days, and no. You can’t get up.”

“The hell I can’t.” He gathered himself for the effort. He got to almost sitting, straining the aching muscles of his stomach to their limit -- and then Serifar effortlessly pushed him back down.

“If you’re bored, I’ll entertain you. If you want something done, I’ll do it. But you’re not getting up. That’s final.”

Despite himself, Kastor found himself smiling a little. “Looks like clinging ivy’s grown a backbone.”

“I don’t...” Serifar tilted his head, thinking; gradually his expression grew indignant. “You thought I was spineless?”

“No, no, not really. Just -- never mind.”

“No, tell me. I’ll keep asking until you do.”

“You were just so... obedient. It’s nice to see you standing up for yourself. Where’d you learn that?”

“Charis.”

“Where is he? Is he around?”

“He’s sleeping. It wears him out when the healer works on you.” Seeing the question on Kastor’s face, he answered it: “The healer borrows strength from us. It lets him do more for you. It’s why you’re as well as you are now -- which is not well enough to get up.”

“And you let him? Borrow from my boy? Damn it --”

“He wanted to help you. If your positions were reversed --”

“That’s different! He’s a child!”

“And you’re his father. Can you even think he’d ever risk losing you?”

That stabbed Kastor deeper than any bandit’s knife. He went still, waiting for his conscience to stop trying to throttle him. The worst of it was that Serifar’s expression wasn’t the least bit accusing. It was, as always, kind, gentle, trusting, full of hope. That was really hard to look at.

“It was the only way,” he said at last. “If I’d ignored them...”

“I know. They would have ambushed us. I know. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize when you’re right.”

“But I made you sad. I don’t like to do that.”

Again he had to think before speaking. “Serifar... I handle being made sad a lot better than I handle being worshipped by somebody who doesn’t know any better. If you’re going to remind me of my actions’ consequences, do it, but not while looking -- gazing -- at me like that.”

“What do you mean, I don’t know better? You’re the kindest, the best, the only one who --”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about! You might have had bad luck before, but that doesn’t make me a saint! I’m a killer, do you understand? I’ve ended so many lives I’d have to work it out on paper to tell you how many! Maybe I’ve been nice to you, I have a soft spot for children and dogs, but for mercy’s sake don’t think that makes me safe.”

Serifar’s face went to somewhere between puzzled and about-to-cry, and stayed there for several minutes. Then his expression smoothed, but this time there was a slight reserve to it. He looked, in that moment, ten years older. “I understand. You need not live up to my expectations. I’m simply pleased by your company.”

Kastor looked away, but after a moment made himself turn back to Serifar. “I like your company too. Now, is there any way at all I could get out of this stinky bed? It’s too damn soft. I think the kink in my neck is on the verge of becoming permanent.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Serifar’s smile as he stood to leave was lopsided, a bit wry, a grownup smile, lacking any trace of the beaming brilliance he’d posessed before.

After he’d gone, Kastor examined his memory of that smile with growing horror. It was possible that he’d just dealt the deathblow to Serifar’s innocence. He might well have forced the realization that no one could be fully trusted, that no one could really understand anyone. Kastor had come to that understanding so early that he could hardly remember when, just had an isolated memory of lying awake trying to find an error in his logic, while his mother snored beside him. He could tell that Charis had seen that unpleasant truth already. But Serifar hadn’t known it. And Kastor, in a halfassed attempt to keep him from imprinting like a baby duck, had taught him.

But when Serifar came back, with a brown-robed priest of Arand in tow, he looked open and cheerful again. “If Kastor wants to get up, sir, he’s going to get up. Best if we can come to some compromise.”

“Hush, lad, let me work.” The priest barely glanced at Kastor’s face before spreading his hands in the warmth of Kastor’s aura and tasting its strength. When he sat back, he seemed grudgingly impressed. “You’ve a very strong constitution, young man, and Arand has blessed you. If someone will help you stand, I believe you can get dressed and sit in a chair without coming to any harm.” He shook his head. “To be honest, I didn’t think you’d make it. However did you come to be stabbed nineteen times?”

“Well, the slashing strokes didn’t make it through my armor,” Kastor explained. “Serifar, would you find me some clothes? I should have one spare set left in my saddlebags. They might be dirty, though.”

“I’ll see.” Serifar ran off. He was always running, now that his legs were healed.

“May I ask you a question?” said the priest.

“Sure, though I won’t promise to answer.”

“I’ve heard your story from your son and your... friend, but --”

“Stop there. He’s just my friend. Not my significant-pause friend.”

“Very well. Anyway, they both assure me that you resolved to kill every last bandit in this stretch of the wood, and that you had assuredly succeeded. That bundle of weapons certainly supports their belief. They give me various reasons why you’d do such a thing. Because you’re a good person. Because it was the right thing to do. Because you’re a hero. Because -- and this rings true to me -- you had slain one of their scouts, and feared an ambush if you didn’t bring the fight to them. But there’s a problem with the timing. You knew where the bandits were -- and that they were not on your path. You knew they couldn’t discover your direction even if they found the scout’s body right away, which was unlikely. If you’d simply run, you could have avoided this.” He tapped a bandage that crossed Kastor’s chest, bringing a wince from him. “There’s something else going on here. And I think it involves this interesting irregularity in your aura.”

“Irregularity.” Kastor frowned. “Describe, please.”

“It looks a little like a geas, and a little like a holy knight’s divine mandate, except that it neither propels nor changes you. It’s as if some god has simply stamped you ‘Mine’ and then left you alone. This mark smells a little of beast musk and fresh blood, and a little like a tomb. I’m not altogether sure I want something like that in my parish.”

Kastor was silent for a long moment. He hadn’t detected any such thing about himself. At last he echoed, “A tomb?”

“Indeed. Old death and silence.”

“I don’t... well. That’s just odd. As for the other, if you need something to call me in your report to the Pantheonist heirarchs, the phrase is Rhuun na Nagn. The Hunter’s Hound -- claimed by the god, I guess, but just a dog for all that. I detected his meddling and reasoned that I’d better do the job, because if he had to resort to stronger persuasion it could put Charis in danger. That resolved, if I was going to do it, I had to do it right then, while I had some idea where to find my quarry.”

“I see,” the priest said slowly. “Something along the lines of a holy knight, except sworn for the neutral gods of the plainsmen.”

“Neutral?”

“Indeed. You disagree?”

“No, I suppose they are, at least if you’re not of the people. Look, don’t go spreading this around, all right? I’d really rather not be famous.”

“As you wish. But it seems rather... un-canine, if you’ll forgive me, to simply rush in and lay about you.”

“I didn’t.” After a pause, Kastor grinned. “At least, not until I ran out of arrows.” He didn’t feel like sharing the way the feaheledd had taken him, forcing him to fight even when it would have been wiser to run. He’d planned to dart in, take a few, then melt into the wood, drawing them into ambushes one by one. But some sneaky bastard had stuck a knife in his back, deep in so he could feel it scrape between the bones, and he’d gone off his head. I pretty much blew it. I’m lucky to be alive.

He revised that to lucky beyond all right or belief when Charis came in ahead of Serifar, bearing clean clothing and a proud grin. The boy rushed to throw his arms around Kastor’s neck. He hugged too hard, and it hurt, but Kastor didn’t make a sound. This was the first time he’d really embraced his son. He wasn’t about to make it stop.

Charis was subject to no such sentiment. He pulled back after only a moment, and Kastor made himself let go. Charis was grinning and full of excitement. “Serifar says the priest said you can get up now. Now can you tell us what happened? I knew you’d win, so I wasn’t worried, but Serifar was going nuts, you should’ve seen him, he was like this --” He made a goggle-eyed dope-face. “I was just normal though, I went all over the farm and saw everything, and the place where you can jump in the hay, and the baby pigs, and --”

“You really weren’t worried about me?”

Charis studied the ceiling. “Maybe a little.”

“Well, I’m getting dressed now, but I think I’ll need a grownup to help me. Not that you’re not a muscleman, kid, but you’re just too short.”

“I’ll do it,” said the priest. “Shut the door, child.”

Charis reached for it. Serifar turned bright pink and ran out of the room. Charis hesitated a moment, then shrugged and pushed the door shut.



It was embarrassing to have to lean on the priest to walk. He didn’t want to admit how much his head was spinning. His ears were roaring, too.

But the roaring turned out to be voices. Dozens of them. He’d asked to be taken to meet the people whose house he was in, but it seemed they’d invited friends. And the friends had invited friends. The big room, apparently designed for gatherings, was packed full of people, all of them talking at once. They fell silent in a wave as he came in, and parted before him. Everyone was looking at him. Though he knew he’d laugh at himself for it later, he tried to straighten up and walk with a bit of dignity.

As he wobbled through the room, murmurs followed him. Mumbled blessings, mostly, and hopes for his recovery. The parting in the crowd reached his destination: a cushioned chair by the fireside. Beside it on the floor was the bundle of weapons.

He gave a quiet groan. “Do I really have to tell the story now?” He’d meant it to be a whisper, but his throat was too tight, and it came out sort of squeaky, and everyone heard it. To compensate, he refused to give voice to his pain as he lowered himself into the chair. Once he was sitting, it wasn’t too bad; it was just some of the stabs in his stomach region, the muscle was no good there. He allowed himself a long breath of relief, and lifted his face to meet the eyes of -- law’s teeth, there must have been forty of them!

He tried to smile. “Hello.”

An uneven murmur went through the room; people too polite not to reply, not sure they were invited to speak.

“So, um, the priest tells me everybody wants to know how -- you know.” He nudged the bundle with his toes.

Murmur that sounded like agreement.

“The thing is, see, I’m really not good at crowds, and -- um. I’ll try. But it’s very distracting. Do you all live here?”

A big, bearded fellow with salt-and-pepper hair stepped forward and offered his hand. “I’m Marten. This is my farm. Not everyone in this room lives here on the farm, though a lot of them do. The rest came up from the village to see what the fuss was about. Most have been coming every day, waiting for you to be ready to tell your story. I guess we all want to be sure. Those sav-- well, whoever’s been in the wood all this time -- they’ve been a problem for close on two years now. It’s not easy to believe they’re really gone.”

Kastor nodded. “Makes sense. And I can’t guarantee that I made it all better. I can tell you, of the group that was camped together that particular night, not a single one escaped. I don’t know if that was the only band.”

“I assume these are their weapons.”

“That’s right. I think some little stuff fell out while I was carrying it. That’s most of it, though.”

“Why did you bother dragging this all back? The shape you were in, you were having enough trouble without that.”

“Proof.” He looked from Marten to the circle of faces behind him, then back. “I heard you start to say ‘savages’. I’m thinking you meant Kyri.”

“Right. Those wild horsemen up north. It’s known they come riding down to loot and pillage whenever they like.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not actually like that, but the point is that these bandits had you thinking they were Kyri, and I brought this stuff back to show it’s a lie. Go on and open it. You’ll see that there are several quivers. Each one contains a lot of arrows of Nestrian make, and one or two Kyri arrows. All the weapons are clearly Nestrian, except for one small bow. A girl’s bow, as it happens. These bandits captured a Kyri girl, about --” he looked around, and pointed -- “about her age, killed her, and used her arrows to implicate her kinsmen in crimes they didn’t commit. I’d like that bow when you’re done looking at it, if you don’t mind. The rest, do whatever you like with them.”

Marten gave him a wry look. “Not good at crowds.”

Kastor felt his ears go hot. He just shook his head.

“What do you plan to do with the bow?”

“Pray for her. The girl they killed. Her ghost is probably furious.”

There was a bit of edging back, but Marten didn’t budge. “There’s a priest standing right next to you. Why not have him do the praying?”

“It’s the Hunter and Herder who can soothe her ghost, not some foreign Pantheon. We savages are particular about that sort of thing.”

A murmur swelled. Marten frowned thougtfully. “I was wondering about that. What you are. But I’ve seen northern traders go through, and they’re dark. You’re white.”

“Nevertheless I am Kyri. Kastor Auberlane, at your service. And helpless. If you don’t believe me, if you still think those bandits were my countrymen, now’s the time to take me down.” He spread his hands, inviting them to take a shot.

There was a long pause. Then Lily, one of his most frequent nurses, stepped forward. “Don’t be silly,” she said, loud and clear so everyone could hear it. “If you had aught against us, you wouldn’t have left your son in our hands for three days. Besides, I know the truth when I hear it.”

Her word swayed the group. Shortly, Kastor was surrounded by people wanting to clasp his hand or pat his shoulder. As far as he could tell, this meant he’d done what the Hunter wanted. And was this his pat on the head? His marrow bone under the table? He didn’t enjoy it.

He tried to smile for them. He tried to nod in all the right places, managed some polite replies, held himself down in the chair and didn’t bolt. But there were too many of them. Too many faces, too much noise. He felt himself on the verge of panic. He knew his smile was turning a bit hysterical. What was going to happen if they kept crowding him -- was he going to go off and kill them? Not in the shape he was in, but he was afraid he might try. He sank back further and further into the chair, smiling and nodding, teeth gritted.

“That’s enough.” The priest forged in, pushing people back. “He’s barely strong enough to be out of bed. He doesn’t need all this excitement.”

Whether because of this or because they’d finished gawking, the well-wishers tapered off. Someone took the bundle of weapons away, perhaps to spread the word. Once he was no longer being crowded and clamored at, Kastor was able to relax a bit and make small talk with the people who remained. He let them do most of the talking. Whenever they seemed to be getting curious about him, he’d make them explain something about the way the farm was run, or get some old woman going on about her grandchildren. Sometimes Charis or Serifar would come to sit at his feet for a while, but once assured he was still alive they wandered off again. The rest of the day passed in this manner. As evening fell, supper was brought to him: roast beef on noodles, the first real food he’d had in most of a week. He wolfed it down.

Within minutes, it came back up again.

He was too mortified to mind the ache in his gut, at first. He apologized to the ones cleaning it up, and to Marten, and then to some people he couldn’t remember whether he’d apologized to yet. It occurred to him that he’d become less than lucid. The priest was tugging at his arm.

“Come here, lad, I can’t lift you if you don’t help.”

Kastor gratefully settled his less-injured arm around the priest’s shoulders and moved to sit up -- and pain tore him in half and scattered the pieces. He was distantly alarmed to watch himself fall to his knees, arms wrapped around his middle. His teeth creaked as he ground them together.

The priest was on one knee beside him, muttering. Gradually the pain subsided. Kastor gulped back his panting, rubbed his sleeve across his eyes.

“All right. I’m fine now. Let’s try again.”

“Not so fast.” The priest began undoing the buttons of his shirt.

“Hey! Is it really necessary -- people are looking!”

“Hush. This is no time to be embarrassed.” Pushing Kastor’s shirt aside, the priest inspected his torso, prodded the sore place. Kastor caught his breath sharply.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “It didn’t hurt that much going in. Well, all right, it never does, but even after, when I couldn’t move --”

“Couldn’t move?” Marten was beside him as well. “But you walked here.”

“That was later. Took me about, hmm, twenty minutes to kill the bandits. Half hour, tops. Then I had to lie down for a while.”

“For three days?”

“I think you’ll find it was technically two.”

The priest looked up at Marten with a solemn face. “Help me lift him. It’s a risk to move him, but he can’t stay here.”

Kastor looked between them. “What? What is it? I feel better. Really.”

“Your wounds have gone septic. The fever prevented the infection from spreading. Now it’s gaining momentum. Just relax, don’t try to help us.”

They carried him back to bed, still in a sitting position, letting him sag between them. It was embarrassing. When he was laid flat, stretching his abdomen, the pain was unbelievable. There was some cutting, and a bad smell, and a lot of praying. Then the pain went away, and so did he.



You could see for miles from up here. It was his favorite spot. He could sit here for hours, days, watching the wind roll across the grass. The plains stretched below him, gaudy with summer. Green and gold and purple and white. They went on forever. Far away, miles away, a herd of wild horses raised dust. He thought if he could stay here forever, that would be fine.

“But you won’t, not yet. I know you.”

He turned, and was not surprised to see Mikah sitting beside him. Mikah leaned back on one hand, looking out over the endless plain with those wise, laughing eyes, amber like an autumn moon, strands of golden hair escaped from his braid to fray around his golden face...

Kastor sighed. “You’re not you. I’d love to think you’re real, a ghost, a message from the otherworld. But you don’t exist anymore. Your personality was melted down for scrap -- that’s what you said.”

“I’m not, but at the same time I am.”

“And just as cryptic as ever.” Kastor couldn’t help smiling.

“Not quite. I’m you as well, and you were never good at cryptic. In fact, you stink at it. Which means I’m very likely to tell you why we’re talking, some time before the dream’s over. Isn’t that comforting?”

“I knew this was a dream. Unusually lucid, though. And I feel fine, I’m calm. That’s not normal. When does the blood and screaming start?”

Mikah shook his head. “This is more on the order of a holy vision. Weren’t you expecting one?”

“Any minute. Yeah.”

“If blood and screaming would make you feel more at home, it could be arranged, but I’d think it would be distracting.”

“Probably. Let’s give it a miss. This childhood-reminiscence thing is better.”

“Childhood --? When in your childhood did you see Canagh na Ddheru with your own eyes, Kastor?”

He raised an eyebrow. “My favorite cliff is in the afterlife? Here, look.” He had to hunt for it a bit, but he brushed away grass and dust to show his initials carved into the soft sandstone.

“I suppose you brought that here. Just like you brought me. I’m built from your memory of Mikah, and the part of you that was like him. It wouldn’t have worked, you know. You would’ve been at each other’s throats again within a year.”

“I think it would have lasted longer.”

“But you know your ‘eternal love’ was very temporary.”

“Everything is.”

“You probably would’ve been the one to break it off.”

“I would’ve liked to have a choice. Look, what is this about? I can’t stay asleep forever. Or -- well.” He frowned at the idealized Sei spread before him. “Guess I could, though that’s not really up to me. Unless it is. Is this one of those death-dreams you hear about, where figures from your past appear to tell you it’s not your time? Because if you start saying, ‘Fight, Kastor, you must live!’ --”

“Nah.” Mikah put a stem of grass between his teeth. He draped his arms over his knees. The posture looked odd on him. It was one of Kastor’s poses, that slump, all graceless and lazy. He talked around the grass, another thing Mikah would not have done. “You’re going to live. That healer’s going to break himself trying to save you if he has to. Man gets too involved. That’s why he got a parish way out in buttfuck nowhere. You should see what they’re doing to you. There’s about a pint of septic ooze coming out of your guts right now.”

“You’re getting less and less Mikah-like with every word that comes out of your mouth.”

A resigned sigh. Chewed grass tossed over the cliff edge. “I’m rotten at this. But I figured you wouldn’t listen if I had my own face on.”

“You might want to find out, right about now,” Kastor drawled. “Because I really hate when people play headgames with me. It makes me mad.”

“Mm, and I wouldn’t like you when you’re mad, I know. Here goes.” Not-Mikah shook his head sharply, and somewhere in that moment he became she. Golden hair turned black, fell short around a face that was white and sharp-chinned and pale-eyed. She gave Kastor a smile exactly like his own. Her eyes were blue, not gray; other than that, it was like seeing himself made female.

“What is this?”

“This is a girl. You’ve heard of them, right?”

“Before I wake up, if you please. Can’t be much time left.”

“Actually, you might be comatose indefinitely. But you’re right, I shouldn’t count on it. I’m -- damn.” She snapped her fingers in mock disappointment. “Can’t tell you yet. So sorry. Can’t tell you who I’m speaking for, either. No, not him.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“And not her either. You’re the one who’s half Kyri, I’m not. And, damn again, I can’t tell you about the other half.”

“So, what, you’re just getting rid of excess words?”

She grinned. “I like you. No, I have something to tell you, and it’s going to sound like orders but it’s just good advice.” She grew serious. “Ditch your baggage.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your dependents. The little kid and mister puppy love. Get them out of your life as soon as possible. Break speed records. Say bye, wave, and run.”

“Because?”

“Because every nasty in the hemisphere is on your ass as we speak. Some move faster than others. Some started closer. Most don’t know why they’ve got an urge to move. They probably won’t hit you all at once. But they will keep coming.”

“Ah.” Kastor pressed his lips together. After a moment he nodded. “I thought the road was unusually... interesting. Care to tell me why?”

“Probably this.” She reached for him, but stopped when he raised his hand to block her. “Ah. No touching? That key, then. The one that was still hanging around your neck when you were stripped butt-naked and washed like a corpse. They took out your earrings, but that dangly necklace is still on you. Strike you odd?”

“They couldn’t see it?”

“They couldn’t touch it. Can’t be removed without your consent. Anyone who took it by slaying you would be horribly cursed. Not everybody knows that, though, and you may not get a chance to explain. If you keep drag-assing along at this pace, somebody’s going to get empirical on you.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the -- ah, damn again, can’t tell you that either. Don’t you hate this ‘all in due time’ shit? My boss does it old style, though, so I gotta too.”

“Fine. Call me paranoid, but it crosses my mind that you might want to get me away from -- well, Serifar’s useless, so -- Charis. Get him away from my protection.”

“Which is so effective right now.”

“Better than none.”

“Not as good as being with his mum. She’s got an army. You’ve got a gut wound and an anger problem. We’re not saying leave him now, we’re saying get him somewhere safe, and then take your trouble-magnet self far away from him.”

“And could you do something about these impediments? The gut wound and the anger problem?”

“In theory. I’ll have to check. It still won’t be enough to protect your kid.”

“Why do you and your mysterious boss care about him?”

She shrugged. “He’s in the plans, but not until he’s grown, and we intend to ask nicely. Mostly it’s you. If he got killed while under your protection, you’d -- well, I guess you’d know better than me. Insanity leading to homicidal mayhem? Or just suicide?”

“And you care about me because...?”

“’Cause you’re such a nice guy, Kas.”

“Only my friends get to call me that.”

“I’m an exception.” She stood, dusting off her backside. Instead of the clothes he’d imagined Mikah in, she was now dressed in what must have been her own clothing. Canvas workmen’s trousers, sagging from her skinny hips; broken-down boots, mostly unlaced; a shirt worn out at the elbows, half-unbuttoned to show the complete lack of cleavage on her flat chest. She thrust her thumbs in her belt and rocked back on her heels.

After a while, Kastor said, “And?”

Another shrug. “That’s all. Awkward, huh?”

“I could ask more questions. See if we can find some you can answer.”

“Sure. Fire away.”

“Why Mikah?”

“Your brain did that. You wanted him to be here. When I tried to slip in under your defenses, there he was.”

“You knew quite a bit about our relationship.”

“Can’t say. But the fact that you wouldn’t have lasted, that was my own insight.” She shook her head sadly; he couldn’t tell if it was sincere. “Broke my heart, watching that come down on you.”

“Why? We don’t know each other. What’s your interest?”

“Can’t say.”

“Can you at least tell me your name?”

She thought for a moment, then brightened. “Yes, I believe I can. It’s Irina. Irina Suneater. It’s all right if you forget, I’ll remind you when we meet again.”

“Aw, hell. You mean you’re going to be comandeering my dreams on a regular basis?”

“Not if you do right. If you see me, you can probably assume you’re screwing up in some way.”

“Lovely.”

“Ask another.”

“How come you picked Canagh na Ddheru as a setting? Or did I pick that?”

“Hm. Not sure if I can answer. Maybe a hint’s allowed. It --” She glanced around, as if someone had tapped her shoulder. Turning back to him, she gave an apologetic shrug. “That’s the bell. Time’s up. Gotta go.”



Pain punched him in the gut, and his eyes flew open. He sucked in a burning lungful of air, then expelled it in an indignant yell. “Hey!” And when the pain was still there, “You want this shit done or not?”

Serifar’s sugary voice in his ear, coinciding with head-petting. “Ssh, it’s all right now.” The priest, weary: “I hope that will be enough. Any more, and --”

And suddenly there was cold. Searing cold, unbelievable cold that numbed thought as well as skin, and a wind that tore the blanket from him and threw furniture against the wall.

Serifar flung himself protectively across Kastor, wrapping arms around his head, but that same moment the wind stopped, leaving the room merely chilly. Kastor grunted annoyance and shoved Serifar off. He raised himself on one elbow to probe at his abdomen. Nothing hurt. Looking for the priest, he found the man sitting splay-legged on the floor like a doll. Kastor grinned at him.

“Not bad.”

The priest worked his mouth a few times before he managed to whisper, “I didn’t do that.”

“Well, I didn’t think you did the wind, but -- uh.” Reality caught up with him all at once. Dream. Yelling. Wind. Serifar annoyingly hugging his head with arms, plural. “That wasn’t. Um. I didn’t. It. The.” He sucked in a long breath. He summoned a smile and a shrug. “Gods. Go figure.”

There was a giggle from Serifar’s corner. He was turning his hands over, comparing them to each other. The new one was cleaner. The shoulder seam of his shirt was ripped. He had a manic expression on his face, and it was growing wilder by the second. His next laugh sounded outright insane. It occurred to Kastor that if the Mara indulged in any crazy behavior, people could get hurt.

“Serifar. Serifar, look at me. That’s right. Take a deep breath. Are you breathing at all? Breathe. We have reason to be happy. This is good. But there’s no urgency. You don’t have to feel it all at once.”

“Ah.” The Mara took a shuddering breath. “Sorry. I’m fine now.” But he looked at his hand again and giggled.

At that moment, pretty much the whole household tried to get through the door in a mob, demanding to know what had happened. Kastor covered his lap with the pillow. “Excuse me! Naked!”

The priest had recovered himself a little. He went to fend off the crowd. “I don’t know what happened,” he told them. “I’m going to find out. It’s over now, whatever it was. Everybody out. You too, boy.” He gestured for Serifar to leave.

“But -- but I’m mysteriously healed too!”

“But you didn’t make it happen. Did you.”

“Um. No.” Serifar went to the door. On the way, he glanced at the pillow, then hastily averted his eyes. As he left, his ears were bright pink.

Great. So he’s figured out that concept now. Because this wasn’t enough for me to worry about.

There was a stirring in the hallway, people startling and looking down. Charis, elbowing and shoving, fought his way through and into the room like a cork out of a bottle. “Da! Da, are you all right?”

“Yes,” Kastor said firmly. “I’m fine.”

“Out,” the priest ordered.

“Give him a second, will you? Charis, I’m better than fine, I’m healed. Now this fellow wants to ask me a lot of questions I can’t answer, and I think we should do it in private. I’ll talk to you shortly, and I’ll tell you everything. All right?”

“Yeah, but...” Charis backed a step. “You’re really fine?”

“Really.”

With a satisfied nod, Charis allowed himself to be ushered out of the room. Through the closed door, Kastor could hear him piping orders. “Move away! No listening at the door! It’s rude!”

Kastor chuckled. “I love that kid.”

“Yes, he’s charming,” the priest said dryly. “But I think we have something rather important to discuss, so if we could focus...?”

“Won’t help. I don’t know what that was either.”

“To whom were you calling out, when you woke?”

“Some girl in my dream. I --” He paused. It crossed his mind that he didn’t know enough to know whether he wanted to share. He finished, “I don’t know who she was.”

“Do you think her responsible for your healing?”

“Beats me. I guess I did when I was half-conscious. Must’ve got mixed in with the idea that a god wants things from me that I’m -- was -- in no shape to do.”

“Like what?”

“None of your business, chum.”

“I beg your pardon. I’m just concerned for the safety of my parishioners.”

“Yeah. I know that kind of concern.” Kastor gave a mirthless smile. “That kind of concern is what sent poor Serifar out on the road with us when he was in no shape to be moved. ‘Oh, we don’t mean to be rude, we’re good people really, but could you take your problems far away before we start to feel bad about not helping?’ Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I get my horse saddled and my kid finds his shoes.” He frowned. “Which might be a while. He loses them.”

“That’s a little unfair, don’t you think? You’ve recieved a great deal of help from Marten and his family.”

“Uh-huh. And do you see my purse anywhere? Had forty-six pieces of gold in it. I wonder what it contains now.”

“There’s no call to be so cynical. These people --”

“Might be the exception to the rule. I know. I’m not saying they’re bad. I don’t even care about the money that much. It’s just -- my trust is finite, do you understand? I trust you to do your duty with a good will, and generally be a good guy. But I’m not going to hand you a garbled mess of information I don’t understand myself, which could easily be interpreted to mean I’m a baddie, and a danger to you and yours, and should be put down like a dog. I don’t think you’d come to that conclusion. But if you did, you wouldn’t be the first.”

The priest gave him a hard stare, but finally nodded. “If you do decide any of it is safe with me, I’d be honored if you’d tell me. I advise against leaving tonight. The light’s gone, and there’s a cold snap setting in.”

The sense of urgency the dream had given him warred with his reluctance to subject Charis to another night ride. Reluctance won. “All right. Give me a second to get dressed before you let people swarm me, will you?”

“Of course.”

Kastor stripped off the bandages. He wasn’t surprised to see the unmarked skin beneath; he’d felt it. He pulled on his clothes quickly. He was buttoning his shirt when an idea made him pause. “While you were barraging me with questions, why didn’t you ask me about the key?”

The priest smiled. “What key?” He winked.

“Hey. Whoa. You know more than -- hey!”

But the priest had opened the door, and it was crowd time again.



Things finally quieted just before midnight, when the last yawning neighbors gathered up their sleeping children to go home. No one had gotten any answers about the mysterious, miraculous healing, but they seemed oddly comfortable with that. The gods moved in strange ways; it wasn’t given to mortals to understand.

Claiming weariness, Kastor finally pried Marten’s granddaughter Caril off him and shut himself in for the night. He sat down on the bed, waiting for the faint sound of indecisive footsteps to stop crossing in front of his door. The girl was trying to decide whether to have a go at seducing him. She’d been awkwardly trying to flirt all evening, whenever her parents let her get near enough. Kastor wasn’t about to undress until the kid gave up, whether she did it on her own or he had to chase her away.

At last, though, she gave an almost inaudible sigh and pattered away. Maybe to her own bed like a good girl. Maybe to have a try at Serifar; for all her hand-grabbing and eye-batting with Kastor, she’d actually flushed when Serifar came near her. In which case Kastor could only wish her a thick skin.

He blew out the candle, and sat there in the dark. He felt no inclination to lie down in that bed again. It smelled of sickness. He wasn’t tired; he’d never felt so awake in his life. He stood up to pace. He paced back and forth for an hour, thinking, but to no effect. The brain worked better when the legs were going, everybody knew that, so why was he no closer to making sense of things?

Claustrophobia was setting in. He’d been indoors far too long. He didn’t know where they’d put his cloak, but he doubted he’d be impressed with what these people would call a cold snap. They were practically at sea level here. Quietly, so as not to wake up any sources of questions, he slipped down the hall and out the front door.

The cold took his breath away. The insides of his nostrils froze. His eyeballs went stiff.

It felt like home. It felt like his birthday.

He went back in and pawed at the garments hanging in the entry until he found his cloak. He didn’t recognize it at first; it should have been full of holes and stiff with blood, but it had been washed and mended. Settling it around himself, pulling its warmth close, he went back outside. This time, when the wind flensed his face, it left the rest of him alone. That was more like right. Now he was happy. Raising his chin, he took a deep breath, letting icy air stab at his lungs. It wasn’t the pain of cold that felt good, exactly; more the knowlege that he was withstanding it, unchanged by it. It wiped away all confusion and sloppy sentiment. The night was all black and white, sharp lines; fence and snow.

And someone standing by the fence in the snow. Standing so still that Kastor thought at first he was imagining details on a scarecrow, but as his eyes adjusted he changed his mind. He only knew one person who could be out here in his shirtsleeves and not be dancing with shivers; well, only one who was in the vicinity. He made no effort to be quiet as he approached, and when he’d come within a few yards the Mara turned to look at him.

“Hello, Serifar.”

“Um. Hello.” Flushed cheeks again; maybe just from the cold.

“I guess once you’re healed, you don’t need to sleep.”

“I guess.”

“Now you’ve got two arms, what are you going to do?”

Serifar gave him a confused look. “Scratch my head and my ass at the same time?”

Startled, Kastor laughed. “Where’d you learn to talk like that?”

“You.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“I know what you mean. You mean, how am I going to make myself useful. I don’t know. I have no skills. Maybe I should do what Lily thought. Though it sounds undignified.”

“What?”

“The word was bumboy. She also said catamite.”

Kastor sighed. “I guess I should get mad at her. But that kind of thing does cross people’s minds, especially if you turn fuschia every time something reminds you that there are parts of me below my neck.”

Serifar illustrated the point by flushing again.

“You were totally innocent before we came here. Was it Lily who gave you those ideas?”

“I didn’t know what she was talking about. But I saw a boy and a girl in the barn one night. She was -- and there was -- it was scary.” He ducked his head. “I was afraid to ask you about this. I wasn’t going to. But it’s easier than I expected. I thought you might be mad at me.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. Turning fuschia.”

“Serifar, you were born full grown -- that’s got to complicate things. Humans get twelve or fourteen years to come to grips with ideas like walking and talking and other people, before the lust monster eats our brains. Which, by the way, don’t grow back until about age twenty-three, and even then there are bits missing. That’s a metaphor,” he added, because Serifar had started looking horrified.

“Oh. Metaphor.” Serifar shook his head as if to clear it. “I see your point. I’m not ready to feel what I’m feeling.”

“That’s right.”

“But I am feeling it, all the time and more than I can stand, I can’t believe I’m standing here talking to you because I’m afraid every second I’m going to try to kiss you and then you’ll never speak to me again and the snow’s not cold enough!” He gave a little hiccup that sounded like a prelude to bursting into tears.

Kastor hastened to soothe him before the bawling started. “It’s all right, Serifar, calm down, remember what I said? You don’t have to feel it all at once. You can take the time to step back and look at -- mf!” That last was because Serifar had grabbed him by the arms and kissed him.

It was an awkward kiss, involving bumped noses and teeth banging together, and Serifar let go before Kastor had to shove him off. The Mara looked at the ground, hand to mouth, cheeks flaming.

“Sorry. I couldn’t stop myself.”

Kastor was shaking, but it wasn’t with desire. “Serifar, listen to the words that are coming out of you. A Mara who can’t stop himself from taking what he wants -- what does that sound like to you?”

“What? I -- no!” Serifar backed up, eyes wide. “I wouldn’t -- I didn’t --”

“Mean to hurt me?” Kastor daubed at his lower lip where Serifar’s teeth had cut him. There wasn’t enough blood to make his point very well, but he held out his streaked fingers anyway.

“Oh gods.” Serifar’s voice was tiny, his shoulders hunched. “I’m so sorry. I’m so...” He took another step back.

“Stop right there,” Kastor commanded. “If you want to do right, stay and listen. Don’t run off and guilt yourself into a stupor. That never helps. Been there. Come on, come back.” He held out his hand.

“But what if I do something else bad?”

“That’s simple: don’t. Have you never stopped yourself from doing something you wanted to do?”

Serifar mutely shook his head.

“Never wanted to do anything you shouldn’t, huh?”

A nod.

“Don’t blame yourself. Everybody has to learn it sooner or later. It’s just that most people learn it when they’re still too small to harm anyone. Whereas you, my friend, are strong enough to pop my arms out of their sockets without breaking a sweat.”

“But I wouldn’t -- I don’t want -- you said friend. We’re still friends?”

“Yes. We’re still friends.”

For an awkward minute, Serifar hovered on the edge of speaking, and Kastor let him dither. Eventually he producd a sentence: “What must I do?”

“Think before you act. Be ready to deny your desires if you have to. That’s all.”

“You mean that I shouldn’t... do what I want. With you.”

“Depends on what you want. If what you want is to grab me without asking again, yeah, don’t do that.”

Hope dawned. “But if I ask?”

“Then you have to respect my answer. Which might be no.”

“Oh. Um.” Serifar twisted his hands together, looking away. He took a deep breath, let it out. Dared to meet Kastor’s eyes. “Will you please kiss me?”

Kastor was how proud of how steady his voice was. “That depends. Do you think you’re in love with me?”

Serifar’s face lit up. “Yes! I love you!”

“Then no.”

A puzzled pause. Slowly the joy drained from the Mara’s violet eyes. “No?”

“No. If you think you’re in love, you won’t be satisfied with a kiss. You’ll want more, and I can’t give that to you. It’s better if I don’t get you started.”

“Wait a second.” Serifar was beginning to look angry. “You mean, if I’d said no, I don’t care for you, you’d be in my arms right now? That’s twisted!”

Kastor swallowed hard, took a breath to still himself. Anger looked so very good on Serifar. If he’d just ditch that blushing-flower routine altogether -- no, bad thought, get a grip. “If it was just friendship for you, like it is for me, then I might be all right with teaching you how. So you don’t knock the teeth out of whoever you end up with.”

“That’s not funny.” Serifar glowered. “And it’s not fair!”

“You know what’s funny? Nevbelis said the same thing when Mikah stopped him from killing me.”

Serifar took a sharp breath. He stopped blushing; went well past that and blanched as white as the snow at his feet.

“I’m sorry,” said Kastor. “I don’t like saying no to you. I feel protective, see, I want to shelter you. Because to me, you’re a child.” He let his voice soften, finally, the way he’d wanted to this whole conversation. “You’re just a baby, Serifar. Don’t rush yourself. Don’t ask me to rush you.”

The Mara closed his eyes and bowed his head. Slowly, he nodded. When he looked up again, his eyes were bright with unshed tears, but there were no sniffles, no quivering lip or crumped chin. “Is a hug allowed?”

“Yes. A hug’s allowed.” Kastor held out his arms. Serifar collided with his chest nearly hard enough to knock him over, and huddled there, clinging around Kastor’s waist. Kastor held him, rubbed his back, petted his hair. All what you would do for a sad child. That was all right, wasn’t it?

He just knew this was going to bother him later.

Eventually, Serifar’s grip loosened. The Mara stepped back, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He looked at his wet cuff and gave a sniffling laugh. “It froze.”

“Are you going to be all right now?”

Serifar nodded. “Despite all this awkwardness, I have to say I’m glad I talked to you. It helped me make my decision.”

“Decision?”

“When you and Charis part ways -- I couldn’t stand the thought of being without either one of you. I love you both so much. Not like that, I mean, not Charis, you know what I mean. Don’t you?”

Smiling, Kastor nodded. “Yeah, I know. But it’s not so good for you to get that attached to either of us.”

“You’re wrong. It’s the best thing. By trying to be good to a friend, I’ll learn how to be good to everyone. I believe that. But... I wouldn’t learn anything, trailing around after you, begging for what you won’t give me. It would embarrass both of us.”

“I agree,” said Kastor, trying not to show his surprise. From impending tantrum to apparent maturity in three seconds -- Mara. Insane, every one of them.

“Besides, Charis could use a friend. And I get the feeling that you don’t want any.”

“That’s... ah... uncomfortably insightful of you.”

“Yes. So I’ll go with him. I know --” he held up a hand to stop comment -- “the Kyri don’t welcome foreigners. But the occasional foreign servant is tolerated. I gathered this from Charis’s stories. He’s the queen’s son; he should be allowed to have a servant of his own choosing.”

“Do you know what being a servant entails? Do you understand that people will order you around, treat you as if you’re not there --”

“I know. I don’t mind. I’ll outlive their entire civilization. I can afford to take orders for a while.”

Kastor nodded. This new self-assurance of Serifar’s was far too attractive. If he reversed his refusal, though, it would all go to hell; besides, he really didn’t want to be with anyone. Still, it was very difficult to smile and say, “I think that’s a good idea. Maybe someday you can visit me.”

“Maybe.” Serifar tried on a mysterious look, but it broke down into a bright laugh. “Definitely. Someday I’ll find you and ask again. Is that all right with you?”

“Sure.”

“You should go in. You’re mortal enough to freeze, I think.”

“We leave at dawn.”

“I’ll be ready.”

Inside, Kastor must have made some noise hanging up his cloak, because Marten came stumbling out in a nightshirt, clutching an axe handle. When he saw Kastor, he blinked at him for a while, then muttered, “Why were you outside?”

“Because I felt like it. Go back to bed, friend.”

The farmer came closer instead, brows knit. “Were you meeting Caril in the barn? I know what that girl gets up to.”

Kastor raised an eyebrow. “Well, I didn’t. Know, I mean. Or meet her. Can’t you just lock the child in her room or something?”

After a moment, Marten broke into a grin. “And spoil her chances of leading Ned to the altar? Not likely.”

Kastor chuckled politely, but once he was in his room, he allowed himself a long shudder. Farmers. Fifteen-year-old girls. Blow jobs in the barn. Not for me to judge, but I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere near here.

Oh gods, I can’t believe I got hard from having my teeth bashed in by a four-year-old Mara. It is really, really time for me to get my head straight. Whether that Irina girl meant me well or ill, and whether she was telling the truth or not, she was right about one thing. I can’t take care of anyone. I have to get them to safety and then run the other way.

I just wish I knew who she was working for. It wasn’t the Hunter, that’s for sure. She was speaking Semnian.