09



Kastor was in the horse barn, readying their mounts, when Marten found him. The old farmer was carrying a bundle of straps and leather, with hilts sticking out.

“Ah, there it is,” Kastor said, taking it. “I was going to ask, but I didn’t think you’d be up yet.”

“Milking.”

“Thought you’d leave that to the hired hands.”

“Nah. Got used to it. It’s nice, in the winter. Warm barn, sleepy cows. I guess a... a gentleman like you wouldn’t know.”

Kastor answered absently while checking over his armor. “You’re right about not knowing, but it’s because I was a nobody at that age. Milking is kids’ work, with us. For that, your parents have to own livestock.” He glanced up, grinning at the skeptical look on Marten’s face. “Also, no barn.”

“A nobody, you say. You’re someone now, I’d wager. We were all set to cut up your armor for mending tack, but when we cleaned it off, it wasn’t near as bad as it looked. And today --”

“Healed. Yep. It’s magic.”

“And the swords? Never seen metal black like that.”

“Them too.”

“And that necklace we couldn’t get off you.”

Kastor’s grin faltered. “I wouldn’t advise talking that around. I hope you haven’t already.”

Marten solemnly shook his head. “It doesn’t do for simple folks like us to go messing with magic. You brought too much of it with you. Not that we’re not grateful for you cleaning out those thieves in the wood. We are. I talked it out with my wife and sons, and...” He held out Kastor’s belt pouch. “Here. You don’t owe us anything. It’s all in there. You can count it if you want, I won’t be offended.”

“In that case, I will.” Kastor took out the bag with the money and emptied it onto a workbench by the door. He sorted the small change from the gold, started making piles of five. “Maybe it’s different around here, but I was taught that you always, always count the money. Otherwise, if someone made a mistake, you find out too late and you maybe think they cheated you. Makes for bad blood. If my purse was upside down in your cash box and something rolled out, it’s better we find out now, so I don’t end up thinking you’re dishonest. Because I’m sure you’re not.” Satisfied, he swept the money back into the purse, all but the last stack, which was one over. “As for not owing anything, though, I don’t feel right about that. Even a priest-healer charges for expenses, and temples always need a new roof. And you treated my boy well.”

Marten gave a wry smile. “Like a little prince.”

“That’s astute of you.” Kastor dropped six estas into Marten’s hand. “Because, in fact, he is.”

The farmer worked his mouth to no effect while Kastor donned his armor and weapons. At last Marten got the words out: “That means you... you’re...”

“Don’t get excited. Former consort to the queen. I’m not important now. But you understand why Charis is a bit proud.”

“Fact is, sir, I’m surprised he’s not prouder. He never once told us his rank, nor ordered anyone about.”

“He’s a good kid.” Kastor turned his attention back to the horses, which were ready except for the final packing of saddlebags. “Would you please wake him up for me? You’ll find Serifar already awake.”

“Yessir.” Marten knuckled his forehead before dashing away. It looked wrong on him.

Kastor asked his horse, “What do I have to do to stop them all calling me sir?”

Aunethan’s reply involved slobber.



The whole farm and half the village turned out to see them off, with the notable exception of the priest. Kastor had been able to learn -- from Charis, who’d been paying better attention -- that the man’s name was Elder Vanas. Unless Kastor remembered wrong, Elder was the highest rank one could reach in the Pantheonist priesthood without actually being a heirarch and involved in administration. It supported the dream-girl’s statement that he’d been stationed here as a kind of exile. But Kastor wasn’t able to ask him about that, or about his knowlege of the key, because he was nowhere to be seen.

After leaving the farm, they passed through the village, which was just over the next rise. They would’ve been able to see its smokes from the farmyard, if the wind hadn’t been blowing so hard. Small as it was, the village looked richer than others they’d passed through. Houses were painted, there were some windows of bullseye glass instead of oiled hide, and the temple was right there on the roadside, its dome of green copper showing up against the white sky like a fragment of summer out of place. Kastor thought that if Serifar hadn’t grown so attached to Charis, this would be a good place to leave him.

What was Alys going to think of the Mara, anyway? She was convinced that all inhumans were demonic. Maybe it would be better if Charis didn’t mention his new servant’s race. And what was the boy going to say to her? ‘He followed me home, can I keep him?’ And what if she didn’t react to Charis’s return?

He hadn’t forgotten his promise. But if the dream-girl had spoken the truth...

Why had she looked so much like him? Was that another illusion his own mind had supplied? Or... she’d said something about his other half. That she couldn’t tell. Which implied she knew. If his father was a Mara... the irresponsible bastard must’ve had centuries to sow his wild oats, and if he’d screw one witch, he’d screw another. It was very possible that Irina was a relative of his.

“Da, you look like you’re eating pickled plums.”

“What? Oh. Sorry.”

“Are you mad?”

“Not at anyone here. I’m just worried about getting you home. The road’s been unusually dangerous. If we keep up a good pace, we can make the border in three days. Probably we can pick up an escort there.” He didn’t think it was necessary to mention that the escort would likely be there as much to arrest him as to bring Charis to safety.

“We don’t need an escort, not with you here! Twenty-two bandits! Wham, pow, whoosh!” The boy’s gestures confused his horse, who sidestepped nervously, nearly crushing Serifar’s foot. The Mara jumped back with a yelp. Charis calmed immediately, controlling the mare. “Sorry, Serifar.”

“No harm done.” The Mara was walking alongside. He claimed that walking was no effort whatsoever to him, so there was no point tiring the horses by riding double.

Kastor said, “Twenty-one, actually. The scout was including himself in the count.”

“How’d you do it, Da? You promised you’d tell me everything.”

“So I did. But it’s going to be either dull or short.”

“Dull? How can it be dull?”

“Most of it was just sneaking around. Learning the area. Spent a couple hours on that. About an hour before dawn, I took out the sentries. There were only two, and they were lazy, it was no problem. I waited until it was just getting light -- they’d have more trouble seeing in the half-light than I would. I’m sure you’ve noticed how hard it is to make out details when the sky gets to be that intense indigo.”

Charis nodded eagerly. “And then you attacked?”

“Found some good cover and started picking them off with arrows. Unfortunately, it sometimes takes more than one arrow to kill a man. I tried to spread out my shots, one side of the camp and then the other, and varied the intervals so they’d think there was more than one bowman. Didn’t work, though; some clever bastard saw where I was shooting from. Got one more while they climbed the hill I was on, but I ran out of arrows.” He shrugged. “Then it was just down to hitting.”

Charis groaned. “Aw, no, Da, don’t stop there! That’s the most exciting part!”

“If you can remember it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got the first two men straight off, some fairly clean sword work on my part but nothing fancy. The third man stuck a knife in my back, and I went feahar. Don’t remember the rest of the fight at all. When I was done, I gathered up their weapons and my arrows and set off, but I didn’t make it half a mile when I had to lie down. I’d lost too much blood. Spent a while lying around. The cold helped stop the bleeding, I guess. It didn’t feel like that long, but it must’ve been near on forty-eight hours. Then I started walking north, and you know the rest.”

Charis had lost his eagerness for the story. Now he just looked blank.

Serifar said, “If you weren’t half Mara, you wouldn’t have survived it. I don’t think you should do that sort of thing anymore.”

“Wasn’t planning to. Twenty-to-one odds, bad idea; noted.”

After a while, Charis said, “Da? Were you... did you... like it? Fighting?”

Kastor considered. He could try to describe the sick joy of the rage, or he could talk about the satisfaction of a job competently done. But he thought he understood what Charis was asking. “No. I hated it. I like planning, and I like to stretch my limits, test my skills -- but I’d rather no one died in the process. Real battle can only be enjoyable if you forget the enemy is a person. I gather soldiers learn that early on. Somehow, though, I could never quite do it.”

Kastor decided that was enough solemnity. On a day like this, with a wild wind howling out of the west, morbid thoughts were a bit too appropriate. Too easy to descend into brooding and pessimism. He went on, “Of course, with monsters, you don’t have that problem. Demons, wyr, undead -- those are fun.”

“Did you ever kill a demon, Da? You said the one chased you away.”

“Sure, a smaller one, last year.” He told about the battle at the roadblock; he wouldn’t have said it was a battle exactly, but he made it one. He didn’t feel bad about spicing the story just a little, in this case. It was important that Charis understand how killing men was wretched unless you blinded yourself; it wasn’t as important that he understand how zombies were more pitiable than frightening. The boy was unlikely to ever see one, let alone an army of them.

He began to regret telling this particular tale when he got to the point where Nevbelis showed up, but if he stopped there, it would be obvious he was covering something.

“While Nevbelis was killing the cavalry captain, I’d climbed over the barricade, and I went after him. Got in a couple of really good hits on him, but it didn’t do a damn bit of good. It was like trying to chop down a tree. He picked me up with -- what do you call that stuff you Mara do?”

“Shtedtzaar,” Serifar supplied.

“So I was hanging in the air. Kicking and yowling like a cat, totally helpless.”

“Uh-oh!” Charis was excited, not scared. “What happened then?”

“Nevbelis took one of my swords, and he was just about to plunge it into my heart, when Mikah showed up. ‘You stop that right this second, boy!’ Or something like that, I can’t remember what exactly he said. He and Nevbelis fought, and Mikah bound his powers --”

“Aww, but Da, how come you had to get rescued? That’s no fun!”

A new voice spoke behind them, a honey-sweet tenor salted with scorn: “Because no mortal can stand against a Mara, little one. Don’t you know even that?”

Kastor wheeled his horse, placing himself and Aunethan between his child and the figure standing in the road. His swords were out, his heart pounding; something told him, even before he looked, that there was an immortal there, in posession of his full powers, and not friendly.

Sight confirmed it. Bronze skin, too-red hair, eyes like black glass. The Mara was dressed in layered robes of silk and velvet and heavy brocade, all scarlet and gold. Kastor’s first thought was, You poser, red and gold were Mikah’s colors.

“Da? Who’s that?” Charis’s voice was a little quavery. So he could sense that power too. Well, anyone who wasn’t utterly head-blind could.

“I don’t know,” Kastor said, “but I expect his business is with me.”

“My name is Rema,” said the Mara, “and I’ve a use for you.” He tilted his head, looking past Kastor. “Do I want hostages, I wonder?”

“No.” Kastor spoke firmly while dismounting. “No, you don’t need them, I’ll go with you. Serifar, take Aunethan.”

“But --”

“Now! Don’t argue!” Even while he yelled at them, he didn’t take his eyes off Rema. “Ride like hell. I’ll be along shortly to collect my horse.”

Rema chuckled. “Optimistic, aren’t you?”

Charis let out a yell that sounded frustrated and frightened at once. “Da, you can fight him!”

“Seg na Rhuun, Charis, vhas!”

Again that frustrated howl, but then hooves thundered.

Rema gave Kastor a slight smile as the others rode away. “You kiss your mother with that mouth? Yes, I know your language, and the dialect of Darathi it stemmed from. I dislike it, though. It sounds as if you’ve had half your teeth knocked out.” He took a step closer. “Why, it looks almost as if you plan to resist me. How cute. Do you think your helpless ones are far enough that I can’t use them against you? I wouldn’t want you to think I’m not playing fair.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Rema waved unconcern. “Let’s start with everything.”

Kastor’s fear suddenly ebbed away. This was so unreal, it was sort of funny. He unclasped his cloak and dropped it in the road, circled away from it, blades crossed. “You might have to settle for a whipping; that’s all I plan to give you.”

Rema laughed in delight.



* * *



Charis was blinded by tears, which grew cold on his face from the wind. Head down, bent over the mare’s neck, encouraging her desperate gallop with reins and heels. He’d forgotten he wasn’t supposed to use heels. All he knew was that his father was in trouble, terrible trouble, and there was nothing he could do about it. He’d felt the power coming off that creepy-looking Mara, big fat gobs of power just slopping over into everybody’s mind. Da was strong, but no one was that strong.

It was unbearable, to be too small and weak to help. The thought of leaping in with his little sword drawn had crossed his mind, but he knew better. He’d only distract Da if he tried it. But it made him sick, so sick, having to run away like this.

There had to be something he could do. He couldn’t be really helpless. His Da was a hero. Heroes always won through in the end, or -- it no longer seemed shameful as it had a minute ago -- got rescued.

Except for the ones who die heroic deaths.

No, that wasn’t the right kind of thought. He sniffed hard, straightening, firming his seat. Duaradda seemed to sense his resolve; her gait smoothed. Serifar, beside him, had no need for horsemanship. Aunethan was taking care of business, and Serifar was just a passenger. There was a resource: two good horses.

One Mara, without his power, but still tough.

One Charis, physically weak -- but smart and determined. He knew that was true. Da said so. What would a smart and determined person do in this instance?

Get help! That was what he would do. Surely he could convince his mother to send some of her raiders...

No. He couldn’t. She never listened to him, and she didn’t like Kastor anyway. She’d probably be glad if her former husband died horribly. And she was too far away, days away. Da would be long dead by then.

The farmers? Some of them had been pretty big guys, and they had axes and things... No. Just mortal, and back past Rema anyway. Even the feared raiders of the Auberlane clan were just mortal. And the only immortal on hand was Serifar, who was just a kid, even if he looked grown up. Mikah wouldn’t fly to the rescue this time, because he was dead. And Stiaan...

Well, the only thing wrong with Stiaan was that he wasn’t here.

He reined in so hard Duaradda stood on her back hooves, squealing; he barely kept his seat. Serifar rode well past before convincing Aunethan to stop.

“Charis, come on!”

“No. We’re going to help him.”

“We can’t! You heard what he said! You know we’re not strong enough!”

“I don’t mean to go back, stupid. Get down, let’s find somewhere to sit. We’ll need to concentrate for this.”

“For what?” Serifar cried, bewildered.

“We’re going to call Stiaan.”

Serifar kept complaining as they dismounted and secured the horses. “How? We don’t have any magic! He’s got to be far away, even if we could call him, he’d never make it in time!”

Charis rounded on him, exasperated. “Che ghanar! Shut up! You big quitter!” He poked a finger at Serifar’s chest. “Calling works by connection, any idiot knows that, and I’m not an idiot, I’ve been listening to Grandma Nhedra and she’s a great witch. We have all kinds of connection to work with. He made you, right? And he bought me these gloves, and he’s wearing a bracelet I made, and he’s got a bottle of Da’s blood hanging around his neck. He’ll hear us, and he’ll come.”

“But --”

“Am I a liar?”

“No...”

“Am I stupid?”

“No.”

“Then quit acting like we’re doomed! It will work, unless you wreck it by believing it won’t!”

Serifar took a deep breath, and nodded. “Tell me what to do.”



* * *



“I’m getting bored. Attack me, if you’re going to.”

Kastor held himself steady. “I’m fine with this circling thing, actually. I could do this for hours. It’s not fun for you?”

“No. It’s dull.” Rema made an offhand gesture. There was an ear-popping boom, and Kastor’s feet were knocked from under him.

As he scrambled back up, he analyzed the blow he’d taken. It had been a blast of force; it had felt sort of rounded, hitting his thighs before his shins; he’d felt nothing of it on his upper body, but a bit of a tug at his hair. Which meant his crossed swords had blocked it. That would have been very useful to know, if it had been the best Rema could do. Kastor was pretty sure it wasn’t. At least the Mara seemed chatty, in an insane sort of way. Should be possible to keep him talking until Charis was miles away.

“I don’t get it,” Kastor said. “You’re eternal. What’s a few hours? -- or years, for that matter.”

“But I’m all worked up to play today. Won’t you play with me? Just a little?” Rema pouted.

“Cards? Chess?”

“I was hoping we could play pain, despair, more pain, and death.”

“Can’t do it. Sorry.”

“What part of that do you imagine is under your control?” The black-eyed Mara made that gesture again.

This time Kastor lowered the axis of his defense a bit, to where he thought the center of the blast should be. It worked. The edge of it punched him in the face, bloodying his nose, and he was shoved back a few inches from the force on his ankles, but his stance was firm and he remained upright.

Rema clapped with delight. “Lovely!”

“The despair part,” Kastor said, answering the earlier question. “I don’t despair. Ever.”

“Even better! I’ll be your first time! That’s always so exciting for me. But do say you’ll fight a little. It wouldn’t be any fun if you didn’t.”

Much as it galled him to do as he was told, Kastor realized that he couldn’t just stand there and take blows to the head forever. He didn’t think it was possible that he could defeat Rema, but he might be able to wipe the smile off the bastard’s face. Make a little trouble before he died. The thought was oddly distant. He wondered if he was going to go feahar after all, but this was a different kind of distance. Something that stratified his fear, holding it a little away from his mind, so it didn’t quite touch.

He didn’t bother thinking up any more banter. He charged. When Rema moved a hand, Kastor jumped, drawing up his knees, getting behind his swords’ protection. He’d timed it right: the drum sound of the spell thrummed his chest, but the force hardly touched him. He landed mid-slash, striking for the Mara’s hands and face to keep him from casting again. The look of surprise in Rema’s eyes as blood erupted from his split cheek and near-severed fingers was wonderful.

Then something picked Kastor up by the back of his neck and threw him forty feet to bounce off a tree on the other side of the road.

He got up, shaking his head to make his eyes focus. He got his vision clear in time to watch the wounds vanish from Rema’s body. The Mara gave him a sulking scowl.

“Ow, that really hurt, you meany.”

“I’ll pull my punches if you will.” Kastor gave a joyless grin. He could taste iron, knew his teeth were red.

“But I was.” Rema stalked toward him. “See, if I were serious, I’d do this.” He began to move his hands.

Kastor dived behind the tree and hit the dirt, just before a wave of concussion strummed his body like a lute string. There was a head-splitting crack, like a lightning strike, and most of the tree sailed over Kastor’s head. He watched dreamily as the trunk turned with ponderous slowness end-over-end, arcing high over its neighbors to disappear from view. The crunch of its landing seemed quiet; Kastor thought he might be somewhat deaf.

Getting up wasn’t so easy this time. He knew he was wobbling like a drunk. He got facing the right way, and found Rema right in front of him, wearing a worried frown.

“Oh dear. Did I break you already? I’d better stop while you can still walk. Come along, puppy.” He stepped back as Kastor began a groggy motion to attack. “You won’t need those.”

The swords were torn from his hands, flew up and came down to half-bury themselves in the frozen ground. All the buckles of his armor let go at once, and that too flew away. The armor jacket settled on top of the swords, supported by the shoulder guards, and his cloak whirled up to settle over that. As a final touch, his gloves were jerked off, and the edges of the cloak knotted themselves around the gloves’ wrists; flapping hands on the ends of makeshift arms.

Rema beamed. “Look! I made a scarecrow!” He turned away, beckoning, and a noose of will lashed around Kastor’s mind and dragged him after.

Kastor fought the compulsion, just on principle. He didn’t know what he’d achieve by being difficult, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to go along like a meek little sheep. As Rema forced him into the woods, he poured all his will into one limb at a time, making one of his hands grab a branch, or his foot catch under a root. In this way he slowed their progress -- and scraped and bloodied himself until the pain began to eat away at Rema’s spell. Rema didn’t seem to notice, but kept sauntering ahead in complete unconcern.

At last, after about a mile, he gathered everything he had for one final push, and slipped the noose. His body was his own again. He turned to dash back toward his weapons, prepared to dodge force-bolts and exploding trees.

Instead, something jerked him to a halt mid-stride, holding him there against gravity. Not a compulsion this time, but a smothering net of unseen force that lashed his arms to his sides and his legs together. He was jerked over on his back, and began skidding along that way.

His curses were venomous, but unspoken; he couldn’t open his mouth.

Somewhere above and ahead, Rema chattered brightly. “You’re a strong little mortal, my dear, my funny puppy. She said you were half Mara, do you think you might be my get? That would be hilarious. But I don’t smell me on you. Then again, you are awfully strong, for something doomed to die. That could come from me. I didn’t know halfbreeds had shtedtzaar. You’re wilful, to have broken the leash. Not very bright, but wilful. That works. The other way works too. I know somebody who’s smart but not wilful. He’s a friend of yours, I think, or an enemy, I can’t be sure. Oh look, sour berries!” He paused, reaching for something red on a bare tree.

Those are crabapples, you idiot. Kastor itched to say it, but still couldn’t speak.

“I love the way they make your mouth all weird. Mm. Like nightshade, it’s so bitter. Oh, that’s right, you’ve never tasted it. It would kill you.” Rema giggled.

Nightshade’s not fatal, it just gives you gutrot. I can’t believe I’m going to be murdered by this prattling ignoramus.

The Mara went on babbling, making often incorrect pronouncements, and speculating about how much of Kastor he could remove before his mind broke. Kastor found himself actually impatient for the next part. Let’s get it over with -- but in response to that thought, his detachment strengthened. It was as if another mind had said to his, Look at the bare branches passing against the sky. Isn’t that fine? Couldn’t you just watch that for hours and hours? Rema’s prattle faded away, and Kastor watched the trees go by above him.

After what must have been at least five miles, the sky was blotted out by an overhanging roof, and Kastor was dragged through a door into the interior of what looked, from the heavy black beams overhead and the texture of flagstones under his back, like an old farmhouse. Rema’s magic lifted him, spread his arms, pinned him against a frame of wooden posts. Ropes spun around him, tied his wrists and waist and ankles. Then the spell let go, and he sagged in his bonds for a moment before he could regain control of his body. Humiliated and angry rather than afraid, he jerked savagely at the ropes, but succeeded only in pulling a muscle in his forearm. He spat on the floor, disgusted with the whole situation.

Rema was still chattering while he sorted through instruments on a wooden worktable. “This is just to start with, you realize. It’s hard to do quality torture on a cross. Bent over a sawhorse is a good position, if you’re in a raping mood, and it spreads the vertebrae if you want to do needles in the spine.”

“For the love of mercy, can you quit talking? For even one second?”

Kastor hadn’t expected it to do any good, but the Mara turned to him with a pleased expression, and was quiet for three whole seconds. Then he said, “Oh, good, I was afraid you weren’t talky anymore. And I do so like the banter part. That stops too soon. But I don’t love mercy, so your invocation is powerless.” He considered a thing like an awl, but with a hook on the end. “Mercy is an illusion, you see. A bid for approval disguised as a sign of superiority.”

“I agree completely,” said Kastor.

Rema pouted. “Don’t tell me you’re broken already.”

“No, I actually agree. But illusions like that are what make society work. You Mara can discard mercy because you don’t have a society. Every one of you is utterly alone. I suppose that’s why you go mad. You especially must’ve been alone a long time. Because, I mean, Mikah was weird, and Stiaan is a bit out of touch with reality, but you are a complete headcase.”

“Shows what you know. I’m not alone. I have someone very important on my side. And she wants me to get something from you. That’s what the torture is for, officially. But I don’t want you to give it up right away, that would be no fun. And your fear will rise up like incense, and so will my pleasure.” He came toward Kastor with the little hook and a very small knife. His eyes seemed to strip Kastor naked; torture was sexy for Rema. “So I’m going to do the hurting, until we get to the despair part, and then you can give in if you want. Or we could do more torture after. Does that sound fun?” He tore Kastor’s shirt off as if it were rice paper. When he saw the gold key hanging against Kastor’s chest, a flash of satisfaction crossed his face.

“I can’t wait.”

Rema laughed. “You’re such a liar. You’re terrified.”

“Oddly, no. It’s funny, because -- is that supposed to hurt?” This was because Rema had sliced into his upper arm, into the thick of the muscle, but the knife was so sharp he barely felt it. The air entering the cut was more painful than the cutting itself, and as Rema made another parallel cut, he thought this torture thing might be surprisingly tolerable. “Should I be screaming now?”

“No, wait for it...” Rema did a bit more fiddling with the scalpel, none of it particularly painful. Then he pushed the hook in and gave a twist and a yank. A thread of fibrous flesh stretched out of the cut, sending spears of agony all the way to Kastor’s fingers and across his chest to his other arm. Rema pulled until it snapped.

Then he looked up at Kastor’s face, disappointed. “You didn’t scream. You’re only panting.”

“Holy shit,” Kastor gasped. He looked in disbelief at the hole in his arm. The pain was gradually subsiding, but he knew Rema was only getting started. “And yet -- this is really strange -- I’m still not afraid of you.”

“Really? That’s interesting.” Rema stuck his little finger in the wound and dug around, causing Kastor to clench his teeth and hiss, then stuck his bloody finger in his mouth. He smiled happily, like a little child. He applied the hook.

Kastor counted. He was sweating, shaking, his eyes were watering, his mouth was flooded with spit and he was pretty sure he’d puke on himself any second. But somehow he counted how many times the hook went in.

Seventeen.

Eighteen.

“This isn’t fun anymore.” Rema threw the hook over his shoulder. “Not a screamer, my pet? I guess the sight of blood’s not one of your scary pictures. How about broken bones? Sticking-out broken bones?”

Kastor managed a shrug. “The blood’s tickling my armpit. Could you mop that up for me? I’d hate to spoil your evil moment by laughing.”

“Of course, dear.” And Rema actually got a cloth and mopped up the blood. “Better? You know, there’s something very interesting about you. I think it’s the way you’re still not fucking scared! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Kastor spat a few more times, clearing the sour out of his mouth. Then he answered, because Rema couldn’t seem to talk and torture at the same time. “Couldn’t tell you. It’s funny, because normally I’m a coward. I get hurt, I get scared, I go feahar. Not that it would do me any good in this case. Although maybe I’d rip my own arms off and die and wreck your plans. But for some reason...” He shrugged again. It pulled at his cuts, but that was all right. More bleeding, sooner unconsciousness. “I mean, it hurts, I had no idea there was pain like that, I really want you to not do it anymore. But you’re going to. Then you’ll ask for the key, and I won’t give it to you, and you’ll start up again. Eventually my body will give out and you’ll be screwed. So what’s the point of fear?”

Rema had wandered to the worktable during this speech. Now he turned around, scratching his nose with a small hammer. “Funny, I thought it was an involuntary reaction, not subject to logic.”

“I thought so too. Guess we were both wrong.”

“Well, maybe you’re in shock. I’m sure this must all seem unreal to you. I’ll just keep going, shall I?”

“How about you don’t?”

“Funny puppy. Tell me when it hurts.”



It was the elbow breaking that got the first scream. After that, he just went ahead and screamed his head off. It seemed to help. Possibly the dizziness from hyperventilating. Whenever he fainted, Rema waited for him to be conscious again. Finally, the Mara set his latest implement down -- Kastor wasn’t bothering to look at them anymore -- and brought Kastor a cup of water. Kastor stared at it in disbelief.

“Go on, drink it. Your throat must be sore. It’s no fun when you just make wheezy noises.”

Even though he knew it would prolong the torture, Kastor drank.

Rema sat on the edge of the table. “Now we’ll play a guessing game. I want you to guess how long I’ve been working on you.”

Kastor swallowed a few times. It was hard to think. Though the torture had stopped, the pain hadn’t. He squinted at the light coming through the half-open door. “Five hours. Maybe six.”

Rema giggled. “About forty-five minutes.” His giggles grew into peals of laughter. “Oh, puppy, you must be so sad! You know it’ll take you days to die, but at this rate it will feel like...” He rolled his eyes up, thinking. “About a month?” Reaching behind him, he picked up something cylindrical. He held it up, and it unrolled; it was a strip of cloth holding hundreds of long steel needles. “So can I have the key? If you don’t give me the key, we do the sawhorse. But I have to ask now. Oh please say no, please please!”

Blurry as he was, Kastor remembered what Rema had said about the sawhorse. Rape, needles in the spine. He wondered which one came first. “No.”

“Thank you! But first -- just for my curiosity -- why are you so obstinate?”

“Well, it seems to make you happy.”

“No, seriously.”

“I take it you’ve never tortured a Kyri before. The more pain I can stand, the better my position in the afterlife. I should thank you -- by the time you kill me, I’ll be master of a herd of spirit-horses that blackens the horizon. And the key will be useless to you.”

Rema chuckled. “You really think you won’t give in. But my dear, they all think that. And they all break, in the end. I look forward to curing you of both your arrogance and your stupidity before we’re finished.”

“They weren’t me,” Kastor grated. “And incidentally, fuck you.”

“Soon enough, baby doggie.” He stepped closer. He trailed a finger coyly down Kastor’s blood-slick chest, then suddenly paused, face lighting up. “Ooh, there’s something I didn’t do yet! Just a second.”

The something turned out to be needles in the nipples. That wasn’t bad at all compared to some of the other things. When he dragged the wide, serrated eye of the needle through, though, that was up there with the hook.

When Kastor was finished howling, he hunted through blurriness for something face-shaped, and spoke to it. “You play such an inefficient game.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“All this... this foreplay. And all I have to do to win is nothing.”

The teasing was gone from the Mara’s voice. “Fine. Sawhorse.”

“Oh good,” Kastor drawled. “I was hoping I wouldn’t die horny.”

Someone laughed at that, but it wasn’t Rema.

It took a second to sink in; Kastor knew that laugh. That rich, mellow, infinitely condescending laugh. He blinked hard, trying to see. His voice was a whisper. “Stiaan?”

Rema said it at the same time. “Stiaan? What on earth are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, but I seem to have found some entertainment as well. I haven’t seen someone still smartassing at that stage in... oh, forever. Can I play too?”

His vision finally cleared so that he could see Stiaan leaning in the wide-open door, looking at him with a merciless little smile. It was as if he’d never -- no, this Stiaan was even colder than the one who’d worn the demon crown. And yet, there it was with the angel in it, on his head where it was supposed to be. And he was still wearing those humble work clothes.

Kastor wanted to ask what had happened. He wanted to say, I thought you were turning into a decent person. I liked you, you bastard! How can you look at me bleeding and smile like that? But the distance that had been with him this whole time let him keep from speaking long enough to realize that nothing he could say would make any difference. Stiaan wasn’t Rema; he wouldn’t let things slip. Kastor declined to embarrass himself.

This train of thought had spun by in an instant. Rema was still in the process of swaying toward Stiaan to stand, hipshot and flirting, rudely close to him. Stiaan was about Kastor’s height, and Rema was maybe five-six. Nevertheless he looked at Stiaan with a superior smirk, though he had to crane his neck to do it.

“I always knew you’d come crawling back.”

Stiaan’s smile turned indulgent. “Get over yourself, Rema. I did.” He slipped aside, deftly getting around Rema without touching him. He came over to Kastor, walked around him, inspecting him. Kastor shivered at that look. Rema’s eyes had stripped him, but Stiaan’s tore his skin off and licked his beating heart. Then, just to make things more confusing, he stopped circling with his back to Rema, and for just a moment his face relaxed into the faintly worried wryness he’d worn last time Kastor had seen him.

But the painlust returned, and he turned to Rema. “You do interesting work. I don’t think I ever got the chance to really watch you go at it. Does it turn you on?”

“Mm, absolutely. Let me get him to the whimpering stage, and I’ll fuck anything. Even you.”

Stiaan chuckled. “No need to get bitchy. I’m far past that. It’s not even what I came for. I wanted to talk to you about that tiresome whore of yours.”

“Don’t.” Rema’s anger was instant and hot, and just as quickly gone. “I wouldn’t advise speaking that way about a goddess.”

“Minor goddess.”

“Unjustly. Desire is in all things. Her domain should be universal.”

“So you’re still working for her. I take it this isn’t just for fun?” He gestured casually at Kastor.

“Fun and profit, actually.”

“I suppose it’s about that key he’s got. The one everyone and his dog is after.”

“Ah. Hah. And you.” Rema selected a large knife from the table, came near to give it to Stiaan. “You can have it. Go ahead. Take it.”

“Thank you, but I shouldn’t like to spoil your fun.” He threw the knife out the door. “Or mine. Hold this for me, would you?” He took the ivory circlet from his head and set it on Kastor’s.

Then, while Rema was still opening his mouth to question the action, Stiaan punched him in the face.

It was a magnificent punch. He put his whole weight behind it, and Rema’s feet lifted off the ground; the red-haired Mara spun through two full revolutions before he hit the wall. Seeing that sent such a wave of joy through Kastor’s heart that all the pain seemed to vanish.

No, it had vanished.

He looked down at himself. Through the clotted blood, he could see his wounds closing. He could feel bones knitting. It looked disgusting, but it felt... nice. It was the crown; the angel was healing him. Had Stiaan meant it to do that?

Rema was clawing his way upright against the wall, glaring at Stiaan with a feral snarl so far unlike his previous expressions that he seemed a different species. He growled, “I knew it. I knew you were still holding a grudge.” He straightened. “You put everything you had into that, didn’t you? I hope you enjoyed it, I really do. Because now you get to find out how the big boys play.”

Rema set his hands into a strange posture and began speaking words that shook the walls. The light seemed to dim. Kastor could feel the power gathering. It seemed to suck the air out of the room. Rema’s hair lifted around him, his eyes flashed black fire. He reared his hands back, about to annihilate them all.

Stiaan said one word in a conversational tone. A rapid series of little ratchets went through the sense of power, like a string of firecrackers, and Rema’s spell collapsed.

Rema stared. “What the fuck was that?”

“Antimagic.”

“You can’t have countered that! You don’t have the power!”

“Not countermagic, you ignorant twit, antimagic. Gods, Rema, read a book sometime.” Stiaan walked to the door, shut it, and barred it. “It leaves us both powerless as if bound. I’d say that leveled the field, but, well.” He began rolling back his sleeves. “I actually think it’s going to be no contest.”

Rema was aghast. “You mean to brawl? Like -- like mortals?”

“Precisely.” Stiaan chuckled. He aimed a thumb at Kastor. “You should be glad I don’t set him loose on you. He pretty much wiped the floor of my workroom with my face, last spring. He’s a whirlwind. Me, I’m only a hell of a lot stronger than you.”

Rema must have agreed, because he was edging toward the instrument table. He seemed to think he could keep Stiaan from noticing if he went on talking. “I know what this is about. You think I’ll be impressed if you defeat me. Maybe you think you can beat me down and take by force what I won’t give you anymore.”

“Much as you deserve that,” Stiaan said blandly, “I expect I’d be too repulsed to follow through.”

“You’re a liar. When I left you, you were a whimpering, groveling wreck. A pathetic, pitiable crybaby, begging me to come back.”

“That’s how you remember it? Funny, I seem to recall sniffling a bit as I threw you out on your cheating ass. I know it’s hard for you to believe, but --”

He broke off as a couple of scalpels flashed toward his face. By the time they got there, he was elsewhere. He scooped up a wooden stool and threw it at Rema’s head, knocking him back so hard his feet flew up in the air. As Rema struggled to stand, Stiaan went on as if he hadn’t paused.

“-- but this isn’t about you at all. It’s about him.” A gesture indicating Kastor. “To you, that key is power. To me, it’s a sign that my brother trusted this man above everyone else in the world. So you see, the memory of your mediocre bedroom technique just isn’t a motivator. Oh, not again.” This as Rema reached the table a second time.

Rema was out of comebacks. He just roared frustrated rage as he threw a hammer. It whistled in the air as it spun.

Stiaan caught it.

He considered it, while concern dawned on his opponent’s face. He shrugged. He threw it back. This time it neither whistled nor spun -- it went too fast for that. There was a hollow thunk. Rema dropped.

After waiting for a moment, during which Rema did nothing but wheeze, Stiaan gave a disgusted snort. “Well, that was short.” He went to where Rema lay slumped, hauled him up by his collar. Rema’s limbs thrashed awkwardly as he struggled to get his feet under him; there was a dent in the middle of his forehead. Stiaan dragged him to the middle of the floor, delivered a casual backhand to the stomach that curled him to his knees.

“Kastor? Do you want to do the honors? You’re the one who was being tortured, after all.”

Kastor looked at Rema, kneeling before him. He could no longer remember what the pain had really been like. It wasn’t the kind of thing the mind could record. All he knew was that it had been bad, and that he’d withstood it. As for Rema, it didn’t matter what he deserved; it only mattered that he be removed so he couldn’t do this kind of thing anymore. It crossed Kastor’s mind that he might have liked the vengeance option more if he weren’t wearing the ivory crown, but for now he just wanted it to be over.

He said slowly, “There’s no point in punishment. He’ll never learn. I don’t suppose you have any way to permanently kill him?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Just get rid of him, then. I don’t care.”

At this, Rema looked up at him. Through the blurriness of head trauma, he gave Kastor a look of disbelief. He hadn’t expected apathy. He turned his astonishment to Stiaan. “Why? Why choose a mortal over your own kind?”

“Because you’re a complete fuckwit, Rema.” Stiaan clapped his hands together, then slowly spread them apart; a streak of blue fire grew between them, becoming a sword. He grasped its glowing hilt, raised it -- paused. “And by the way, those fancy clothes just make you look shorter.”

The sword drew a fan of light in the air, and Rema’s head rolled on the floor.

Stiaan vanished the sword with a gesture. He took an ordinary knife from his belt and set to cutting Kastor’s bonds. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I had to prepare that spell. Without it, he would’ve torn me to shreds. His shtedtzaar is a great deal stronger than mine.”

“I can’t have been impatient, since I didn’t know there was anyone on earth capable of helping me. It’s a strange feeling, when you’re certain beyond the slightest doubt that you’re going to die, and then you don’t.” Kastor gasped as the ropes parted, feeling at last the claustrophobia of being tied down, now that it was over. He tried to step away from the cross and fell instead, catching himself on Stiaan’s shoulder. His hands left dark streaks on the Mara’s pale clothes. “Sorry. Stained your shirt. Do you want your crown?”

Stiaan set Kastor upright and held his arms until he was standing on his own. His hands were cold and strong as iron. He took the circlet back while Kastor rubbed feeling back into his wrists. “I hope you’re not offended that I took the time to give him a piece of my mind. I’ve been itching to do that for a hundred and thirty years.”

Kastor made a face at the corpse. Now that he wasn’t wearing the crown, he was starting to be angry. He resisted the temptation to take it out on Stiaan. “That long, and he still thought you’d be pining? I can’t believe you actually -- with him -- eugh. You have rotten taste. How long before he comes back?”

“Not long enough. His goddess will probably speed the process. Though I don’t mind making it harder for her.” He looked to the house’s hearth, where a fire burned; Kastor hadn’t seen it, because it had been behind him. The tips of several irons rested in the hottest part. Stiaan kicked these aside. He grabbed Rema’s head by the hair and placed it carefully in the middle of the fire. Light flared as the hair went up all at once, and acrid smoke began to billow.

“What does that do? He’ll grow a new head? That’s very bizarre.”

“How are you feeling? Even Mara go a little mad after one of Rema’s sessions; I hate to think what it does to a mortal.”

Kastor examined his mental state. He reported. “I’m... a bit stunned. Blocking it out, I think. I’m very irritated that he ruined my last shirt. I have no more shirts at all. I’m going to be cold.” Then something occurred to him. “Oh, hell. Look, Stiaan, don’t take this wrong, I’m pathetically grateful for the rescue, but I promised myself I’d do this if I ever saw you again.”

“Do what?” Stiaan made an inquisitive face.

Kastor punched him in the nose.

Stiaan sat down hard, making a startled sound, hands to face. “Ouch! Ah, I’m bleeding!”

“Ouch? How can I have hurt you?”

“I’ve used up a lot of density. And the antimagic took down my shielding. Ow. You broke it.” Wincing, Stiaan pinched the bridge of his nose and popped it straight. He produced a handkerchief and mopped at it. “What was that for?”

“For leaving Serifar helpless so he wandered into a wyr’s nest. I found him floating in a swamp, chewed up like a dog toy.” He offered a hand. “No hard feelings?”

“No, I guess not.” Stiaan let Kastor help him up, though he probably didn’t need it. They stared at each other for a moment. Slowly, the corner of Stiaan’s mouth curled up in what finally became a surprisingly charming grin. “I can’t believe you did that. You promised yourself --? You’re rather amazing.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I produced a force sword while under antimagic?”

“Uh... no. But I can’t stop you from telling me.”

“Takes the pleasure out of it.” Stiaan unbarred the door and opened it. He hauled something in from outside: a leather backpack. He held it out to Kastor.

“What do I want that for?”

Stiaan shrugged, looking embarrassed. “It’s my spare clothes. Take what you need. Actually, take all of it. I can get more. You seem to go through them faster. What with the bleeding and the ripping. Do you want me to turn my back?”

Kastor paused while sponging blood off himself with the rags of his old shirt. “Why on earth would I care?”

“Hell, I don’t know, I’m just trying to be polite! I’m really new at this goodness thing and I’d think you could cut me a little slack!”

“Sure. All right. Calm down.”

“Sorry.”

“No problem.”

“Thank you.”

Kastor dressed himself in Stiaan’s clothes. The shirt was fine gray wool with bone buttons, and it very nearly fit. A bit tight in the shoulders, but the sleeves were long enough. The olive green trousers were just a little short; though he and Stiaan were the same height, more of it was leg in Kastor’s case. It felt odd to be wearing a color, even though everything in the pack was in earthy dun or mist colors that no clan would ever have claimed. Technically, he supposed he ought not to allow himself any color at all -- but screw ‘em. He’d be damned if he was going to face Alys in pants he’d been tortured in.

While Kastor changed clothes, Stiaan studied the wall. This allowed Kastor to look at him more closely. It was interesting, how different he looked once one knew him. The first time Kastor had seen him, the weight of his immense age had seemed to bow the earth around him. He’d been flawless as a temple icon, all bitter beauty and cold perfection. Now he was actually sort of restful to the eyes. It wasn’t his features that had changed, but his expression, and Kastor’s knowlege of the personality behind that face. Though when he’d been pretending, just now, that had been awfully damn convincing.

“Stiaan, why did you pretend to be evil? What was the point of that?”

“I wanted to find out whether he was still working for that twisted slut of his, and what exactly he was after. Also, I needed to pace out the space of my spell, to a certain extent. I couldn’t think of a way to do that other than pretending to admire his work. If you’re wondering, by the way, no, I was never really like that. I’ve been unforgivably callous, and I’ve allowed all sorts of rotten things as side-effects of my actions, but I’ve never reveled in pain the way Rema does. You needn’t fear that from me.” He paused, looking startled, as if he hadn’t expected to say that. “What am I doing, justifying myself? Please forget I said anything.”

“No, it’s all right. I know the difference between apathy and malice.”

Stiaan reached for the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

Kastor said, “Don’t you want to search the place? He might have had, I don’t know, valuable books or something.”

“I don’t see any. I doubt we can afford the time to look, considering that one of those red-hot pokers has set the house on fire.”

Glancing behind him, Kastor saw smoke and licks of flame beginning to climb the boards of the wall. “Oh.” He thought for a moment. “Good.”